Felicity sighs as she looks at her computer screen yet again, but this time she puts her head in her hands. She hates being on the tech support logs, even though she thinks it's fair that they take turns; all she does all day is type report after report into the log. Someone's computer screws up, so she posts it to the log for a tech to repair. Then, she has to file the tickets the techs fill out when the job is complete, and everyone must think it's a crime to fill out the whole damn thing.
She lets out a growl of frustration as she looks at the next ticket in line, frowning because half of the thing is missing. Tired of the bureaucracy of working in a large office, she denies the ticket and writes a somewhat nasty note to the person, saying that she can't fill out a repair ticket without even knowing what the fix was. She looks down at her clock forlornly—it's six o'clock and she still has several hundred requests and tickets to process. So much for getting home at a reasonable hour. She'd like a normal night every now and again—one that doesn't involve logging five hours overtime or running around the city at three a.m. with the Arrow.
A chuckle comes from her doorway, and she looks up, startled to learn that anyone else is on the floor. She's even more surprised to find none other than Oliver Queen leaning against her door frame, a very busted laptop in hand.
"Shit," she offers in greeting, "I completely forgot about fixing your laptop tonight." She had called him a few days ago to let him know that the new casing was in, and she had told him to drop by her apartment at five-thirty. Between the normal grind and the sleep deprivation from too many encounters with the Arrow starting to wear on her, she had forgotten. "How mad are you?"
"I'm not mad," he assures her with a convincing smile, sitting down in the chair inside her station. "When you weren't there, I knew you'd probably forgotten." There's something loaded about his smile now, as if he's making his own private joke as he continues, "Though you don't seem like the type to forget an appointment." He sets a styrofoam box on her desk, and she immediately places the smell—and it's divine. "And, if I remember correctly, we made a deal that I was to provide dinner." He offers her a rare, wide smile. "And we hired that chef, so if you find yourself craving Italian, you could always stop by Verdant when it opens."
"Oliver Queen, you know me too well," she answers as she removes her plastic fork from its wrapper. She finds it a little odd that she's said those words to two different people in the past week, both of whom she didn't know a few months ago.
He offers her a small smile, this one maybe more genuine than the last. "I could say the same to you," he says quietly, and she stops halfway through opening her box, remembering the Arrow saying exactly the same words. She shakes her head. No, that's ridiculous, and she should know better; Oliver doesn't have the sort of training that the Arrow does. She heard him storm a house full of mercenaries last week with a bow, and there are a select few people she thinks could be that talented. Oliver isn't one of them.
She resumes with opening the box, and she plunges her fork into the waiting pasta with enthusiasm. This time she knows to stifle the groan that threatens to escape her, and she says, "You know, it's better now than it was the last time. This should be illegal, it's so good." She frowns. "But then I wouldn't get to eat it." He snickers at that, and she manages to glance at a clock and see what time it is. "Oh, damn, you were supposed to pick up Thea at six, weren't you?" That's why they'd originally agreed on five-thirty; he was supposed to drop off the laptop and then pick up Thea and come back for it. Since she's without a license, Oliver somehow was roped into being her chauffeur, and Felicity thinks Thea might not be the most patient person in the world.
He waves a hand, though he seems surprised she remembered. "Tommy said he would take care of it," he answers. "I think he was tired of yelling at contractors all day, anyway."
She breathes a sigh of relief. "Well, I'm sorry I blew it, Oliver." She motions to her computer screen. "I blame report tickets."
He waves a hand, biting back a laugh. "You're doing a favor for me, Felicity," he answers. "I'm glad you have time to help at all. You seem busy." He reaches out hesitantly, his expression turning serious, to touch a shadow under her eye that she didn't take time to cover this morning. "And tired." He tilts his head to the side. "Maybe you should take some vacation time."
She scoffs, leaning back. "And leave this office for a few days?" She crosses her arms. "I don't think so, mister. By the time I came back, it would be up in flames without me." And she doesn't exactly know where she'd go on vacation; it's never very fun alone, and she has to be on-call for the Arrow. "Besides, if I left the city for a week, I think it would crumble without me here." She manages to say it jokingly, but she doesn't think it's exactly a lie.
