The last thing Felicity Smoak expected this morning was to be in the office of a man she'd never heard of, in a department of the Federal Bureau of Investigation that she'd never heard of. Assistant Director Quentin Lance is a gruff man with a no-nonsense attitude—and she immediately thought that, if this didn't end with her in a prison cell (because it's never good to be called into an office one doesn't know, especially in the FBI), she'd like to work with him some day. But, then again, she isn't sure why she's there; she's just a lowly computer nerd, and she's only been in Starling City for six months. Why she's here is a mystery—one that she has every intention of solving.
"Miss Smoak," Lance says gruffly, "we're in need of your services." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that says, I'm getting too old for this shit. "Tell me, what do you know about Oliver Queen?"
As far as she's concerned, the question is out of left field; Oliver Queen is a moot point, for obvious reasons. "I know he died six years ago on his way to China," she answers, gaining momentum as her mind catches up to the question. "After he managed to get his hands on all sorts of government secrets and sell them to the highest bidders. He worked with criminals for years—basically became the go-to man for any sort of criminal activity you could think of. Forged papers, new identities, hitmen, money laundering, couriers—you name it, he could get it for you. Rumor is he started when he was sixteen—or possibly younger—and that he picked up the trade from his father."
"He's not dead," Lance corrects, and Felicity's eyes go wide. "We thought we could close the book on Queen, too, but he surrendered himself in Starling's FBI headquarters yesterday." He heaves another heavy sigh. "He says he can give us some of the worst criminals in Starling City—and across the world—but he has some hefty demands." He steeples his fingers. "The first of which being that he'll only work with you. It's also the only one he's given us so far."
"Me?" Felicity asks. "Why me? I don't know Queen from Adam." She hesitates. "Well, I do, actually, because he's Oliver Queen, the man who has a little black book of criminals in his pocket—each one of them with a favor he can call in at any moment." She waves a hand. "But, I mean, I've never met him, so why would he ask for me?"
Lance frowns again, rising from his desk. "I was going to ask you the same question," he states flatly, "but maybe we should ask him instead."
***
Oliver Queen is not the man she's been expecting to meet, even if she was to take away the shackles and replace the orange jumpsuit with an expensive suit like he usually wears. No, the man on the other side of the one-way glass from her is hardened, nothing like the picture stapled to the front of his file. She expects him to be boyish and cleanshaven with a charming smile and bright eyes; instead, he has stubble across his jaw and close-cropped hair, his features sharp and... angry. His blue eyes are dark, and he's not smiling.
Oliver Queen looks like a ghost, a dead man walking.
She takes a deep breath before stepping through the door, examining Oliver Queen in person for the very first time. Scars she didn't notice before litter his arms—some older, some newer, some thick, some almost invisible. She tries not to focus on them, looking at his face instead, at the eyes that study her the same way she studies him.
In the corner, her eyes flick to the guard, a young man fresh out of Quantico, and she doesn't need her psychology background to tell that the man doesn't like her presence—maybe he sees her as useless since she's not in the field. Lance assured her that the rookie was there for her protection, but something makes her think that Special Agent Roy Harper would be likely to let Queen kill her, if he wanted to.
There's a special sort of hesitation involved with the key to his handcuffs and shackles, the one that rests in her hand. She could let him free, but, while Queen's record says he isn't dangerous, the scars on his arms prove otherwise. After a long judgment call that she's sure to regret later, she bends down to remove the shackles at his ankles, and, when she rises, he holds out his hands with a silent question. This time she's less timid when she unlocks them. He makes a show of rubbing his wrists, studying his hands for a moment before turning those eyes back on her.
She doesn't expect such intelligent eyes from a fixture at the club scenes, but the she decides that maybe he hasn't been that person for a very long time. She sits down across from him, deciding that she'll wait for him to speak. It takes him a while to come to that realization, but, finally, he says to her in a cordial, conversational tone, "You must be Felicity Smoak. The file I've been reading didn't have a photograph, but I'm pleased to see that the FBI didn't pull the bait-and-switch they're so famous for." He doesn't flash her the charming yet insincere smile she expects, instead explaining his previous statement with, "No field agent in the world would let me out of these cuffs—it's too much like a gesture of respect." He studies her a moment longer. "I should probably introduce myself—I'm Oliver Queen."
