Title: You and Me (The Three of Us)
Summary: Felicity is the model for Tommy's nude art class. Oliver can't stop thinking about the girl he's never met – the one he only sees in Tommy's sketches.
Author's Notes: So I am rushing to post this before work, which probably means it will be littered with errors, but – SMOAKING BILLIONAIRES, baby! I have so many Smoaking Billionaires ideas it's not even funny (like, I actually cannot find it funny because I don't have time for this much inspiration, arrghhhh!). This was written surprisingly quickly as a break from writing the next chapter of Fixer Upper. It was intended to be a brief little ficlet that ended with Oliver meeting Felicity for the first time, with the hint of mere potential for SB. But it took on a life of its own. This chapter lays the foundation – smut comes next in chapter two.
It starts with an arm.
Oliver isn't a stranger to Tommy's artistic tendencies – he's the one who encouraged him to pursue it further, after all, ever since he'd noticed the apparently effortless skill with which Tommy could wield a mere ballpoint pen (even to draw something vaguely pornographic in the margin of his World History textbook).
So seeing Tommy carrying a large sketchpad in and out of the apartment every Tuesday night isn't that surprising. Tommy sketches absolutely everything these days, but coffee mugs and empty pizza boxes have probably started to lose their appeal after months of living together. Oliver remembers he'd said something about an art class, and as far as he's concerned, that's all he needs to know. For all they've shared, Tommy is still pretty private about the stuff he chooses to draw. It's personal for him – Oliver gets it.
But then, one night, Tommy's late coming home and Oliver is looking for his Environmental Science textbook because he has stupidly decided to leave an assignment worth 30% of his final grade until the night before it's due.
He's storming around Tommy's room, looking in the most ridiculous places (underneath the pillow – because yeah, Oliver, that's where Tommy would have put it. To support his skull when he's asleep, obviously…) and creating a mess that will probably lead to an argument later, when he sees it.
Not the textbook, no, but a page that has been torn from the sketchpad and – bizarrely – has fallen between the side of Tommy's bed and his nightstand. Oliver doesn't know why it's there, but his overly dramatic overturning of the room has unfurled the page just enough that he can see what's on it.
It's an arm.
Not weirdly disembodied, or covered in blood and gore suggesting dismemberment, or anything that's going to give Oliver nightmares tonight, but still – just an arm.
Tommy has drawn it so well that Oliver feels he could almost imagine the person it's attached to – which he's pretty sure must be female. Her arm is lifted – as though to run her fingers through her hair – and there's something incredibly captivating about the subtle rise of muscle at her shoulder as she holds her upper arm in flexion, as well as the delicacy of her slim wrist. Her fingers aren't visible beyond the curve of her knuckles, but Oliver can almost picture them – slender, with painted nails. On the back of her hand, a thin shadow indicates the line of a tendon under her skin.
God, Tommy is so good at this.
Oliver has known this for a while, obviously, but Tommy only ever shows him the stupid stuff he doesn't care about – a quick sketch of Professor Holt scratching his ass when he thinks they aren't looking, or the soda cans they'd stacked up high on the pool table in the dorm last year.
This is – real. This is a real person's arm. There's detail in this that Oliver probably wouldn't even notice if he could see the person right in front of him.
It's really beautiful.
He stares at it for a few more minutes, then puts it back where he found it and leaves before Tommy can get home.
Two weeks later, there's another body part on the coffee table.
Oliver feels comfortable blaming Tommy for allowing him to see this one.
Okay, his sketchpad was closed – and hidden underneath a stack of other books – but it was still out in the open. Really, how could Oliver not look?
As soon as he sees it, he knows it's the same woman. He can't explain how – there's no part of her arm in this piece, but he just… he knows.
It's an almost anatomical drawing, but the graceful arch of her neck – like a dancer, he thinks, and wonders if that's who she is – contrasts with the clinical detail he can see so clearly. Oliver can follow the cord of muscle from the angle of her jaw to her collarbone, including the little delicate triangle in the hollow of her throat. He can almost imagine watching the movement of her swallow. Tommy has drawn nothing below her collarbone and nothing above the curve of her jaw, but the longer Oliver stares at the sketch, the more he believes he'd know her if he met her.
And he's starting to think he needs to meet her.
Logically, Oliver knows that the model Tommy draws is probably nude when she poses. It's not just the fact that it's an art class and most models don't exactly pose fully-clothed, but something about the few limited drawings he's seen feel… intimate. As though there are no barriers between the artist and the subject.
Still, when he first sees the drawing of her bare abdomen, he chokes on his drink and hastily shoves the sketchpad away.
