Title: Questionable Circumstances
Word Count: 2162
Notes: Hey, y'all! How's 2018 been for you?
I know it's been a while-I have been absolutely swamped. I was off school for three weeks for the holidays, during which I worked two jobs and some 60+ hour weeks. The semester started off hot and heavy, and this is the first time I've had to breathe since.
Today marks a very important date: three years ago, bushlaboo proposed to me in a review of Technical Assistance, which marked the beginning of an amazing friendship and Internet marriage. :P So, we decided a fic exchange was in order. She gave me the prompt "pineapple" (again; this is the second time, wifey), so I ran with it.
This one follows "To the Ends of the Earth," which is... kind of unfinished. Whoops. All you need to know is in Chapter 7 of Bits and Pieces, though. Love y'all and thank you for reading! :)
The minute he walks into the Ends of the Earth, Oliver knows something is wrong. Some might call it intuition, but it's really a matter of observation: there's a young man in a suit at the bar. Ends of the Earth is not a place that attracts men in suits, especially ones that carry clipboards. Diggle doesn't look happy as he speaks to the man, arms folded and brow furrowed in a way that announces he's two seconds from throwing the man out.
Instead of approaching them directly, Oliver approaches Roy at the closest end of the bar. He has an ID in his hand, one that Oliver can only assume belongs to their newest visitor; he and Roy usually agree on a don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to the teenager's penchant for taking wallets. "These are FBI," the kid says without preamble, passing the ID to Oliver. "And if the feebs are here, someone is going to be led away in handcuffs before this day is out." He spares Oliver a glance. "And because you're the one with the extracurricular activities, I'm guessing it's you."
Oliver ignores him, instead studying the identification badge. "Not an FBI agent," he replies, holding it up for Roy to see. "It says Consultant, not Agent." He points to the top of the card, above the name, where Dr. is written. Roy blinks twice, and Oliver throws him a dark look. "Sorry to disappoint you, Harper, but it doesn't look like anyone is going to jail today." Passing the card back to Roy, he says, "When Felicity comes in, let her get a look at that. She doesn't like new faces."
Though Roy grumbles something under his breath, Oliver ignores him, instead walking down to the other end of the bar. He turns his attention to Digg first. "Is there a problem here?" he asks of his bar manager. If there was a real problem, they both know Digg is more than capable of removing troublemakers from the establishment, but sometimes Oliver can play the softer touch.
Or he can end up breaking a few bones.
"This is Dr. Curtis Holt," Diggle replies, motioning to the man. "He's a psychologist with the FBI. Dr. Holt is here to perform Felicity's mental competency exam, so she can get her consultant's license again."
Dr. Holt waves a hand. "I don't really do formalities—you can call me Curtis," he assures them with a wide smile. He looks close to Felicity's age, though something about him seems more like a kid in a candy store. "You're… Oliver Queen, right?" He glances around. "I was told I could find Felicity Smoak here."
"Felicity lives in one of the small houses on the property," Oliver replies, resting an arm on the counter. "She's almost never here at the bar, except when she and Digg have a debate." He points to the green chalkboard behind Curtis, which now sits blank. The psychologist turns to examine it. "Did she know you were coming, or do I need to get her for you?"
"No, she set up the meeting," Curtis assures him. That isn't exactly promising; Felicity can barely distinguish night from day. Curtis frowns as he glances down at his watch. "She is running thirty minutes late, though. Do you have a number I could call?"
Diggle snorts at that, and it's all Oliver can do to keep a straight face. There's no cell reception on Looking Glass Lane. Even if there was, Felicity won't accept phone calls from anything less than an encrypted line—a paranoid tendency that won't put her in a favorable light for this evaluation. Before he can think up a suitable lie, Oliver hears the tell-tale click of heels on the scuffed, wooden floors. Curtis' eyes widen as he glances over Oliver's shoulder, and the billionaire turns with the first signs of dread.
There's nothing overtly terrifying about Felicity Smoak, nor has there ever been. To anyone on the street, she'd just be a remarkably beautiful blonde, wearing a yellow dress with a giant bow at her waist. The skirt flounces as she walks, and her fuchsia lips are pulled into a brilliant smile. Everything about her mirrors the personality Oliver has come to know so well over the past few years.
It would look positively normal if not for the pineapple in her hand and the tinfoil hat on her head.
She walks up to Oliver and pats his cheek with her free hand. Upon closer inspection, the tinfoil hat is shaped like the traditional Robin Hood cap, complete with an aluminum feather on the side. "Good morning, Oliver," she declares happily, despite the fact it's three o'clock in the afternoon. Without further explanation, she drops the pineapple on the table. When she takes off the hat, it's only to adjust it on Oliver's head. "Do you know what today is?" she asks.
"The twentieth," Oliver replies, brow furrowing. Though he wants to take off her makeshift hat, he knows there isn't a way to do it without upsetting her. Sometimes it's just best to play along, though it's usually easier without an FBI psychologist watching their every move. When she doesn't answer, he adds, "Of February."
Rolling her eyes as if he's the ridiculous one, Felicity clarifies, "It's not just any day, Oliver. It's our anniversary." She adjusts the hat on his head, admiring her handiwork. "Three years ago, on this day, we met for the third time." When he opens his mouth to speak, she places a finger over his lips. "The real time, when we decided to be friends. And it was one of the best days of my life." She holds up the pineapple. "So I bought you a pineapple. And made you a hat." She makes a face. "I was going to use felt, but the craft store was closed."