She rolls her eyes because it's ridiculous to be having this conversation, and even more so to hear him introduce himself. "I know who you are, Mr. Queen," she answers, then stops because that's clearly not true. Something has happened to him in the past six years, and she doubts anyone truly knows him anymore. "Well," she corrects, "I don't know you know you—I've never met you before. But I've heard of you, of course, and then they made sure I knew your name and file before I walked in here."
He seems amused by her babbling, instead of the annoyance she was expecting. Most people find her non-stop mouth irritating, but he almost seems intrigued by it. "Respect is a rare thing, Miss Smoak," he says finally. "While I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Queen was my father."
"And he's dead," she blurts, then immediately winces. He doesn't seem to upset by the reminder, though, only watching her curiously. "I mean, he drowned," she tries to correct, but she knows she's only digging herself deeper. "But you didn't." She shakes her head, trying to ignore the way her face flushes. "And I'm pretty sure you didn't surrender yourself to the FBI so that you could listen to me babble. Which will end. In three... two... one." She takes a moment to collect herself. "Now, why did you call me down here, Oliver?"
He smiles at that, and she can tell it's genuine by the way it reaches his eyes. "I have some demands," he answers with the hint of a breathy laugh in his voice, "and I'd like to tell them to you so that you can relay them to the proper channels." One corner of his mouth turns up in a wry smile. "It's been my experience that the FBI only listens to people they trust, and they trust you." He studies her a moment. "And unlike them, you'll listen to me."
She holds up her hands as he takes a breath, and he immediately tilts his head to the side, waiting to hear whatever she says next. "I have a demand of my own first, actually," she offers, and he waves a hand as if to say, I'm all ears. She holds up her index finger. "Just one single question, and it will determine how this plays out. If you lie to me, I'll walk. If you lie to me and I find out later, I'll walk." She crosses her arms. "Either way, we both know how that will play out. And it's a really good thing that you look well in orange because you'll be wearing a lot of it if I don't agree to work with you." He flashes her another smile, and she turns crimson as she realizes the words that left her mouth. "All I want to know is why me. There are thousands of field agents out there with experience who would leap at this, and you know it. So why pick the lowly analyst stuck away in a room with only computers for company? Why me?"
He nods to himself a few times before the corner of his mouth turns up again. "Since you know how to ask the right questions," he starts slowly, "I'll humor you. There are three reasons, actually." He leans back a little in his chair. "The first of which being that I prefer to work with smart, beautiful women." The sudden compliment surprises her, coming out of the blue and declared as fact, and she tries to ignore the way her cheeks heat. "They work harder because they have something to prove to the boys' club of the FBI—and they have to be twice as smart to get there." He shrugs, and this time the smile is flirty and five kinds of dangerous. "And, when I'm bored of the FBI jargon, they're also nice to look at." His eyes fall over her in a slow fashion that makes her want to squirm. "Especially when they own skirts as short as yours."
The flush this time is from anger, and she rises from her seat without a word. It was stupid of her to expect an honest answer from the likes of Oliver Queen, and, damn the consequences, she's done with him. He seems to understand that. "Please, Felicity," he calls behind her, and she pauses, stopping to gather a deep breath. "I told you there were three reasons. I've humored you, and now all I ask is that you humor me." When he says it like that, she can't help but agree with the logic (and blatant manipulation) there. She turns on her heel, dropping back down in the chair she just vacated, earning herself another wide smile from Oliver Queen. "Thank you," he says quietly, before changing subjects. "I hope you don't mind if I call you Felicity; 'Miss Smoak' seems too formal somehow. Is that all right?"
She crosses her arms before she huffs, "What do you expect me to say? If I say yes, suddenly we're friends—and you are not my friend. But if I say no, then I'm a bitch—especially since you prefer to be called by first name."