It's become a guilty pleasure to look at Tommy's drawings when he's not around. He's pretty sure Tommy doesn't know he's doing it – and he genuinely does feel awful about it – but he just can't seem to help himself. Every week or so there's something new, and he can't resist the urge to see a new part of this mysterious woman unveiled.
So far, he's seen her foot in profile – the smooth curve of the arch, the splay of her toes against the floor – as well as one hand cupping her chin, just a tantalising glimpse of the line of her lower lip faintly visible. He's never realised how much beauty there could be in such insignificant areas. He wonders if he would have even noticed, if he'd met her before he knew her from Tommy's art.
But seeing the toned muscle of her stomach right in front of his eyes is a new wake-up call altogether. The alluring shadow of her belly button calls to him, and he reaches out with one fingertip to trace it gently. Her slim waist flares out just enough to give him the idea of the shape of her hips; at the top, his eyes are drawn to the arch of her ribcage, and the way Tommy has given life to the solid shape of her bones with a firmer hand and a skilful use of dark tones.
Oliver swallows.
It's bad enough he's lusting after a woman he's never met, but even worse that his head is now being filled with the most ridiculous fantasies – all he can think of is his tongue following the lines of her muscles down to the jut of her hipbone.
It's a sketch, he tells himself, annoyed. You don't even know who she is. She could be married. She could be fifty years old. She might not even be a she!
It still doesn't stop him going back to the book, time and time again.
When the sketchpad goes missing, Oliver finally realises why that first sketch was torn from the book, and why it was next to Tommy's bed.
All this time, Tommy has been acting totally normal. He sleeps late, eats cereal from the box and drinks milk from the carton. He wanders around the apartment in his boxers and makes poor choices about which classes to attend and which to skip. He parties with Oliver – parties hard – and stumbles home at a ridiculous hour to collapse on the floor and wake up in the morning with a pounding headache and a profound regret for decisions he can't even remember.
He hasn't been dating, though.
Oliver doesn't notice at first because he isn't dating either. That isn't entirely because of Sketch Girl – he just hasn't been in the mood for a while. He and Tommy can be weirdly co-dependent that way, going months without dating because they just don't want to.
The sketchpad is missing, yet Tommy is still going to art class on Tuesday nights. Which means he's keeping it somewhere else. The only rational explanation, as far as Oliver can see, is that he doesn't want anybody to see what's inside.
Scratch that – he doesn't want Oliver to see what's inside.
Whether or not he's known all along that Oliver has been looking is irrelevant. Hiding it now after this long can only mean one thing: Tommy is drawing something he considers to be too intimate to share.
Oliver isn't willing to issue prizes for guessing the sketchpad's new content, then.
Which brings him back to the arm beside the bed, and the conclusion he's only just coming to terms with.
Tommy likes this girl too.
Oliver knows he should back off. He's basically an outsider in a relationship he's not even supposed to know exists.
(He definitely shouldn't be spending time wondering about the parts of her he hasn't seen. He definitely definitely shouldn't be thinking about those parts late at night or in the shower. God, he's a horrible person.)
But Tommy gives him nothing.
Oliver's frustration isn't just confined to the fact that he can't lust over a collection of sketches anymore; he's also increasingly confused and annoyed by the fact that Tommy doesn't seem to want to share any part of this with him. It's never been like this before – they've always talked to each other about the women in their lives, even if only default to being embarrassingly uncouth and thus reinforce the stereotype that follows them wherever they go.
Rationally, he knows that Tommy has the right to a private life, and that one Tuesday night a week is actually a miniscule amount of time compared to the hours and hours they spend in each other's company.
Irrationally, he wants his roommate and best friend back.
At this point, he thinks he can live with the concept that Sketch Girl will always be some unattainable ideal – practically a figment of his imagination, one he has objectified and put up on a pedestal without even knowing anything of her substance. Meeting her and knowing the reality of her might actually be a disappointment compared to the fantasy he's built up.
(And yes, that makes him feel like such a dick. It's not fair to her. She doesn't owe him – or Tommy – anything; she has a life of her own and they probably don't fit into it at all.)
But days pass and he still thinks of her late at night. He can't seem to shake this one off.
Sometimes he thinks of Tommy, too. Does Tommy talk to her, he wonders? Does he charm her with his easy humour and open, honest smile? Has he ever touched her in passing – a brush of fingers, or perhaps his hand briefly cupping her elbow in acknowledgement?
For all Oliver knows, things might have progressed further. It's the beginning of December and this is an extracurricular class. It could have been over weeks ago, but Tommy might still be using it as a cover to meet up with her.
