Title: Shot in the Dark
Word Count: 8017
Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow. If I did, I wouldn't be writing AU fic right now.
Notes: *throws fic angrily* Take the darn thing! I love how this turned out, but I'm tired of looking at it! :P It was supposed to be about 3000 words long, but when it was all said and done, 7000. And then I made a few, innocent edits, but they became two new paragraphs and an 8000-word long fic. I'm done. *happily sleeps for five days* But it's my biggest thank-you yet for my biggest landmark yet. I'll let you decide if you think it was worth it. ;) Reading is much appreciated, as is commenting/reviewing! ;)
Also, playlist at the end again.
It's an average, ordinary day when Felicity Smoak gets the idea. She's tired from a long day of work, she's frustrated from the mysogynistic behavior from her peers in the IT department, and she's sick of sitting at the police station. She did everything she's supposed to do, but yet her car is still stolen and she has the joy of anticipating a ride on the local bus back home. Which would be fine, but the whole damn thing smells like feet and orange-scented air fresheners, and, in her opinion, that's a horrible combination.
But she's tired of sitting around, trying to talk to overworked cops who don't give a shit and underpaid detectives who care but can't help. It isn't the first time that she's thought about all the insanity of Starling City. She doesn't even live in the Glades, and she works at Queen Consolidated, for God's sake, but yet she has to worry about her damn Mini Cooper getting stolen. She has a Mini, and even she doesn't want it—and why some criminal would is completely beyond her. But she's frustrated, overworked, underpaid, and is desperately in need of her car.
And it's the perfect mix for a good idea. In fact, she'd say it was the best she's had all week.
Without another word, she turns on her heel and walks out of the building, with a cop yelling her name behind her. Screw it, she thinks, screw it all. There are criminals on these streets, and someone needs to clean them up. Might as well be her.
At first she thinks about stealing money from the rich via their oh-so-secure off-shore accounts (she hacked the Caymans ages ago on a whim, and, really, it's ludicrous how much money those mafia bosses store there with the false illusion of security), but then she knows that will only stop one type of criminal in the city. That will stop the rich ones, sure, but what about the poor, common criminals who think it's okay to wave a gun in someone's face?
But she isn't really a scrapper; that's a problem for her. She knows how to throw a few punches and such, but she's not very good at hand-to-hand fights. She frowns. Well, it's a problem, and, unfortunately, it's not one she thinks she can solve. She can't learn to fight overnight, but she knows she can hack. Then she remembers that other skill from high school—the one that earned her a pretty nice scholarship. When she gets home that night, she pulls out her bow for the first time in three years, and she carries it out to her rental car.
Maybe it would help to hit some practice ranges—see if she still has it.
She's a little rusty, but it takes her only a few days to get back up to par. In the meantime, she's been keeping up with the news, using the list of uncaught criminals to make her own list. It's several pages long, and she finds herself in need of a base during all of this. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how she looks at it), her grandmother left her a small house on one hundred wooded acres, so she happens to be sitting on an old, abandoned house in the middle of freaking nowhere with a few outbuildings. It's then that she puts in her own custom bow range and fills a whiteboard with all the names on her list. After that, she starts making her own arrows. The first batch isn't so good, but she has a surprisingly steep learning curve. Batch two is perfect, and shoots better than anything she's ever bought before. She could paint them, she supposes, but she wants them to be unidentifiable. And, besides, she likes that raw gray color—it's completely androgynous, unlike the pink and purple arrows she's thought about using.
A few weeks later, she's all but given up on the idea. It's hopeless—there's no way that she can take on a job of such magnitude. She's overworked, underprepared, and in desperate need of a user's guide to being a harbinger of justice. But she's glad she picked up that bow again; it's useful for venting her frustration with the world. She's still in her rental car, and the police are no closer to catching the asshole that stole her car. But she does get a surprise in the form of nothing she's ever expected.
It's the first time she reads about him in the news.