She suddenly feels her argument is silly, but he takes a moment to think about it before responding seriously, "You're right. Then let's strike a compromise. We address each other informally, but as professional acquaintances, not friends. Is that agreeable?" She nods once and he continues, "Good. My second reason is more sentimental than anything else—my father told me that if I had the opportunity to work with a member of the Smoak family, I shouldn't turn it down."
She frowns now, trying desperately not to clench her fists. Her family is strictly off-limits, and everyone knows that. "I'm nothing like my uncles," she assures him flatly, her tone biting.
"Actually, you are," Oliver corrects. "While you might not have the same questionable moral compass as James and Elliott, you're all respectful and honest in worlds where those two things are considered weaknesses." He doesn't linger on that for too long. "And the third reason being that I know you, Felicity." His eyes bore into hers. "It's taken a year of research to find someone I could work with—and you were exactly what I was looking for: ambitious with something to prove."
He crosses his arms. "You graduated from high school at the age of sixteen," he informs her casually, "and you were accepted on a full-ride scholarship to MIT, where you earned your Bachelor's in Computer Engineering, with a minor in Forensic Accounting. The FBI recruited you out of college, and you earned your degree in three years, instead of four."
A chill runs up her spine as she realizes how well he's studied her, and he smiles as that realization shows on her face. "And you liked it—for a while. Suddenly, you realized that being an analyst meant being chained to a desk for the rest of your career—and that you didn't like that. So you went back to school, earned your Master's in Computer Programming, this time with a double-minor in Criminal Psychology and Criminal Justice—all before the time you could legally drink." He shakes his head. "But it wasn't enough—you wanted in the field, so you've tested to be an agent every year since. You've passed every time with flying colors, unsurprisingly, but you've still been passed over every time." He looks up at her from under his eyelashes. "Do you know why?"
His tone makes Felicity think he knows why, so she doesn't feel the need to lie to him about it. "I'm very good at my job," she admits, trying to sound as modest as possible while saying it.
He shakes his head, already disagreeing with her before he corrects, "No, not because you're very good—because you're the best. You have the best numbers of any FBI analyst in the Bureau, and they're not going to give you up so that you can play field agent." He points over his shoulder. "They have mindless grunts like him to do that. You're intelligent in a way they can't replace. You could easily do poor work as an analyst and make the transition, but yet you still do your job to the best of your ability anyway." He smiles. "With the arrangement I'm proposing, you get an opportunity to be known for more than your analyst work, and maybe you'll earn your way into a position in the field."
She hesitates, frowning. "I know you've already answered my one question, but maybe just one more." She waves a hand. "You don't have to answer, but I'm going to ask anyway. What's in it for you?"
The smile falls from Oliver's face immediately, his eyes suddenly falling dark. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, but then he finally responds, "I haven't seen my family in six years, Felicity. My sister was twelve years old the last time I spoke with her, and now she's going to be graduating high school. I just want as much of my life back as I can get."
She doesn't know what to say to that. Showing sympathy would only make it worse for him, and ignoring it just seems cold. Finally, when it's clear he's not going to speak until she does, she finally prompts, "You had a list of demands."
"I did," he agrees, his expression changing to that same casual façade falling over his features again. "My father called it the Blacklist—it sounds exciting, I suppose." He muses over it with a sardonic smile, then moves on. "Our boat was sabotaged, and I want the people responsible to pay. You can think of it like my wish list. I've been cultivating it for over ten years, and my father did the same for another twenty prior to that. Politicians, mobsters, hackers, spies—any criminal you could ever want, all in one place."
"We have our own list," Harper interjects from behind him, frowning. Felicity can't tell if the expression is aimed at her or Oliver, but she'd bet he feels the same way about both of them.
Oliver rolls his eyes. "Agent Harper, we all know that the FBI's Most Wanted List is basically a popularity contest. I'm talking about the criminals who matter, the ones you can't find because you don't even know they exist." He smiles, but it's predatory this time, and Felicity's just glad she isn't a mouse. "Your top ten are small fish, but I'm Ahab. If you want the whales on my list, you have to play by my rules."