Oliver shakes his head, frustrated. It's the middle of the afternoon on Monday, and he's standing in the kitchen of their shared apartment wearing a grey t-shirt and stripy boxers with the heat cranked all the way up. He has a decent idea of the kind of picture he presents, and it isn't pretty – even less so with the bowl of Froot Loops he abandoned twenty minutes ago still sitting on the counter, slowly congealing. Faced with a choice, he's pretty sure he would pick Tommy at this point.
(And yeah, okay, history suggests that it wouldn't be the first time, but that's a spring-loaded can of worms they've both carefully avoided opening except when drunk.)
Okay, he thinks, pushing through the fog in his brain. Get it together.
Time to go to art class.
He's not crazy, he knows he can't just walk in there after the class has been running for nearly three months and sit down with a beret and three Crayola pencils he found down the back of the couch.
But he can go to meet his buddy – his wingman, his best friend – just as it's finishing to see if he wants to grab a couple of beers. That's completely normal, right? Who could object to that? (Tommy, probably. Or, Tommy definitely once he figures out what Oliver's doing. But that's a thorny issue he can defer thinking about for the time it takes to walk across campus.)
The class is held in a building that used to house the old library before a generous benefactor – not a Queen or Merlyn for once – paid for an upgrade. The new library is huge, not that Oliver's been there more than twice. The old one, by contrast, is probably going to be knocked down when the administrators remember it exists, but in the meantime it's poorly lit and – for an East Coast winter – pretty badly heated, too.
Oliver arrives as students (young and old, because the class falls under the 'adult learning' division and is open to the public) are packing their things noisily, stacking chairs at the side of the room and pulling on scarves and coats. He hovers in the doorway, craning his neck to catch sight of Tommy, and sees him shoving a small, flat tin into the deep pocket of his heavy black peacoat. His sketchpad is propped against the wooden chair next to him.
Oliver scans the room again, this time paying attention to the women. With some frustration, he realises that for all of his conviction earlier, he's no longer sure he would recognise her. There are perhaps twelve women that he can see, and none are partially clothed or wearing anything light or loose that might be easily removed. He'd guess about half of them are over forty, but he doesn't even feel confident enough to rule them out. Of the younger ladies, a few are pretty or cute – the type he might have approached at a bar. None of them give him the feel of the model, though.
Crucially, perhaps, Tommy isn't talking to any of them. He isn't even looking around to watch as they prepare to leave.
She's gone, Oliver thinks. The disappointment is cold and heavy in his stomach.
People start streaming out of the room, a steady flow that prevents Oliver darting inside. He's tapping his foot impatiently and waiting for Tommy to join them, when a flash of blonde catches his eye.
Later, he'll try to figure out what exactly made his heart rate spike and his nerves jump into alertness, but it'll forever be a guessing game.
He straightens and pushes up onto his toes, grasping the doorframe to help him see over the dwindling crowd of people.
It's her, he knows it. He's absolutely certain.
And she is – wow, holy crap, so beautiful. Maybe what he's seen of her on paper has laid the foundations for feeling this way, because later – in a moment of honesty and self-reflection – he acknowledges that he might not have immediately made this judgement if they'd passed each other in the street.
She looks young, he'd guess maybe nineteen or twenty. She's fastening the buttons of a thick navy jacket, her fingers – nails painted mint green – fumbling for the ends of the belt as she draws it around her waist. She reaches up to push the dark frame of her glasses up her nose, and lifts her eyes to look at Tommy across the room. "Night, Tommy!" he hears her call out as she raises her hand in a little wave.
Tommy spins around, and if that reaction didn't tell Oliver everything he needs to know, then the way Tommy's face splits into a grin definitely does. "Hey, Felicity, wait up," he says, reaching hastily for the sketchpad and tucking it under his arm. "I'll walk you out."
"My car is about three feet from the door," she says with a smile. "But, you know, thanks."
Felicity, Oliver thinks. Felicity, Felicity, Felicity.
The name has its own melody. Wow, he is so far gone right now.
"Still," Tommy persists, his smile brighter and wider than Oliver has seen in months, "there could be an unexpected threat. Which… I would be totally ill-equipped to deal with, but odds are you'll never have to find that out."
He's standing right in front of her now, Oliver notices; the way they're grinning at each other, he feels as though he's intruding on two people in first date territory. Tommy's eyes dart to Felicity's rose-pink mouth, and for a second Oliver actually wants him to kiss her.
When Tommy lifts his hands to the lapels of her coat, he's certain it's going to happen, and he's caught between this weird desire to see it, and the uncomfortably hot jealousy of knowing this moment doesn't involve him.