It scares her a little that someone has the same idea she did. It's a moment she'll always remember: when she first learns about the hooded vigilante who has started to target Starling's finest criminals. Apparently he's saved Oliver Queen—which is weird, because he's, you know, one of the worst of Starling City's ne'er-do-wells—and then Felicity sees the online news article about him going after Adam Hunt. It's the most excited she's been in years—Starling finally has its own guardian angel. She immediately hacks into the SCPD server (well, it's not really hacking at this point; she first gained entry when she was thirteen, and she left a backdoor to get in later), and digs up the information from the police report. Apparently he'll be back to see Adam Hunt at ten tonight, which just serves to intrigue her further.
It's interesting to her that he's clearly working alone. He's a lone wolf doing a service that devours lone wolves. Felicity knows this because it's one of the problems she's faced herself—she simply can't do it alone. This guy may be good, but it's impossible to fight the cops and the criminals without anyone for support. Judging by the police report, he got lucky the last time—Hunt's guards nearly cornered him, and the police managed to get a blood sample from the scene. A mix up (caused by her instructions to the crime lab) causes them to degrade the blood with the wrong reagent, and Felicity notices that Hunt is planning to use police presence to stop this guy. She frowns, shaking her head in disgust. Cops and criminals working together. Somehow she doesn't think those odds are exactly fair.
Abruptly, she loads her bow into her car, and, on a whim, decides to take a drive.
Felicity tells herself that she's just there because she's curious about this guy. That's it. She's not going to interfere with whatever happens, she just wants to see if he's as smart as the cops seem to think he is. This vigilante has been pretty slick thus far, but it's not the same as seeing it for herself. So she's stationed herself at the building next door, watching the executive floor of Hunt's building intently. He has the place locked down rather well, but Felicity can already see a flaw in the setup: the cops are too far away. The cops being outside the building is a stupid risk, and they're going to pay for their stupidity later.
It doesn't take her long to get to the building, and she's maybe, accidentally snagged the mask she had made. (She certainly didn't consciously grab it from the third drawer in the desk before she left.) And maybe she put in her contacts because she never fires in her glasses—it's too awkward. But, you know, she's only there to watch what happens. Really. She sighs as she walks up to the building, disappointed. Her reasoning sound like complete and total bullshit, even to her.
But she has to admit, she's gotten into this whole vigilante thing. She has one leather jacket, a black motorcycle-style number that zips down the middle and has a collar that latches over. The trim on it is an almost brass-looking gold, which matches nicely with her shoes. Her shirt is a boring black v-neck tee, and her jeans are black. Her fingerless gloves are black leather, and she wears a thick gauntlet on her right wrist to protect herself from the draw of the bow. But her shoes are her one indulgence; they stop just below her knees, with just enough heel to be feminine, but not so much that they're difficult to move in. The lacing sets off to the side, with brass buckles and fixtures around it, almost the same color as the fixtures on her jacket. The heel itself is the same soft, gold color as the fixtures, but the rest of the boot is black leather. She leaves her hair long, letting her blonde hair fall to her shoulders, and she decides to go with a racy, blood red lipstick. And with the mask, she looks like she could be a superhero in one of her favorite comic books. She feels a little silly, but then she decides that's just the job.
Well, maybe the cops will pay sooner rather than later. She spots her first glimpse of a dark figure running up stairs, and she's been shooting a bow long enough to know a quiver when it's strapped to someone's back. The guy moves like a fighter, like some sort of warrior from a time when battles were fought with arrows and swords. He slips behind a few guards, dropping them without the use of any arrows. It's pretty clear this man is a fighter, not a thinker, and he doesn't realize the police are climbing stairs now behind him. The guys ahead aren't pushovers like the last ones, and he's going to get himself caught like an amateur.
She finds the best position in the room, takes aim, and waits for the opportune moment.
Under the hood, Oliver Queen frowns deeply. He knows he's screwed up now. These guys aren't as easily taken down as the last set, and one had the opportunity to radio it in. So that means the police are hot on his trail, too. He had counted on the criminals to be too concerned with their illegal enterprises to call in the men that could arrest them, but it seems that his presence as an unknown player brings out the spirit of cooperation in everyone.