"It probably would," Oliver agrees, and she's surprised to find it a sincere statement. "But that doesn't mean you don't deserve some time off every now and again." With a knowing smile, he adds, "I'm sure your boss would understand. If not, I think I know someone who could convince him."
She points a finger at him. "Don't you dare," she threatens. "I know you already convinced my boss to give me time off during that press conference, and you are not allowed to do it again." He chuckles, and something in his expression tells her that he's going to ignore her and do what he wants anyway. "You, Oliver Queen, are absolutely impossible."
He seems to take it as a compliment, smiling and allowing a breathy almost-laugh. "I'm not the one who thinks the city will crumble without them," he counters almost playfully, and she's glad to see this side of him.
She crosses her arms, not backing down from their silly argument. "Clearly spoken by someone with no responsibility whatsoever," she replies after swallowing another bite of pasta. "I can't help it if it's true. Do you realize what kind of city Starling would be without me?"
"Cold, desolate, and unforgiving," he replies immediately, and his tone is far different this time. Felicity has to look away because some things just shouldn't be said with that intensity, with that level of honesty. She plunges her fork into another bite of pasta, focusing far more than necessary on it.
He clears his throat, and the moment passes. "Maybe," he starts hesitantly, "while you're eating, I can help remove the casing?" He motions to the laptop. "I might as well make myself useful."
She thinks about it for a moment, then decides that, if he wants to help, who is she to say no? She pulls open one of her desk drawers, throwing him a Philips screwdriver. "Knock yourself out," she replies, then adds, "but not really." It earns her another soft laugh as he picks up the screwdriver carefully, turning over the computer to remove the screws.
She watches him carefully since she figures he's never done this before, and she winces when she watches him hold the screwdriver like a toddler holding a crayon; he wraps his entire hand around it, leaving the base uncovered. He turns when she groans, and she answers with, "No, Oliver. No. You're holding it wrong." She slips it out of his hand, and she presses the end of the handle into his palm, curling his fingers around it. "Like this. It's easier to twist in your hand—saves time." He doesn't immediately say anything, and she looks up to see him staring at their hands, hers still firmly gripped over his.
She pulls back immediately, and she can feel the heat on her face that betrays her embarrassment. "Sorry,” she says, turning back to her pasta, taking one last bite before pulling the new casing out from under her desk and opening the packaging.
He finishes with the screwdriver and lays it on the table on the other side of him, so Felicity reaches across his workspace to pick it up before using it to twist the screws out. She manages two before he says, “I think I’m finished with this.”
She inspects his work before murmuring her agreement. “Looks good,” she approves quietly. “Not bad for an amateur.”
He chuckles, and she finishes removing the components carefully before starting to combine them into the new casing. She holds out a wire from the new monitor, since she’s not about to tackle the mess of switching out the screen. “Hold this,” she commands, holding out a cable.
She’s surprised to find him leaning over her shoulder, their arms touching as he reaches for the cable. “I don’t remember you being this bossy,” he says with a smile in his voice, and Felicity tries not to blush as she feels his breath against the shell of her ear.
She nudges his shoulder with her own. “Maybe not,” she agrees in a teasing tone, feeling the corners of her mouth pull up, “but you like it when I get all assertive.” She notices that the tone in her voice is almost flirty, but then she thinks that’s ridiculous because she doesn’t flirt with Oliver Queen. “Admit it.” She doesn’t look at him, already feeling her face heat at her foolishness. Something about him brings out the more relaxed side of herself that she only seems to use around Barry (minus the flirting, of course) and the Arrow (perhaps with some flirting involved). He doesn’t say anything for a very long moment, so long that she stumbles over her words, taking backwater. “Sorry, I don’t know what that was. You know about my problem where I just spew inappropriate words and babble on incessantly until someone stops me. You must think I’m—”
“Felicity,” he says gently, and then he tilts her head in his direction. She’s not surprised to see him smiling; her antics always seem to brighten his mood. “I think you’re remarkable.” He lets out a breathy almost-laugh, and Felicity can’t remember the last time she saw him smile like that. “Babbling and all.” He releases her then, and she tries to remember how to breathe.
“Well,” she manages finally, “thank you for remarking on it.” Something passes between them then, and Oliver gently reaches out to cup her face. His expression changes slowly, turning steadily more serious. She thinks he might actually be about to kiss her, and she wonders when things went so terribly wrong that she has two very different men that seem to be interested in her.