But Tommy grasps the collar of her coat and flips it up, reaching around to catch the fold at the back of her neck and tucking the soft curls of her ponytail inside. "It's cold out there," he says softly.
"Yeah," Felicity sounds a little breathless. "Cold. Right."
Then Tommy turns towards the doorway and catches Oliver's gaze, and they all freeze in place.
Felicity would like to know what the frack they're putting in the water around here, because this concentration of attractiveness is frankly a little unnerving. Is this an experiment? Maybe she's being filmed somehow?
If she'd met the two of them for the first time tonight, that's exactly what she'd suspect, but she's known Tommy for nearly three months now and although they've only exchanged a handful of words at the end of each class, she'd wager the balance of her entire student loan as it stands – which is depressingly substantial – that he wouldn't never do something like that.
From what she's read, most people would call her painfully naïve for thinking that, but she likes to think that the Tommy Merlyn who grins encouragingly at her from behind his sketchpad and has never once tried to move seats to get a better view of – well, anything – is the real Tommy and not the version that features in those awful 'most likely to end up in rehab' polls in the tabloids.
"Oliver," Tommy grits out, sounding anything but pleased to see his best friend. "What are you doing here, man?"
Oliver Queen has apparently benefited from both a haircut and a gym membership in the last year. Not that she has been stalking him via the press or anything, but the last photo she remembers seeing was one that her mother shoved under her nose when she realised that 'the Oliver Queen' would be at Boston University while Felicity was at MIT. "You might meet him totally by accident," she'd said, with a dangerous gleam in her eye. "You should at least know what he looks like."
What he'd looked like in that photo – an opinion Felicity had unfortunately shared with her mother, and been flame-roasted for her troubles – was a serial killer.
Fast-forward to her crazy life as it's unfolding outside her control: with his shorter hair and well-trimmed but incredibly masculine stubble, not to mention the way he's filling out his tan leather jacket very nicely indeed, Felicity is forced to admit that she is incredibly attracted to him right now.
And damn it, she did meet him 'totally by accident'. No way is she giving her mom the satisfaction of finding that out. Ever.
Curiously, it takes Oliver a second to shift his gaze from her to Tommy, and when he replies it sounds sluggish and awkward. "Uh, just thought we could go out. You know, for beer. What do you say?"
Tommy's jaw tightens as he shoves his hands in his pockets. "So you decided to walk all the way over here?"
Are they fighting? Felicity's eyes flicker between the two of them as she tries to read the vibes they're giving off. They both look tense and uncomfortable, but weirdly, they both also look like they're hiding something.
Whatever's going on, she probably shouldn't get in the middle of it. She clears her throat, and tries not to visibly startle when their heads swivel alarmingly in her direction. "Uh, I'm just going to head out," she says softly, reaching out to pat Tommy's arm. "See you next week, Tommy."
"Wait!" They both say in unison, voices echoing in the empty room.
Then, frustratingly, they look at each other and appear to have a totally silent conversation, the nuances of which are hinted at only by slight widening of the eyes, eyebrow movements and twitching of the mouth.
Yeah, she definitely shouldn't be in the middle of this.
Just as she's readjusting her bag across her shoulder, though, Tommy's hand shoots out and lands on her arm. She'd be annoyed if he were actually grabbing her, but he keeps his palm flat and the pressure light. "Uh, look, I know this might seem weird," he says nervously, "but… you seem pretty cool and I was hoping we could talk about more than just, you know, what pencils I use and what the weather's like these days." He jerks his head in Oliver's direction. "Would you like to get a drink with us? We're sane, I promise," and he lifts his hands as if to prove this, "despite… what it might look like."
The truth is, she likes Tommy. A lot.
She's been hoping he might say something more to her than 'hi' and 'bye' and the weird small talk they've exchanged in between. He's insanely hot, and he doesn't look at her like she's a piece of meat (which, in fairness, most people in this class don't either, but there's always one slightly creepy person who doesn't seem to spend much time drawing). Weirdly, she gets the feeling that he probably keeps his sketches fairly innocent.
And okay, she probably wouldn't have chosen to get a drink with him and his roommate, but they seem to come as a package deal right now.
Her gaze lands on Oliver's firm jawline and strong-looking hands.
There are worse things, she thinks, and gulps.
"Yeah, sure," she manages to say steadily. "That'd be great."
The bar they've chosen isn't too far from the old library block, so she decides to leave her car there and walk with Tommy and Oliver.
Or, actually, walk between Tommy and Oliver. The path is narrow so one of them always seems to end up walking half on the grass, but they still somehow manage to stay close to her, knocking elbows and brushing hips. If she weren't so distracted by their proximity and her own racing pulse, she'd be kind of grateful – it's cold out tonight; the sky is clear and there's an icy wind whipping between the tall buildings, but between the two of them they manage to shield her from the worst of it.