Behind him, a gun fires, and he ducks behind the nearest pillar, groaning at the sensation of the bullet in his arm. That's what he gets for being too wrapped up in his thoughts to pay attention to his surroundings. His bicep is starting to burn despite the adrenalin rush, and he can feel the trickle of blood pooling at his bent elbow. Despite the pain, he darts around the column, firing an arrow and dropping the shooter within seconds. He doesn't need to look again to know it's a kill shot.
He strides into Hunt's office, bow drawn as he prepares for what's about to happen. Gunfire erupts instantly, but he's smart enough to find a better position this time. Three arrows, three hits, and the worst of them go down. But he finds himself at the business end of a gun. Oliver knows this guy and he's done his research, so he knows that Drakon is smart enough to stay at a range where he can shoot Oliver easily, but yet far enough away that an attempt to drop the gun would get him shot. It's not a good position to be in—especially with the police still downstairs—because it gives him perfect opportunity to shoot Oliver.
But before Drakon can pull the trigger, glass explodes into the room, and then he screams and drops the gun. It's only then that Oliver sees the sleek, gunmetal gray arrow through Drakon's hand, and Oliver instantly turns his attention to the broken window, and he sees nothing. He turns back to Drakon and dispatches him easily, with an arrow through the heart. Oliver glances again to see where the other archer is, but then he figures this new player must be working with him; otherwise, they'd turned down plenty of opportunities to kill him already tonight. And the choice of weaponry provides an easily identifiable alliance with the man in the green hood. So he ignores them for now, turning on Adam Hunt.
"I told you that you wouldn't like how I'd take the money," he says simply, synthesizer on to avoid any situations where he might be recording audio. Without another word, he fires a trick arrow into the wall, right into one of the servers that lead to the money trail he's after. Hunt jumps at the impact, but looks surprised to find himself still alive.
But that doesn't stop him from sneering, "Hey, you missed." It's a mockery of what Oliver said after the guards from last time failed to put bullets in him, and he offers a smirk and a breath of ironic laughter to Hunt in return.
"Did I?" Oliver asks, and, with that one question, changes Hunt's entire demeanor. Clearly the man is smart enough to know when he's being played, but not smart enough to understand the trick.
The police swarm in then, and it's suddenly a cacophony of police officers declaring their status and intent to arrest him. At least six guns are on him, and he's interested to see how this plays out when all is said and done. He doesn't drop his bow—because he knows it's over if he does that—and doesn't turn toward them. He frowns, almost wishing that the archer from before would do an encore performance.
As if hearing his thoughts, the archer strikes again, this time with a different arrow at the police officers' feet. Oliver knows that arrow because he has some of his own, and starts slowly edging toward the other side of the room. Within seconds, it detonates, sending up a cloud of white smoke instead of exploding as he expected. He knows an opportunity when he sees one, so he fires a rappelling arrow and sets off into the night.
And also into the building where the archer is housed.
If he expects to catch him off-guard, he's mistaken. The moment he lands, Oliver is treated by the welcoming gesture of a sedative in the back of his calf. It's accelerated and fast-acting, so it only takes a moment for it to work, and he drops to the ground, bracing himself with his hand. Of course he uses the arm with the bullet, so he growls as the pain courses through his arm before dropping to the other side. And he has no option but to lie there for a long moment.
Finally, the archer puts his hand on Oliver's bicep, inspecting the bullet wound from an angle where Oliver can't see him, and he can't lift his head to find out. Oliver tenses at the contact, trying to pull away, but he's held firm at about the same time the sedative kicks in. "Easy there, killer," comes the reply, and he's surprised to find that voice is female. Of all the possibilities that crossed his mind, that wasn't one of them. Well, he might be a misogynistic asshole for that, but that also means that the police will probably come to the same conclusion, which protects her from being hunted.
"Sorry for the lousy welcome wagon, Green," she continues, "but I had to make sure you didn't take a shot at me." It surprises him that she doesn't make any attempt to remove his hood or the black mask over his eyes; it's almost as if she doesn't care who he is under the getup. "In case you're wondering, I used succinylcholine. It's a fast-acting mild paralytic, so it doesn't cause any serious damage. It shouldn't take too long to wear off." He hears clicking noises, and she continues, "I thought the least I could do for being such a bitch is treat your gunshot wound. Consider it my apology."
