So this took a little longer to write cos my gorgeous, somewhat deranged old girl, Illy (great dane), was feeling needy and kept shoving the ipad off my lap so she could lay her head there for a cuddle instead. As excuses go, cute as a basketful of mischievous kittens. Plus, crazy busy week etc etc.
Was originally planning to do fire as the next one after wind, but it's been raining here all weekend, so got to go where the weather muse takes you, I say - Grey.
Felicity stood at her bedroom window, nursing her morning coffee, looking out at the pale rain dotting-and-dashing the street view.
The sound - a thousand toy drummer boys - lilting, as a wind gust picked up the raindrops, then thickening, as they plummeted back down with renewed determination.
Felicity sighed loudly, trying to ease out the slight trepidation that layered her stomach. Friday morning. End of the week. Another day - she could do this.
It had been three weeks since her embarrassing swimming adventure at the Queen mansion, and while everything seemed the same on the surface, something had shifted beneath. Between her and Oliver.
She would catch him looking at her lately, and would feel a brief, pulse-spiking moment before he realised she was noticing and he looked away.
The days at QC were uber-professional and precise. The nights in the Foundry - polite and mission-focused.
He seemed tenser than usual - which was saying something - but had stopped yelling at her when frustration took over. He seemed to...bite it off, push it down...and walk away. He would return, composed, but it felt like nothing between them was really the same anymore.
She knew Dig and Roy had noticed the strangeness too, but had yet to raise it through an unofficial 'Oliver-isn't-here-do-we-need-to-talk-about-where-he-is-at-mental-health-wise' team meet chat.
It was like the calm before a storm, and it was flaying her friggin' nerves.
Felicity swigged the last of her now lukewarm coffee and walked to her small kitchen to rinse out the pale green mug and stack it in the dishwasher. She grabbed her handbag, struggled into her red coat, and headed out into the sodden day.
Felicity stepped into the QC elevator, sending mental thanks to the powers-that-be, or at least the building's architects, for the underground car parking. The rain had worsened on her drive in, roads clogging, tempers flaring in direct correlation to the impatient, ill-thought-out moves of drivers.
She pressed her floor, blue nail against the illuminated round button, and stepped back, still early, sole occupant.
At the lobby level, the lift stopped and doors parted.
A man entered - tall, imposing, expensive. Some intangible other thing - dark calmness.
He looked directly at her as he moved into the space. 'Good morning.'
'Good morning.' Felicity stepped slightly to the side, making room, elevator etiquette.
They stood side by side, waiting for the doors to close. Felicity realised she was holding her breath.
She noticed he didn't lean forward to press a button. Shit, she thought, as his profile finally registered in her brain wikipedia. That's Bruce Wayne. Oliver's 9am appointment. What the hell was he doing here at 7.45am?
Felicity's mind whirled. What was she going to say to him? Do with him for the next hour?
She wondered why early-morning-Frank-the-security-front-desk-guy had let him into the lifts to the offices, but absorbing the implacable confidence of the man next to her, she couldn't really imagine anyone saying no to him.
She'd need to call Oliver and let him know Mr Wayne was a teensy bit early.
The elevator pinged at the penthouse level, and upwards ceased. The doors opened and she glanced up to the man at her left. He smiled politely and raised his arm, indicating she should exit first.
Smiling thanks in return, she stepped out and began to walk towards the offices, heels clicking, sleek ponytail swinging.
Realising there was no way to avoid slightly awkward with the man now following her footsteps, Felicity turned and waited for him at the entrance to the offices.
'Mr Wayne,' she said, pleased at her confident-sounding EA-role tone. 'Mr Queen will be in, but I'm afraid you may have to wait a little. Is there anything I can get you?' Not a fidget in sight. She was so nailing this gig.
'No thank you, Ms Smoak.'
What the hell? He knew her name!?
'I apologise that I'm early,' he said, in a smooth, deep tone.
That was it? No reason offered? No 'private jet flight took less time than I thought' excuse?
He stood there. Waiting. For her to do something.
I should probably do something, Felicity took the cue.
'Well, that's no worries at all, Mr Wayne. Please, make yourself comfortable,' she said, leading him towards the couches in Oliver's office. One of them should be, at least.
'Thank you.'
Geez, and she thought Oliver was a man of few words.
Felicity hovered as he sat down and removed a small, graphite-looking tablet from his jacket.
He looked up at her, a slight question in his dark eyes. She smiled nervously, waved goodbye at him, turned and walked back her desk, one hand grabbing the other behind her back as the tailend to her dorky display.
A few nails loosened from the gig.
She ransacked her handbag for her phone and claimed it from a corner. Swipe, tap, she held it to her ear, casting a checking glance through the glass to the man owning Oliver's office. Confidence in spades, she thought.
Ringing. Damn it Oliver, answer your phone.
Rather than leave a message, lest the pre-punctual visitor should hear, she hung up and texted Oliver that Mr Wayne had arrived early.
'Ms Smoak.'
Cripes on a pogo-stick! Every cell in Felicity's body jumped.
Mr Wayne was standing at the doorway to Oliver's office. The man moved like the wind.
'I changed my mind. A coffee would be wonderful.'
'Oh, uh...of course,' Felicity flustered.
'Just point me in the direction and I'm happy to make one. Would you like one too?'
Felicity's forehead furrowed as his words failed to compute. He was offering to make her coffee?
'Uh sure...' Felicity's hand pointed to the small kitchenette off to the other side of the offices, complete with coffee machine #2 installed last week. Shocked by the billionaire-makes-her-coffee turn of events, it was all the movement she could muster.
The immaculately-suited man smiled at her, kindly amused, and strode towards the place of coffee making.
He stopped and turned. 'How do you have it?'
'Skim milk. One sugar,' she managed.
He smiled at her ying-yang-edness, and turned back to stride. Like. The. Freakin'. Wind.
A few minutes later, he came out, bearing two steaming mugs and stopping at her desk. She'd been most industrious in that time. Turned on her computer and everything.
'Please come, Miss Smoak,' he said, nodding towards the black leather and steel couches.
'Oh, thank you. But I have alot of work to do.' Her best, most legitimate excuse yet.
'One coffee, Miss Smoak. It would be nice to just...talk.'
Felicity looked at the man. He seemed sincere. And for all his enigmatic energy, not warning bell-ish to her. He reminded her a little of Oliver.
Plus, he had made her coffee.
Scales tipped, she pushed back her chair and followed him to the couches.