For a Tuesday night, the bar is surprisingly crowded – and noisy. Oliver forges on ahead of her to find a seat, and Tommy ushers her through the door with a hand hovering around her lower back. Inside, it's warm, and they both turn to grin at each other as they make exaggerated shivering motions. Tommy steps closer to her and begins to unfasten his coat. "I didn't mean to put you in a difficult position," he half-shouts to be heard over the noise. "With the invitation – I know you don't know Oliver, but… I just really wanted to get to know you a little better."
Wow, he is seriously close right now. If she takes just one step forward, her chest will be pressing against his, and his chin will be hitting her forehead.
Not that she's planning to, obviously.
"It's fine," she says, smiling up at him. Recklessly, she reaches out to pat his chest for two seconds. (Literally two. She counts them with Mississippi's.) "I'm glad you asked me. Next week's the last class, so… I didn't know if you would ask at all."
To her surprise, his eyes brighten with pleasure. "I was definitely going to ask," he assures her. "Believe me. I'm not saying I would have been articulate, but I would have given it a shot."
She laughs, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "Well, that's… good," she manages lamely. "Very good."
His gaze drops to her mouth for a long moment. Her heart drums harder against her ribcage as she looks up at his dark hair – slightly mussed by the wind – and dark eyes, then at the full line of his lower lip. His hand lifts to land lightly on her waist, and she thinks, yes…
Then Oliver shouts from across the bar, "Found one!"
She chuckles ruefully, ducking her head as Tommy takes a step away. "He does not have great timing, I'm finding."
Tommy holds out his elbow and waits for her to tuck her hand into it before they dive into the melee. "The worst," he agrees. Then he leans very, very close and whispers into her ear, "Next time, I'll have a tranquiliser gun on standby."
Next time, she thinks, and shivers with anticipation. How is this my life?
Oliver has managed to find an empty horseshoe booth all the way in the back of the bar, one with a nice little dividing wall to shelter it from prying eyes.
Tommy gives Oliver a narrow look as he and Felicity slide past him into the booth, shimmying along the leather seat. He's glad his friend found this – more than glad, actually, since he's really starting to wonder about that 'next time' he promised Felicity, but there's no way these seats weren't taken in a bar this packed.
"Who did you have to evict from such prime real estate?" he asks, leaning across the table to half-shout since Oliver is still standing.
Oliver, for his part, affects a quizzical look and cups a hand around his ear. "Can't hear you!" he declares, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "I'll go grab some drinks. Felicity?"
"Oh, uh…" She shrugs, her mouth twisting helplessly. "A light beer, I guess."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I have an early class tomorrow, so…"
Tommy's stomach flips at this new piece of information. He doesn't give a drink order to Oliver – years of friendship would make it redundant, and in any case, Oliver sometimes switches things up depending on what he thinks the situation demands.
Curiously, though, Oliver gives him an intense look as he walks away, his gaze darting meaningfully towards Felicity.
Tommy stares after him, wondering what the hell he's up to. One minute he's showing up uninvited to art class acting like he'd love to have a private one-on-one session with Felicity himself, the next he's going full wingman.
Next to him, Felicity wriggles in her seat as she shrugs her coat off, and Tommy's eyes are immediately drawn to the line of her scoop-neck electric blue t-shirt. He swallows roughly; he's being ridiculous – he's seen her mostly naked, after all.
And by 'mostly' he means… her back. Her beautiful shoulder blades, the line of her spine, and the swell of her hips – but nothing more.
At first, it wasn't by choice – he just happened to be sitting in that part of the room when she arranged herself into her pose on the chaise and slipped her robe off. But he's been increasingly attracted to her for weeks and weeks, and somehow, seeing her entirely naked before he'd even had a chance to ask her out seemed… well, rude. So he's been keeping it as clean as he can while hoping she doesn't think he's fixated on her ass.
Which, okay, is pretty spectacular, but – no. So not the point.
He tosses his own jacket over the back of the bench and shuffles minutely closer to her. "Are you a student here?" he asks, his mouth dropping closer to her ear as the noise level rises around them.
She shakes her head, her bright blue eyes sparkling. "No, at MIT," she clarifies. "They actually had a vacancy for a life class model at the rec centre near the MIT campus, but I didn't want to risk the possibility of any of my classmates seeing me like that." She rolls her eyes, an edge of frustration creeping into her voice. "It shouldn't be an issue, I know, but it's hard enough being female in most of my classes without anything else complicating things. And at least Boston U is south of the river, so I figured… should be safe, right?"