He's almost glad he can't speak because he honestly doesn't know what he would say to that. And it's also fortunate because he can't yell when she jabs a set of forceps into his arm after the bullet. Once she pulls it out, her fingers fall on the zipper of his jacket, and he wants nothing more than to stop her. "Sorry," she says, "but I kind of have to take your clothes off to patch this up. Her word usage makes him want to smile, and apparently she must notice it, too, because she groans. "God, no, not take your clothes off. Your jacket is what I meant. And, you know, your shirt. If you're wearing a shirt, I mean. I don't—" She sighs. "You know, I wish you could talk so you could tell me to shut up."
Oliver would laugh if she hadn't paralyzed him. It's the first time any woman has ever been forward with him without meaning to be.
Once she pulls it out, she unzips his jacket and pulls his arm out of the sleeve, and he's grateful for the black t-shirt underneath his jacket because he doesn't want her looking at his scars and tattoos. She patches him up with fumbling fingers and a skill level below the average nurse, but it seems to do the trick.
"Have a good evening, Green," she says casually as the first aid kit clicks back into place. Then a bow comes into his line of vision, and he can't believe she pulled off shots like that with such a rudimentary bow. She has to be as good as he is to pull that off, and not every archer in the world can do that. "Try not to get shot again tonight," she continues. "I'll catch you later. Oh, and since you can't properly thank me, you're welcome for saving your ass. It was my pleasure." She stays out of his line of sight, but he can hear the click of her shoes as it grows fainter, until he knows she's long gone.
Part of him wants to think she's a sassy, arrogant fool, but part of him is intrigued by this mysterious girl who can pull off excellent shots with a pitiful bow.
As it turns out, the first time she saves his ass is the first of what is to be many. Felicity frowns as the dumbass in the green hood gets himself perfectly captured. She has to admit, his moves are slick, but his planning is a bit flawed. At least he's cornered by Detective Lance this time, instead of the head of security for a man who wants the Vigilante's head on a platter. (Which is just gross, she thinks. Beheadings make her want to throw up—why did people ever think those were a cool way to dispatch their enemies?)
She allows Lance the illusion of victory before she fires an arrow from the perfect perch—the lookout tower over the shipping yard, where the Vigilante is running around trying to escape. But of course he doesn't understand the layout, so now he's impossibly lost. The arrow misses Lance when it lands (as it should have; she does not want to injure a cop), but the sharp head does catch his gun, slinging it out of his hand.
The Vigilante looks to her immediately before he starts running, giving a slight nod when he sees her resting her elbows against the rails of the lookout post, and she knows that it's his way of saying thank you. But, unfortunately, he's not the only one to notice her presence; Lance points a finger in her direction, and she knows it's time to leave. There's only one way out, and the police will be on her before she can climb down. And, really, fifty feet is a little too far for her to jump.
An arrow pierces the roof over her, a rappelling line attached to it. She saw him do it before, and she knows what he's asking of her, but her stomach rolls a little of rappelling fifty feet on a bow. But the cops are starting to climb, so she knows it's now or never. So she hooks her bow over the edge, and tests the weight of the metal there. It looks like it will hold her weight, but that still doesn't mean she likes it. But she also dislikes the idea of being caught by the police and being hauled away to jail.
With that in mind, she takes a risk, and she leaps off the edge.
It's almost exhilarating, this feeling of flying she's experiencing. For a moment, she forgets the thrill of the chase, the circumstances, the fact that the wire could break at any time and she could plummet to her death. It's the most exciting feeling she's ever had, and a yell of excitement leaves her. She's almost disappointed when her feet touch solid ground again.
This time, though, when the green-hooded Vigilante stands before her, she's at his mercy. He's taller than she expects, and she has to look very far up to see his expression. "Thanks for that, Green," she says, a little breathlessly. She moves to walk away, like the tough badass she's pretending to be, but a spinning sensation courses through her head, and she stumbles, dropping her bow in the process.