Before she can panic and turn him down, too, she can hear the click click click of high heels on the polished floor, and feminine laughter echoing down the hall. Oliver pulls away immediately, running a hand over his face. She knows that tell, and she knows what it means—that he thinks he’s messed up.
The footsteps continue to grow louder, and Felicity knows there’s a clock ticking on this before it gets awkward, and it’s her job to make things awkward. “But, you know,” she continues, “people usually say thank you with gifts. Like more pasta.” One corner of his mouth tilts up as she reaches across the desk to take another bite. She swallows before continuing, “I highly recommend more pasta. I would seriously consider hacking the NSA database for another plate of this.”
His eyes widen in surprise and something resembling awe. “You can do that?” he asks quietly.
She immediately retracts her statement. “Well,” she admits, “probably. Not that I’ve ever tried—I don’t just break into secure government databases for the fun of it.” It’s true, she thinks as she crosses her arms; after all, the last time she did that was for the Arrow, and it was to find out more about a criminal. “My point is, you could make me rethink my morals for another plate of this ambrosia.”
Oliver shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself as the footsteps finally close in. She’s surprised to see Thea strutting into Felicity’s office, Tommy in tow behind her. “So this is how you two spend your Thursday nights?” Thea asks in greeting before turning to her brother. “Because, I gotta say, Ollie, this isn’t exactly your scene—not enough blaring pop music and severely lacking in alcohol.”
“Hey, be nice to him,” Tommy counters. “He’s spent the last five years on an island with nothing. He deserves a little club music and tequila after that.” Felicity thinks it’s an odd statement because she’s never heard Oliver say anything about drinking; she’s always assumed he doesn’t touch alcohol because he simply can’t handle it anymore.
Oliver ignores his sister, looking over her head at Tommy instead. “I told you to take her home,” he reminds Tommy with an irritated frown, and Felicity nudges his shoulder in warning. He shouldn’t be so rude to Tommy, especially since they know this has Thea written all over it. She brings new meaning to the word meddlesome.
“Relax, Ollie,” Thea replies on Tommy’s behalf. “I talked him into it. I needed to take the opportunity to say thank you to our best friend.” Felicity might be a little taken aback by the comment; she doubted she was anyone that important to the likes of Thea Queen. Thea turns to Felicity now. “Thank you for getting that plea deal for me. My community service job at CNRI kind of sucks,” she adds with a shrug, “but it’s better than jail.”
Oliver frowns, but Felicity knows it’s all she’s going to get. She fights back a smile because the Queen siblings are so different and so alike at the same time; neither one can really admit the depth of their feelings, so they opt for blasé instead. “It was my pleasure, Thea,” she answers honestly, then decides to respond in kind, as sincerity is clearly not a Queen family trait. “Besides, you wouldn’t be able to wear your Louboutins, and no one looks good in that shade of orange.”
They all laugh at that, then Oliver rises from his seat, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Felicity has work to do,” he says insistently, “and I’m sure she’d like to go home at a decent hour tonight.” He takes Thea by the arm, turning her in the opposite direction. “Maybe we should do the same.” He turns to Tommy. “Give us a moment.”
Tommy ushers Thea out despite protests and Oliver turns back to Felicity, his hand going to her shoulder again. “You don’t have to finish this tonight,” he states quietly, and then his hand goes to one of those circles under her eyes again. “I’m in no hurry for my laptop, and I’d much rather see you rested, anyway.”
“I make no promises,” she answers slowly, “but maybe I’ll try to relax.” He frowns, but then realizes that’s the only answer she’s going to offer him. After all, she needs to finish up those reports, and they’re not going to file themselves.
“Goodnight, Felicity,” he says finally, and then he’s gone, leaving her to finish up her work.
***
Oliver frowns as he realizes what he’s about to do next. There's a certain amount of trepidation required because this isn't just another criminal, another rich person who thinks they're above the law. He never thought that he'd be doing this when he started this crusade, but there's just too much evidence that he can no longer ignore.
But, still, this is his mother.
He knows she's working late on the merger with Unidac Industries, and he knows she's now alone in her office. He made sure before he started this because extra people scurrying around makes for extra witnesses. He pulls the cable on the grappling arrow taut to test its strength—a luxury he isn't always afforded—but he knows he's just stalling.