"You know that didn't end well, right?" Felicity can't help but interject. "Ahab is so caught up in catching Moby Dick that he basically kills himself in the process." She crosses her arms. "I think you should seriously consider changing your metaphor."
He doesn't say anything, only smiles as he continues, "I don't sleep in the same place for more than two nights. I want a DARPA-tested, fully-encrypted eight-millimeter tag embedded in my neck—not some RFID chip garbage that can easily be removed. Because I'll have this piece of equipment in my neck, I also want to be able to travel and move as I see fit. You'll know where I am, so it doesn't matter." He crosses his arms, sitting up straighter in his chair. "I want my own security with me, not your agents who will do a pitiful job at best. I have a list of five acceptable applicants—pick two." He corrects himself. "Well, one—we all know that Director Lance would be an idiot to pass over Sara for someone he doesn't know."
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I want regular access to a CIA agent of your choosing. Laurel is the optimal choice, and, again, I don't think Director Lance will object to that. Everything I say from this point forward falls under an immunity package that I negotiate." He leans forward, looking over her shoulder at the one-way glass. "And, finally—most importantly—I speak only with Felicity Smoak."
Finally, Lance's gravelly voice sounds through the speaker. "We'll meet your terms, provided your information is as good as you say it is," he states, sounding less than pleased about the entire situation. Felicity can't blame him; they're supposed to put the bad guys away, not make deals with them.
Oliver's eyes land on Felicity again, and she can feel herself being drawn in—an altogether dangerous thing she's not going to allow to happen. "A kidnapping is going to take place today," he states, all too casually. "His name is Walter Steele, and I believe he's married to my mother now." Again, he says it too calmly, as if he doesn't give a damn about the man. "He's going to be kidnapped by a man named Dominic Alonzo in..." He casually reaches over and picks up Felicity's left hand, and, taking a leap of faith, she waves Harper down when he starts to draw his gun. The agent scowls, but holsters it, even has he watches them warily.
Oliver checks her watch as if he does this every day, as if she's perfectly willing to let him do so. "About twenty minutes," he finishes while looking over her shoulder at the one-way glass. He releases her then studies her with dark eyes again, this time a challenge in the smirk he throws her. "Alonzo runs an illegal casino, and I can lead you all to him. Is that enough to keep you from walking away?"
She stands up, scoffing at the challenge. She offers him her own smile, and she can't help but feel like she's won something. "I couldn't walk away from this job if I wanted to," she answers dryly. "They've already told me that, if I refuse, they'll slap a treason charge on me and I'll be in a cell right next to yours." She starts to leave the room. "And I've heard blondes don't do too well in black sites."
A hand falls on her arm, warm and callused, and she knows immediately it isn't Harper's. The FBI agent in question is aiming his gun at the back of Oliver's head, but Felicity waves him down again. This time he doesn't budge, and she understands why as Oliver spins her to face him.
To say he's infringing upon her personal space is an understatement. Actually, she'd be willing to say that, if he closed any more distance between them, he was trying to seduce her. But the Oliver Queens of the world do not try to seduce the Felicity Smoaks of the world, so she knows that he's probably going more for intimidation. "You were bluffing," he states, and there's no question to it. He knows he was played, and he knows she's far better at it than him.
There's something dark and dangerous in his eyes that screams for her to run as fast as she can, but somehow she still manages to hold her ground. Suddenly she isn't feeling so good about this, not when he's staring down at her with that predatory expression—as if she's the mouse and he's a very hungry cat. "Maybe a little," she admits, and, while her voice is a full octave higher than usual, she's very proud of the way her tone doesn't falter.
The smile this time is genuine, flashing teeth. Slowly, he presses his hand against her jaw, tilting her head up to study her face, and Felicity has to remind herself to breathe. "I'm definitely going to enjoy working with you, Felicity," he murmurs finally, the smile dropping from his expression as something more serious takes over. Oliver leans in, his thumb brushing a line over her cheekbone.