He catches her easily, and before she can catch her balance, he pins her against the nearest shipping crate. Automatically, she puts her hands on his chest, and he uses his hands to press her hips into the container, preventing her escape. A thrill of fear—or maybe not fear—runs through her as her back presses into the corrugated steel. He leans so close that she can feel the edge of his hood brush against the top of her head, and his eyes are piercing in a way that reminds her of a hawk. Or maybe a tiger. A mask covers part of his face, and the hood shields his eyecolor from her view. Stubble covers his jaw, which adds to his rugged, rough persona that he's trying to play. Then she wonders if the persona thing is just her, and that maybe he is this person when he's on the street, instead of a mild-mannered accountant type.
There's a motion with one of his hands, and then she can hear the sound of his synthesizer clicking on. "Who are you?" he asks, with no preamble whatsoever.
"Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," she responds immediately, surprised when her words catch up with her. She didn't mean to say that, but maybe it fits to character well enough that it doesn't sound like she's flirting. Because she's not flirting. Really.
One of his eyebrows lifts, and the corner of his mouth turns up. It looks like he's smiling, but she doesn't think that seems right; she hasn't even started babbling this time. "Why did you help me?" he tries this time.
It earns him nothing but an instant, "Why did you help me?" Felicity has to admit, this is rather fun. She was going to give him straight answers when he asked, but, honestly, this is more enjoyable. He looks surprised again, as though he didn't think she could possibly defy him.
This time, though, his mouth turns down into a frown. "Are you capable of giving a straight answer?" he asks this time, and it makes her smile. It's a little quirk of hers that she likes to be the smartest person in a conversation, so she decides that she is this time.
"Ask me a legitimate question, and I'll give you a legitimate answer," she retorts, not backing down. She thinks that her initial assessment of him is correct; he's almost predatory, and, well, if she's going to swim with sharks, she better not bleed. One moment of weakness, and she's certain he'll walk all over her.
It's then that she learns something new about him: the Vigilante has a temper. One of his hands leaves her hips, but only to gather her wrists and pin them over her head. Part of her wants nothing more to kick him where it counts and make a break for it, but she decides to sit this one out. "Easy there, Green," she replies wryly, "I'm not that kind of girl." There's something new in her tone and—is she flirting? Because Felicity has always been horrible at flirting; apparently she hasn't been given the right incentive over the years. "Buy me a drink first."
"This isn't a game," he growls at her. "People around me get killed." He releases her, but he adds, "Go back to your makeup counter at Macy's."
It's not the right thing to say. It burns her up. She's blonde, so, hey, she's automatically a ditz, some girl who doesn't know a damn thing about the world outside of a cosmetics counter. She considers herself a very nonviolent person—all archery work aside—but she hauls back and slaps him. She expects him to stop her, but he's just as surprised as she is when she makes contact. And she hits home hard, his head twisting with the impact. "It's funny to me," she snarls at him, already starting to gather her bow, "you weren't complaining when I put an arrow through that guy's hand. You didn't mind when I knocked Lance's gun away, or when I made that diversion for you. And I'm sorry if you don't like being shown up on your archery technique by a girl, but I can't help it if you have a tendency to drift to the left." She puts her hands on her hips, starting to walk away. "And, by the way? The reason I'm better than you is this little thing called physics. I can do complex math in my head, but I'm probably wasting my potential at Macy's. And I'm definitely wasting it by helping an asshole like you." She waves and calls over her shoulder, "I hope you rot in jail. Maybe I'll visit you."
She takes about five steps before his hand is on her shoulder. "This way," he corrects tiredly, as though she's drained the fight out of him. "The cops will use that route." He pulls back, offering his hand to her in a gesture she knows to be an apology. Because she's a generous person, she takes it, and he pulls her through the path of boxes and things. He's fast, and in five minutes there's a stitch in her side, but she keeps stride. Finally, they reach the end of the docks, and they both stop to catch their breath.
She puts her hands on her knees and pants for a long moment before she asks, "So... same time... same place?" She's not giving up on this because the Vigilante is doing a good job for this city, and she actually likes herself when she helps him. Sure, she loves tinkering with her computers, but she feels like she's just another number on a timecard in Corporate America at QC. When she's helping him, she's stopping the bad guys. And it's exhilarating.