Tommy studies her face carefully, noting the small lines of tension between her eyebrows and around her mouth. "What's your major?" he asks.
She hesitates for only a split second, but he notices. "Cyber security and computer sciences," she says, on an exhale, and glances up at him. "It's my jam," she jokes nervously.
Tommy's honestly impressed, and he doesn't care who knows. It bothers him that she seems so worried about people knowing, though. "That's pretty awesome," he tells her, hoping she can see the sincerity in his eyes. "And a double major, too?"
She winces. "It's… kind of a Masters program."
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Wow," he murmurs. "Uh, remind me never to show you my transcripts from… anywhere. Ever."
To his great relief, she laughs out loud, visibly relaxing. "Technically I could look you up," she teases, "but that would be a breach of… uh, model-art student confidentiality, so… you're off the hook."
God, she's crazy beautiful, he thinks.
Her hair is coming loose from her ponytail, her cheeks are pink… and actually, there's a rather alluring flush to her chest that he definitely shouldn't be looking at. He's captivated by the catch of her lower lip between her teeth when he realises that she's staring too.
In one quiet moment in this noisy bar, he realises that she wants him as badly as he wants her. And right now they're just… taking the opportunity to appreciate each other.
Blood rushing in his ears, he leans forward, slipping a hand into her hair, and presses his mouth firmly to hers.
All Felicity can think is, yes! Finally!
She doesn't hesitate to respond, half-turning in the seat to get a better angle, her hand rising to brace against his chest. His lips are warm against hers, and his stubble scratches her chin pleasantly. She opens her mouth to him, gasping when she feels his tongue slide over hers. The smell of him envelopes her – earthy ink and the faintly spicy scent of his cologne.
For a quick second he pulls away, his eyes full of concern. "Is this okay?" he asks, his eyes searching hers. "I know it's a little fast, but…"
Felicity is already reaching for his shirt collar, pulling him back to her. "Fast is good," she murmurs, nodding. "Do it again."
He grins against her mouth and kisses her thoroughly this time, his hands framing her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks.
"Watch it!" Oliver's voice carries loudly across the bar, and they pull apart hurriedly. "You wanna move, maybe?" he says, annoyed, pushing through a large group of people to finally get to their table.
Felicity pats her mouth quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears and glancing up at Tommy to find him flashing her a grin. She brushes her knuckles against his arm as she moves to sit straight again, looking at Oliver as he dumps the beer bottles on the table. "Crazy tonight, huh?" he says, apparently oblivious to the 'we just kissed!' tension that crackles in the air around them.
"Yeah," she says, a little breathlessly, trying to find a way back to normal conversation. "What's going on, anyway? Some kind of quiz night, or…?"
Oliver looks at her, a little puzzled. "You're not a student here?" he asks.
Thank god for Tommy, who quickly fills Oliver in on the details. "Wow," says Oliver, echoing Tommy's sentiment – and yes, it's gratifying, she can admit it. "I wouldn't have guessed you were old enough to be doing a Masters."
Oh, no.
Her stomach sinks, and she fidgets with the sticker on her beer bottle. This part never seems to go well.
"I… actually just turned 19," she says, her shoulders already hunching in anticipation. "I'm in my senior year. I sort of skipped part of high school."
Oliver looks stunned. She can't quite bring herself to look at Tommy, who might be having second thoughts about kissing her again. A three year age difference isn't much, but it depends how seriously Tommy takes the whole 'kind of a genius' concept.
"Okay," says Tommy, at last, leaning into her field of vision to fix her with a look of admiration. "So I was kind of kidding about my transcripts before, but – I'm really not anymore."
Oliver nods vigorously as he lifts his beer to his lips. "Shit, yeah, me too," he says against the bottle, and tips his head back to take a swig. Instinctively, she watches his Adam's apple bob, and her mouth feels suddenly dry. When she meets his eyes again, his pupils are dark with something she can't name. "I'd say don't Google either of us, but I think we both know that wouldn't really stop you."
She laughs at the two of them, her heart light with relief. "Scout's honour," she promises. "Well, I was never a Scout, so… um, Felicity's honour." And she lifts her hands, wiggling her fingers as though typing on an invisible keyboard. "That's my salute."
Next to her, Tommy snorts with laughter, but although Oliver is smiling, she sees the way his fingers tighten around his beer bottle, his other hand fisted in his lap. Something flickers in his eyes – frustration and desire warring for equal place.