Still, he looks down in the parking complex, and maybe it comforts him more than it should that a little, red Mini Cooper is still parked in the lot behind the garage—the one reserved for IT staff. At least, if he needs a speedy exit, he thinks, she decided to ignore his advice and stay late. But he's not going to bother Felicity unless he has to; it's clear that the long hours at work and the late nights with the Arrow are starting to wear on her.
He takes a deep breath before gripping the cable with both hands, and then he starts into a dead run before he can change his mind. When his foot catches the end of the roof, he jumps and depends on the rope to pull him back toward the building. It works perfectly, and he prepares for the worst part: crashing through the window.
He's able to plant his feet against it, which makes for less impact. Glass flies everywhere, and when he lands in the office, his legs collapse under him as the pain sets in, even through the adrenalin rush. He rises slowly as his mother, always the practical one, goes immediately for the phone.
He doesn't like his options, but if she calls security, the game is over. Even kneeling and half-dazed from the fall, he's able to shoot the phone off her desk with a well-placed arrow. He's able to rise to a standing position as he nocks another arrow and draws, and he utters the line he knows she'll expect: "Moira Queen, you have failed this city." The synthesizer only acts to make it sound more menacing, and a bolt of disbelief shoots through him. He can't believe he's doing this.
She puts her hands in the air, looking just as scared and traumatized as he expects, but now the dread and guilt have been replaced with the cold, emotionally devoid quality of simply doing business. "Please," she begs, and her voice sounds as if she's nearly in tears. "Please don't hurt me. You can take anything you want." She grabs at a photograph on her desk, flashing a picture of their family, though it is about ten years old. "I have a son who needs me and a daughter who isn't grown yet. I'm all they have. Please don't take me from them."
The icy façade breaks instantly. Oliver has faced down a lot of bad people in these few past months, but none of them have begged for the sake of their family. He's tried to make this impersonal, but it isn't. That's his mother, and this was personal from the beginning. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says finally, "provided you answer my questions."
He expects instant compliance, but some part of him has forgotten that his mother isn't always as demure as he expects. Instead of replying, she reaches behind her, and before he can wonder what she's doing, he simultaneously feels pain coursing through his left shoulder and an unmistakable gunshot.
He ducks immediately, and he takes a brief moment to check the wound. Blood isn't pouring from it, as he expects, but squirting, blood shooting from it in time with his elevated heart rate. Dread claws at him because this isn't any other bullet wound—this is arterial blood, and the clock is already ticking. Then he realizes that she wasn't aiming to incapacitate; she was aiming to kill. In its own way, that's an answer to his question—if she has secrets that would cause her to kill to keep them quiet, then she's probably as deep into this mess as he'd feared.
He hears her call security, and he knows this mission is a failure. He has a nicked artery and security is on their way up. He probably needs to clean up the blood, but he'd rather pass out in a place of his choosing. There's only one way out now, and, as he watches her lean around the desk to see if he's still alive, he rolls out the broken window.
He draws a grappling arrow in free fall, firing it and catching the cable with his left arm. Pain courses through his shoulder, causing him to groan, but he fights against it as he slides down the cable to the ground. The roll doesn't make things feel any better, but he manages to scramble to his feet, even though he's starting to get the light-headed feeling from too much blood loss. He presses a hand to the wound to stem the flow of blood, but it isn't working too well, as it pulsates through his fingers. Adrenalin isn't on his side this time; the elevated heart rate is just cutting his time in half.
The car he's looking for is still there, and, on another day, he'd feel guilty about breaking into her car, but they're going to be looking for him soon. It takes him all of five seconds to pick the lock, and he lays across the seat as best he can, with his head elevated and his knees in the air so that his feet can touch the seating.
He reaches into his pocket to pull out his cell phone, but the screen is splintered, probably grazed by the bullet in his chest. Apparently, he’s just going to have to wait for Felicity to return to her car. Time isn’t exactly his friend right now, so he hopes he has long enough. But that’s not the part the part that gives him pause—it’s Felicity herself. She’s not used to this kind of experience, and he had hoped to keep the violent part of his work away from her.
But the worst part of it all is that he was supposed to give her the night off.