She figures Harper is going crazy by now, so she places her hand on Oliver's chest, stopping him as he leans forward. She knows him—knows his file—and they all know that Oliver Queen is a man who enjoys the chase. He's insistent—perhaps too much so sometimes—but he wants to draw her in. Felicity isn't buying it this time. "You're not going to enjoy it that much, Oliver," she replies dryly. Then she ducks under his arm and leaves the room, stopping in the hallway between interview and observation to catch her breath. A terrifying thought hits her: she isn't done with Oliver Queen, and that boy is trouble.
So she can't understand, for the life of her, why a part of her is excited about working with him.
***
That excitement wears off, though, when she realizes that she's going to be the one walking into the illegal casino. She thought her act would be simply as Oliver Queen's mouthpiece to the FBI, but apparently he thinks a more direct approach is necessary. Apparently he's also capable of negotiation because he's somehow convinced Lance that he's right about his choice.
"You need someone who doesn't look like a Fed," Oliver had said earlier to Lance, "which means that most of your team is already vetoed." Then he'd waved a hand at Harper, dismissing him separately. "And, no matter how much money you stuff into his pocket, the guards are still going to ask where his parents are." He'd been quiet for a moment as he studied the room, then his eyes had landed on Felicity.
"Oh no," she had said flatly. "Absolutely not. I'm not a field agent—I'm an analyst. They don't even give me dental. I'm not trained for undercover work"—she'd blanched at the smile he gave her here—"and I didn't mean it like that, so stop smiling. It makes me nervous."
It actually earned her a chuckle. "Alonzo is an old business associate," he'd answered. "He'll know me the second I walk in, and only an idiot wouldn't know that I was there about Walter. Alonzo isn't an idiot." He smiles. "Besides, I think it's better for our deal if only a select few people recognize that I'm alive." He shrugs. "Well, outside certain circles, at least. My clients know how to reach me." Oliver waves a hand with a smile. "You're going to need a dress."
Lance had conceded then, albeit reluctantly, and Felicity knows she's basically been thrown under the bus. Oliver negotiated everything so that the Feds were going to be out of it, which Lance agreed to by muttering, "I'm not sure I want to know how you'll capture this guy."
Still, she exits the bathroom of Oliver's temporary apartment in her dress, red and off-shoulder, every bit as dressy as instructed. She's traded her glasses for contacts and pinned her curls over one shoulder. She supposes it will have to do, but she isn't thrilled about the idea of running around an illegal casino unarmed. Especially not with Oliver Queen as her only form of backup.
Oliver is apparently in the middle of dressing in the main room, too, facing away from her when she enters. He's not wearing a shirt, and she can see a dark tattoo on the back of his left shoulder, as well as a whole hosting of other scars just as varied as the ones on his arms.
"Is there a better place for me to wait?" she asks carefully. Somehow she thinks that her, Oliver, and a state of undress on his part is a bad combination. She's not exactly sure about changing clothes in his apartment anyway, but she had just brought the dress back from the drycleaners and it was in her car. And his apartment was closer to the illegal casino, so it had seemed like a logical conclusion. Now she's chastising her own sanity for thinking this was a good idea.
He tenses before glancing over his shoulder, only turning enough so that he can look at her. Felicity must look better than she thought, judging by the way he completely turns for a better view. It's only then that she's able to see he's far more muscular than she thought—and apparently been in quite a few fights, since his torso is covered with even more scars. A vertical line of Chinese characters that mean nothing to her end just above the top of his pants on his right, and a multi-pointed star on his left pectoral means so much more to her. She's seen enough of those in reports, and suddenly his scars make more sense—Americans don't get to be captains in the Bratva without a little bloodshed.
"You look the part," he says finally, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Beautiful and smart, but with just a hint of trouble." She doesn't like the way his eyes keep skimming over her, as if trying to memorize the sight of her in the dress. It's a little ridiculous to think he's interested in her, but, then again, he's a notorious flirt and he's likely more interested in the chase than in her. "And I'm almost finished," he adds as he pulls on a black v-neck t-shirt. But then he shrugs on a jacket that steals her attention away—a very familiar jacket.