An emerald-gloved finger tilts her chin up, and she rises to find the Vigilante studying her with a serious set to his mouth. "I'm not going to stop you," he says finally, slowly, "but if you want to work with me, you'll have to keep up." And that's where he leaves her, just before shooting a rappelling arrow and swinging off into the night. But if that's meant to discourage her, it doesn't work.
She's only that much more determined to prove she can run with the big boys.
Oliver Queen never thought he'd see the day when he'd have one woman on his arm and be wishing for another, but the day has arrived. In his defense, though, it's not in the way he originally thought; while he definitely enjoys Laurel's company most, he has to admit the masked blonde would be of more use right now. Knowing her, she'd be putting arrows in criminals right now, instead of clinging to him as if her life depended on it.
He should have known better than to bring Laurel into his Vigilante business, but he knew that Peter Declan was innocent, and, well, he needed a good lawyer to help stop the real killer, Jason Brodeur. He had paid to keep Declan's wife quiet, and Oliver isn't going to let an innocent man be killed for a crime he didn't commit. But he didn't plan on Brodeur staging a prison riot at the same time Laurel is there, so he has to make do with what he has. After all, the blonde archer doesn't exactly meet the description of lawyer—well, to his knowledge, anyway.
He's seen her once since the docks, but only from a distance. A few weeks ago, when he went after Floyd Lawton, she wounded Deadshot in his motel room, and then she alerted Oliver to Lawton's presence by firing a few arrows into the Unidac auction to prematurely set the cops on alarm. He'd recognize those arrows anywhere, and they didn't hit anywhere near a person. Five of them landed in rapid succession, with what most would appear to see as bad aim, but he knew better because he's seen her in action before.
But one inquisitive blonde in his life was replaced with another, though, as he received help from the IT department of Queen Consolidated to hack Lawton's laptop. Felicity Smoak had been an interesting experience, all awkward hand motions, rambling speeches, and scarlet blushes. He was trying to be charming as part of his billionaire persona, but the act was genuine with her. She didn't have any expectations of him, and she called him on the bullshit story he made up on the spot. Not many people call him on anything—even when they know he's lying—but she tilted her head to the side in a way that spoke enough volumes to fill up the Queen family library twice over. And he's certain he'll be paying her a visit again soon—or whenever he gets another piece of tech he can't hack.
The useless cell bars that separate Oliver and Laurel from a wing of the prison sudden lock of their own accord, the card reader turning red as the lock back in place. He frowns, confused, but doesn't question the small piece of good luck. He knows better than to push his luck, and he turns for the other set of doors, but they too have a red light, keeping him and Laurel trapped in the room. An arrow shoots through the window, violently throwing glass over the two. Laurel screams, and he thinks for a moment she might have been injured, but then he sees the arrow in the opposite wall. For a moment, he wonders why someone is trying to attack him after this setup—that arrow was inches in front of his nose—but then he sees what color it is.
Gunmetal gray.
He immediately goes over to it, not surprised to find it has some sort of attachment for carrying small objects. He opens the pouch, and finds a small device in it, and he holds it up to the moonlight. "Why would someone shoot at us?" Laurel is asking, but he's too busy studying the device to answer her. He hasn't personally used an earpiece before, but he knows what it is when he sees it.
"It wasn't an attack," he replies, his voice sounding odd to his own ears with the synthesizer masking his tone. "It was a delivery." He puts the device in his ear. "I see you've been keeping up," he says when the device is secure in his ear. He doesn't want her knowing how attached he's getting to the little determined blonde, after all.
She ignores him, changing the topic. "I see you've decided shootouts with cops aren't as much fun. If you want to try and test yourself with violent criminals, Green, that's up to you, but don't drag an innocent civilian into it." Her voice takes on a different tone as she adds, "I mean, if you ever get caught and need a lawyer, Laurel Lance is your girl, but I don't think she's what you need to stop an invasion of criminals." Her tone turns curious as she adds, "I wonder what you call the plural grouping of criminals. I mean, you have a murder of blackbirds, an army of frogs, a fez of armadillos, so there must be one for criminals. What about a sin of criminals? That's clever and witty."