It is not possible that he's attracted to her, she tells herself. He barely knows her. And in any case, he's supposed to be Tommy's best friend. She can't pretend to be an expert on the two of them, but they're obviously close. She really doesn't want to think of Oliver as the kind of guy who would make a move on someone he knows his best friend is into.
To her relief, they quickly transition to small talk for a while. Tommy and Oliver are seniors, too, but this is their fourth college in as many years and they both seem resigned to the fact that their grades aren't exactly impressive and it'll be a miracle if they get it together enough to graduate. Knowing that their families are responsible for persuading each successive university to grant them a place despite such a terrible record is incredibly irritating for Felicity, especially given how hard she'd had to work just to persuade her own school to let her skip a couple of measly grades.
The two of them are so critical of their own abilities, though. She can't help feeling that at least some of their failure has been a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"There's still time," she argues, feeling pleasantly relaxed in this warm booth. The beer might have been light but it hit an empty stomach so the effects are a little more noticeable. "I'm not saying either of you could be valedictorian, but if you really knuckle down you could at least graduate. They have a tutoring program, right?"
"Oh, they have one all right," says Oliver, casting an ominous look into his empty bottle. "Pretty sure I'm persona non grata there, though."
Tommy leans into her side and mock whispers, "Ollie might have invited two lovely ladies to tutor him in something non-academic. Together. At the same time." He knocks back the last drops of his beer. "I believe he referred to it as 'Sexual Physiology 101'."
Oliver groans, and throws a dark glare in Tommy's direction. "Seriously?"
Felicity feels a flush rising into her cheeks that has more to do with the fact that Tommy just said the words 'sexual physiology' directly into her ear than the warmth of the bar or the discussion of Oliver's sex life. "At least you live here, though," she comments blithely, pretending to examine her nails.
Oliver's eyebrows knot together with confusion. "Huh?"
She fights to keep a straight face. "You know, because Beth Israel has such a good reconstructive surgery department."
Next to her, Tommy muffles a giggle, pressing closer into her side.
Oliver's eyes narrow with suspicion. "I'm going to regret asking –"
"For your balls," she says emphatically. And promptly has to hold her breath against the laughter that fights to escape her lungs.
Tommy slumps over the table, red-faced and shaking. "Your balls!" he exclaims, before dissolving into incoherency.
For a moment, she thinks she might have seriously upset Oliver, because beyond the total incredulity on his face, she can't really read his expression. She sobers a little, reaching out to touch his arm. "Hey, I didn't mean –"
Oliver makes a weird snuffle-snorting sound as his face creases with the widest smile she's ever seen on a human male. "Beth Israel reconstructive surgery," he repeats, amazed.
"Your balls," Tommy says again, wheezing.
Then they're both helpless, and what can she do but join them?
Truthfully, Oliver has been stalling on going to the bar for more drinks because, although he is kind of rooting for Tommy's success, Oliver still can't quite bring himself to give up whatever small chance he might have left.
He knows they kissed before. He didn't see it, but the vibe when he got back to the table earlier told him everything he needed to know. He's pleased for Tommy, of course he is, but he doesn't really want to walk away now and come back to find them all over each other this time. He just doesn't know how he'd handle that.
So it's a surprise when Tommy actually pulls himself to his feet and volunteers to make another trip to the bar. "Another beer, Ollie? Felicity?"
Felicity examines the bottle on the table, her mouth scrunched up in a way that makes Oliver determined to know the feel of it. "Just a water for me, thanks."
"You sure?"
And then, bizarrely, Tommy turns Oliver's world upside down by doing exactly what he had done earlier – giving Oliver a sharp-eyed look as he walks away, nodding his head subtly in Felicity's direction.
What the fuck?
Tommy cannot really be doing what Oliver thinks he's doing, no matter how desperately he might want it to be the truth. He is not telling Oliver to make a move. No. No way.
Felicity shifts next to him, and instinctively he turns a little on the seat to face her, curling his body as if to shield the two of them. She smiles softly at him, her eyes bright behind her glasses. "I'm really glad I got to know you both a little better," she says. "You two have a great friendship."
Oliver nods. "Yeah, we do. I'm really lucky to have Tommy in my life." Being honest like this is scarily easy with her. With most practical strangers, he'd be censoring himself about the personal stuff just in case whoever he was talking to decided to sell his comments to a tabloid. Talking to Felicity is as easy as breathing, though.
"He's lucky to have you, too," she replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, I know that sounds as though I'm overstepping, but – I can see how close you two are. You'd do anything for each other." She lifts her head to scan the people packed into the bar. "I wonder how many people in here could say the same for their friends."
Oliver studies her face carefully – the beautiful symmetry of her heart-shaped face, the dimple in her cheek, and her warm, pink mouth. He'd love to draw her, he thinks. He'd be terrible at it, but there's something about her that makes him want to try anyway.