It's then that she realizes his pants are green leather (green leather that fits so tight she's sure she'll dream about it later), as is his jacket. An emerald quiver lays off to the side, full of the arrows that have been regarded with terror for the past year. "You're the Arrow," she whispers, cold dread clawing at her throat. She'd originally regarded Oliver as a moody housecat—virtually harmless—but now she realizes that he's far more of a threat than she anticipated.
Coming here was definitely not a good idea.
He looks up from pulling the zipper on his jacket up to carefully regard her for a moment. "I am," he agrees finally, "but that's between you and me." He pulls on two emerald gloves, watching her all the while. "Can you keep a secret, Felicity?" It's subtle, but there's a threat in the question.
"Not if it will cost me my job," she says finally, surprised to hear the words leave her mouth. She'd meant to say yes, but somehow that ended up coming out instead. "You're already about to ruin my career, since no one will want to work with Oliver Queen's pet whore—that's what they're already calling me, by the way." He looks at her, eyebrows furrowing as if the thought bothers him. It doesn't bother her, though; she's been called "Sir" behind her back for years because everyone thinks she's a bitch, and one more nickname won't hurt her. "But I don't have a choice in that, since the only other option is to be stuck in a cell next to yours. I'd at least like to have a job as an analyst after all this is over."
She expects him to try to blackmail her, but he only says, "Give me a week to earn your trust. If I can't, tell Lance and let him pull the deal." He offers a hand, as if his handshake means a damn thing to her since they both know he'd break a promise to his own mother if it was in his best interest.
She shakes it anyway because they've already made a few leaps of faith together and one more won't hurt her. "Fine," she says, snapping a little more than she probably should. "Let's make one thing clear, Oliver: I am not going to jail for you. If it comes down to me or you, I will happily sell you down the river—and I won't lose any sleep over it."
That answer almost seems to please him. "I expect nothing less," he assures her. "And I appreciate the honesty." He reaches over his quiver to hand her two things, slipping them into her hands. She studies them, surprised to find a small pistol and a leg holster. She looks up at him with the question in her eyes. "I don't trust easily, either," he admits after a long moment, "but I'm willing to let you earn mine, too." His head tilts to the side. "I know you're not officially licensed to have one, but we both know your marksmanship scores on those field agent trials were excellent."
She's about to bite out a dark retort (something along the lines of, "I don't want your trust"), but then she realizes that maybe he wants to trust her. So, she decides to let it go with a quiet, "Thank you," that makes him smile before taking a few steps back toward the sofa.
She places her left heel on the arm of the couch, making sure Oliver is turned in the other direction before she hikes up her dress to fasten the holster to her thigh. Because the dress is a little short, she has to pull it up exceptionally high. Once she's sure it's secure, she slides the gun into it, making sure that it stays holstered well.
When she's finally satisfied with it, she realizes that she has that familiar sensation of being watched at the back of her neck, and she turns to find Oliver staring at the generous amount of leg she's flashing him. She turns nearly as red as her dress, letting her leg drop to the ground before pulling her skirt down. "So," she asks, after a long quiet moment, "what's the plan?"
"The casino has its own private army," he answers as he situates the quiver on his back, and she watches with rapt attention as he situates darts around his left arm. "We need to break into his system quietly to see where he's keeping Walter." He stops, looking up to smile at her, and Felicity decides that smile is going to haunt her nightmares for a long time (and maybe her fantasies, too). "Fortunately for me, I know someone with a Master's degree in Computer Programming." He stops for one moment, pausing for a beat, and she thinks that might actually be doubt etched across his face. "I just hope she also counts cards."
She scoffs. "Have you met me? I'm kind of awesome at math. Counting cards is all about probability theory and mathematics," she answers dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. It's apparently not her finest idea because his eyes drop for the briefest of moments to watch the motion. "Bottom line? I know my way around a casino, Oliver, and I'm kind of insulted you have to ask."