Despite not being good with dates or times, she always remembers things like this. Oliver tends to forget the little details, but that's where Felicity excels. Or maybe she's the one who remembers the important things. Sometimes it's hard to tell with Felicity. "I was going to make you dinner," he promises, which is never really a lie. If he's on Looking Glass Lane at a mealtime, he's typically cooking.
"Oliver, have I told you lately that I love you?" she asks, beaming.
With a grin, he replies, "The last time I cooked for you."
A throat clears, and Oliver glances over to watch Curtis motioning between the two of them. "Hi, excuse me," he cuts in with a partial laugh. "Quick question: why a pineapple and a hat?"
She takes a deep steadying breath through her nose, turning to the psychologist with irritation etched into her features. "Pineapples are sweet, but they can be sour sometimes," Felicity explains, as though it's obvious. "They take a long time to grow, but they regenerate. And, out of all the plants in its family, it's the only one that has an edible fruit." She holds it up. "It's unique, like Oliver." After putting it down, she reaches to tip Oliver's hat downward. "And the hat—"
"It's not just any hat," Oliver finishes for her, placing it on the table next to her pineapple. "It's a hat like Errol Flynn wore in The Adventures of Robin Hood." The significance might be lost on Curtis, but Oliver understands how Felicity's mind works: cap, Robin Hood, vigilantism, Arrow. Either she's getting better, or her genius is rubbing off on him.
"A cool guy," she clarifies, poking Oliver's shoulder with a smile, "and, like you, chaotic good on the alignment chart." Without waiting for a response, Felicity claps her hands together, turning to Curtis. "Ready to see if I'm crazy, Dr. Holt?"
"I have two hundred questions I need you to answer for the diagnostic—" he starts to answer.
"Excellent!" Felicity declares with a smile. "You can ask me all of them in the car." She pulls on Oliver's sleeve. "Come on. I have a new case, and if I learned anything last time, it's not to go alone. You're good at keeping me safe." She takes a few steps forward before turning to face Oliver while walking backward. "Inmate on Death Row says he's innocent. We need to find a bullet. From twenty years ago."
Curtis frowns, glancing between Felicity and Oliver for explanation. Oliver just shrugs; Felicity's rationale is something that has to be experienced firsthand before it can be believed. Finally the psychologist asks, "How are you going to find a twenty-year-old bullet in Starling City?"
Felicity turns around, waving a hand in dismissal. "Oh, it's no problem," she assures him. "I have a metal detector."
Sighing, Oliver motions for Curtis to follow him. Felicity bounces ahead as he explains, "I know it's hard to understand, Dr. Holt, but…" He hesitates; there's no real way to explain it with logic because her gift transcends logic. "This is what she does," is what Oliver finally settles on. "It isn't always elegant, but her thought process is… intricate. Felicity's mind finds lines, connections that most people can't see. It doesn't make sense to people like you or me."
"Finding a twenty-year-old bullet in the concrete jungle of Starling city sounds impossible," Curtis states flatly.
Felicity shrugs. "Not to brag, but that's the essence of what I do."
Glancing down at his clipboard, Curtis frowns. "Um, are you sure we have to do the questionnaire on the move?" he questions. "Can't you just fill it out here?"
Sighing, Oliver realizes this is going to take more explanation than he thought. Dr. Holt might be a psychologist, but he's also a bureaucrat who expects to do things efficiently and per regulations. Felicity, for all her brilliance, isn't capable of either of those things. "When Felicity has something to find, she doesn't sit still," Oliver replies. "If you want to wait for her to finish, you'll have her undivided attention, but it can take weeks sometimes." Oliver glances after her. "Or you can follow her around, ask your questions, and make your evaluation in a few days."
Breathing a long-suffering sigh, Curtis only calls ahead to Felicity, "Miss Smoak, would you describe yourself as 'manic'?"
Felicity slows down, allowing the two men to catch up. "No," she decides after a moment. "Motivated, yes. Focused, yes."
"Enthusiastic," Oliver offers.
She beams. "That's sweet of you, Oliver."
"Do you sleep well?" Curtis asks.
"Definitely," Felicity replies.
"Do you have an active sex life?" Curtis fires.
Suddenly finding the urge to be part of any conversation but this one, Oliver pushes through the door, unlocking his Mercedes parked a few feet away. To his dismay, Felicity and Curtis follow him, the former with a thoughtful expression on her face. "For the most part, I guess," she finally answers as Oliver takes longer strides toward the driver's side. "I mean, I don't mind doing the work, but sometimes I just want to lie there and be passive. You know, take in the moment." As he opens his door, she waves a hand. "But sex isn't something I spend time worrying about. It's been four years or so."
After shutting his car door, Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. A deep sigh leaves him. He made the mistake of thinking this was going to be a good day. Usually he doesn't get these kinds of headaches until halfway through Felicity's investigations—when she's offering herself up as bait for drug smugglers or covering fugitives in fluorescent orange paint.
As he crawls into the backseat of the car, Curtis asks, "Felicity, do you enjoy setting fire to things?"
"Sure," she replies. "Candles, bonfires, the charcoal in the barbecue grill, and the occasional NSA-bugged cell phone."
"You can mark that as a 'no,' Dr. Holt," Oliver translates, running a hand over his face.
He just hopes Felicity still has a good bottle of red wine—he's probably going to need it by the time this is over.