"I knew it was you," he blurts out, without thinking. She blinks with surprise, but his momentum takes him forward anyway. "Tommy – he's an amazing artist – I never even realised how good he was until I saw his sketches of you, but he didn't draw your face. So I didn't know if –"
Felicity frowns. "He didn't draw my face?"
He hesitates, wondering if this is somehow bad, if he's going to ruin things for Tommy – but he's in too deep now. "No. He did – you know, separate sketches. Your arm, or your foot, or your neck. Stuff like that."
She sinks down in her seat, looking faintly disappointed. "Nothing… else?"
"Maybe," Oliver offers, wishing he could provide the reassurance he thinks she wants. "I don't think I saw everything he drew."
She fixes him with clear blue eyes. "But you knew?" Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "You knew it was me – is that what you meant?"
"I didn't know if I'd recognise you, but… back at the library… I knew." His stomach flutters nervously, and he rubs the back of his neck. "You're… you're really beautiful."
Her face flames into colour, and she fish-mouths for a few seconds, clearly flustered. "Oh, uh… thank you. Um, so are you. I mean – oh, god…"
Oliver grins widely. "No, that's nice to hear," he says, feeling a little more in control of himself. This time, when he looks at her pink cheeks, he remembers Tommy's significant look and something seems to click into place in his head. "Did Tommy kiss you before? When I was at the bar?"
"Uh…" Felicity struggles for words, and he wonders what she sees in his eyes that makes her inhale suddenly. "Oh my god, wow, I – sorry, am I… am I in the middle of something? Are you and Tommy… involved?"
Okay, that was unexpected, he thinks. "What? No! I just – I knew he wanted to kiss you earlier, after class. I was kind of rooting for him."
"Oh, of course." She nods, and he wonders if there's a fraction of disappointment there. "Like his wingman, I guess."
He lets his gaze drop deliberately to her mouth. "Probably not a very good one." His heart pounds as he lifts a hand to cup her jaw, the tip of his thumb resting on the plump flesh of her lower lip. "It's a little swollen here," he says, his voice rough. His thumb swipes along the line of her mouth to the corner. "Your lipstick's a little bit smudged here."
Her lips part as she inhales deeply, her eyes full of surprise and intrigue and want. "Oliver," she begins –
He leans forward to taste his own name from her mouth.
She kisses him back, to his relief, her lips warm and pliant against his, her hand slipping around to the back of his neck. Her tongue is sharp with the tang of the beer, and he presses her into the back of the seat, his fingers threading into her hair.
She smells sweet and fresh, but he catches hints of Tommy's scent on her as well, and his blood pounds harder in his veins.
The sound of glass against the table is loud and jarring, and Felicity breaks away from him with a gasp.
Tommy slides into the seat on the far side of the table, but doesn't scoot round to sit next to Felicity again. Instead, he leans forward to give each of them a long look, his eyes fixing on their damp, swollen mouths.
When his lips curve upward and his eyes light up with some kind of dark-edged triumph, Oliver doesn't know whether to feel relieved or scared.
Next to him, Felicity shifts nervously. She looks almost devastated, her hands twisting together in her lap. "Tommy…" she begins apprehensively.
The smile Tommy gives her is possibly not as reassuring as he thinks it is, Oliver decides. But then, Oliver's nerves are still riding a rollercoaster of uncertainty right now. "Felicity," Tommy says, his voice soft and enticing. "Would you like to come back to our place?"
Oliver's stomach jolts pleasantly, and he feels his mouth pull into a grin of relief. He'd hoped – god, he had really hoped – that this was what Tommy had been pushing him towards when he'd left the table earlier. This is kind of new territory for them, but Oliver wants this so badly. He glances at Felicity, hoping she can't tell how much he wants this. This has to be her choice. He knows without even trying to communicate with Tommy that Felicity's the only person for whom they could both imagine feeling this way.
Off Felicity's hesitation, Tommy reaches along the bench and half-lifts the sketchpad into view. "I could show you my etchings?" His eyebrow wiggle is classic flirtatious Tommy.
Felicity swallows hard. She looks once at Oliver, just long enough to see whatever she needs to see, then back to Tommy, and nods. "Yeah. Okay."
Author's Note: Aaaaaaaaaaaand, next comes smut. As a side note, this will be published as part of a series of Smoaking Billionaires fics. I am doing battle with a semi-angsty high school one which needs to be finished but hopefully will be published soon. Fixer Upper may be updated before that though (probably after the next solar eclipse, I don't know…). Thank you so much for reading!