He offers her that smile again. "I was hoping you'd say that," he answers, and that's when she knows she's going to regret this by the time it's over.
***
As they turn the corner near the warehouse, Felicity feels that familiar feeling of nervousness. "Just to be clear," she says with a nervous chuckle, her voice high and fluttery, "the plan is for me to get caught counting cards in an underground casino filled with hardened criminals." She bites her lip. "Is that about right?"
"That's the gist of it," he answers, and part of her wishes he would lie to her, though she does appreciate the honesty from someone who finds it much easier to lie. "But it's only so you can get a friendly warning from Dominic and plant a bug on his office computer."
She bites her lip, pulling her coat tighter against the cold. "Right," she answers, Oliver's statement doing nothing for her nerves. "Which will hopefully lead us to Mr. Steele—assuming I get the friendly warning and not a bullet."
He pulls to a stop immediately, taking her arm and pulling her to face him. "Nothing is going to happen to you," he says firmly, and, God help her, she wants to believe him. "I did not spend a year of my life selecting you only to throw away your talents here." It sounds almost like a compliment. "Here," he says, holding out a small device in his hand that she knows to be an earpiece. "This will keep you in contact with me."
Without waiting for her response, he slides her hair away from her ear with one hand. With the other, he gently presses the earpiece into her ear with his thumb. He checks it twice before smoothing her hair over it. He leans far too close to her, and this time the chill that tears through her has nothing to do with the cold. "Is that better?" he asks quietly, and she can hear it both in her earpiece and in person.
She nods once, pulling away, and he holds out his hand. "You'll need to make an impression—leave your coat with me." She frowns but does as he asks, and it's almost ridiculous to see him with the green camouflage paint over his eyes and her coat on his arm. "I'll be right outside if you need me," he assures her, and then she's left crossing the street.
Entering is easy enough once Oliver gives her the passcode to use, and then she's in, able to apprise him of the goings-on. The place is bigger than she expects, but it doesn't take her long to gain her bearings and understand the flow of the casino; she has most of it before they even give her the chips. "It looks like they have a few bouncers running around," she informs him when he asks. "One of the dealers is sliding better cards to his buddies, and I've spotted the floor man." She frowns. "Do I sound nervous to you?" she can't help but ask. "Because I'm not—I'm just excited."
"Relax, Felicity," he answers quickly, his voice oddly soothing. "I'll be with you the entire time. I have binoculars on the building, and I'll be here if you get into trouble."
"Thanks," she answers with a sigh of relief, and she loses control of what she's thinking. All she wants to express is that she's glad he's with her, his voice is in her ear, but somehow it comes out as she blurts, "It feels really good having you inside me." She can't help but make a face in horror, and she hears something clatter to the ground on his end of their communications system—probably the binoculars. "I mean," she rushes on quickly, "that's not what I meant at all. I'm just really glad to have your voice in my ear."
She can almost see that smug smile on his face as she moves to a blackjack table to start in for the night. "Well, in that case," he answers with a smile in his voice she already knows to be trouble, "I like being inside you." She knows he's doing it on purpose, the way he's taunting her, but she still nearly drops her chips. She shakes her head to clear it before joining the new round of cards.
To their credit, it doesn't take them long to catch her. She's truly impressed; they have at least five dealers robbing them blind, and yet they catch her in a matter of ten hands or so. It's kind of ridiculous that they think she's actually trying to count without getting caught; she's won every hand so far, without breaking to lose a few hands to make her seem less suspicious. After all, a spring break trip to Vegas nearly paid her living expenses in college, and she's never been kicked out of a casino in her life.
The bouncer they use to guide her back is overkill, and she quietly gives Oliver the directions to Alonzo's office, should the need arise. "Have a seat," the weasel of a man she assumes to be Alonzo says cordially, and she drops, suddenly glad to have that gun at her thigh. She leans over the desk casually, and his eyes fall on her chest instead of the hand sticking the bug on his computer. "What's your name?"
"Meghan," she answers quickly, using her middle name. It's the best thing she has on such short notice.
"Well, Meghan," he answers dryly, "do you know what the mob used to do to people who cheated the casinos in Vegas?"
She swallows because she definitely remembers those stories. "Yeah," she answers after a long moment. "A lot of really violent, not-good things. Like, people losing hands and stuff." She jumps as she realizes the implications. "And, you know what? I'm going to stop talking."
"You're right," he agrees casually, steepling his fingers. "And you'd think more people would take that as warning not to count cards, but yet it still happens." He looks at her, his eyes roving over her figure in a way that makes her feel she needs to take a bath afterward. "Fortunately for you, I can be persuaded to let you go without losing an appendage."
"I'm on my way, Felicity," Oliver says in her ear, and suddenly she's glad for the backup, even if it is just Oliver Queen armed with a bow.
Her answer is to cross her arms. "I think I'll just wait for my partner," she answers. "Because, you know, most card counters work with a partner. Granted, it isn't necessary because I can do this in my head all day, but, if I get into trouble like this..." She smiles. "Well, you're not going to like my partner. More importantly, he isn't going to like you."
She can hear yelling from the main parlor, and suddenly Alonzo's arm is around her throat. Her leg knocks against his, and then his hand is on the inside of her thigh. She feels the gun release from her holster, and then its barrel presses against her head.
When Oliver walks in, she immediately understands why Starling City fears him. He looks inhuman, like some sort of urban legend that's more ghost than person, more animal than man. She watches as he surveys the situation she has herself in. His eyes flick down to where her dress is hiked up then to the gun at her head, and his expression goes even darker than before.
"You move, and I kill her," Alonzo spits, but Oliver is already shaking his head.
"You made two mistakes," Oliver states, ignoring him. There's something more sinister about his voice masked under the synthesizer, and it sends the first shiver of fear down Felicity's spine. "The first one was taking that gun from her holster." He aims the bow. "The second one was aiming it at her, when the real threat here is me."
The arrow is released with a thwip, and suddenly Alonzo's grip on her is gone. She hears him slide to the floor, realizing slowly that Oliver probably killed him with that shot. Felicity turns on her heel, and, sure enough, there's an arrow sticking out of the man's throat, blood pouring across the floor from the wound.
Oliver pulls her away from Alonzo's body, tilting her head away from the scene. She can't help but be struck by the thought that the man died in front of her; as an analyst, she's never seen something like that in her life. Oliver's gloved hand falls across her face, the other hand on her upper arm as he looks carefully into her eyes. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly, the tone eerie under the synthesizer.
Felicity nods, pulling away from him, but he instead eases her into Alonzo's desk chair with firm but gentle hands. She takes a deep breath, trying to steel herself past the cold chill she knows to be shock. She pulls the chair up to the desk, deciding to focus on the computer instead. A shiver runs down her spine without her permission, and she tries to work past it.
He notices—of course he does—and the green leather jacket falls over her shoulders, both heavy and warm at the same time. "I had to leave your coat outside," he explains as he does something with the pistol—probably cleaning the blood off of it, but she doesn't want to know.
Oliver hands her the gun back at the same time he turns off his synthesizer. "Not bad for your first operation in the field," he says finally. "Next time, you should start with that bluff you used at the end. The people that work from this side of the law take advantage of weakness. If you look weak, they'll walk all over you."
She takes a moment to slide her gun back into place before pulling up a new window on Alonzo's computer. "I don't answer to you, Oliver," she says flatly, then she sees a record that sticks out above the others. "It looks like Alonzo made a delivery to a tenement complex in Bludhaven earlier tonight—I'd bet it was Mr. Steele." She turns back toward him before hesitantly adding, "And thank you for saving me, Oliver—you've earned my trust."
He watches her for a moment, understanding the second meaning in those words. "And, more importantly," he adds, "now you've earned mine." He holds out a hand, and she shakes it, feeling this is probably the weirdest partnership in the history of the world.
Felicity can only wonder what the next twenty-four hours working with Oliver will hold.