"You can be clever and witty later," he retorts. "We're locked in a room of Iron Heights with criminals on either side."
He doesn't expect her response, a sarcastic, "Well, of course you are, genius. I'm the one separating you from them. You're welcome for that, by the way." When he doesn't immediately answer, she says, "Their security system is a joke—I'm hacking it wirelessly, for God's sake. I mean, a trained gorilla can hack wirelessly these days. They weren't kidding when they said they had rescheduled their security updates. They're about twenty years behind."
"That's fascinating," he replies dryly, "but we need a way out of here. Now."
The light on the door in front of he and Laurel turns green, and the blonde huffs into the comm link. "You have no appreciation in your soul, Green," she replies, her tone disapproving. "It's little wonder Laurel isn't into you—you have the personality of a wet mop. But her so-not-into-you feelings could also be because—" She cuts off abruptly, and he knows she has something more she wants to say.
"Because what?" he asks as he puts an arrow through an inmate who lunges at him and Laurel.
Behind him, Laurel whispers, "Who are you talking to?"
There's a long pause, and he knows she's covering for her slip when she replies, "Because she has absolutely no appreciation of the way you wear leather. I mean, she'd have to be blind not to appreciate the way it clings." She huffs. "And I'm now suitably embarrassed enough for both of us. Happy now?"
"I'm talking to my partner," he replies to Laurel. Then he turns his attention to the earpiece. "You're a liar," he says flatly. "That wasn't what you were going to say. And you shouldn't be embarrassed." Not that he'd admit it, but he rather likes the way she wears a pair of tight jeans, and he's certainly not going to apologize for that.
"Why's that, pretty boy?" she replies instantly, and he has to take a deep, calming breath when she uses her flirty tone in his ear like that. "You see something you like, too?"
Mercifully, he's saved from having to answer by a room full of criminals. He'd rather take the potential for death than have to answer that girl's questions—if she'd had been one of his interrogators on the island, he would have caved in seconds. The first two go down with his arrows, a third taken by a gray one through the window. The next two go down as he snaps their necks, and arrows fly out. He notices for the second time that she shoots to incapacitate, and he has to finish them off on his own.
"Help!" Laurel screams from behind him, and he turns, eyes wide, to see one of the criminals on top of her, his hands reaching around her throat. For a moment, everything he sees is red, and he doesn't know what he's doing until the gray arrow whizzes past his nose, snapping him out of it. "Hey," the blonde says in his earpiece, her voice gentle for the first time. It sounds familiar now, but he can't place it. "Laurel's freaking out right now. You can go after him with a vengeance later, if you want, but now you two just need to escape."
Sure enough, she's called it correctly; Laurel stares at him with wild eyes, and she flinches away from him when he holds out his hand. "Alright, Green," Felicity snaps in his ear, sounding frustrated, "here's what you're going to do: Apologize. Tell her you're a complete asshole, but remind her that you're a complete asshole who wants to save her life."
Taking the advice of the only woman who can help, he sighs. "Laurel," he says softly, and she jumps in response, "I didn't mean to scare you. I brought you into this, which makes you my responsibility. I can't let anything happen to you. I just reacted, but I didn't think."
Laurel takes his hand immediately. "It's okay," she says finally. "You just startled me." Oliver takes a deep breath, relieved that she forgave him. She will always be a huge part of his life, and he needs her to understand the man he is now. But he's beginning to understand that, maybe, she doesn't really understand him anymore—and probably never will. He doesn't like that feeling, but maybe it's what he needs to let her run to Tommy and accept it.
But Laurel can't handle this life, and he doesn't think he can turn back now. He hasn't been the Vigilante for very long, but it gives him a purpose—a drive, a goal, an idea of the man he wants to be. He's never going to be the man who becomes CEO of Queen Consolidated, who settles down young. He's going to be the man they find dead on the street because he's taken on one too many criminals as the Vigilante and doesn't know when to quit. And he won't develop a relationship with anyone whom he has to spend the rest of his life lying to. He needs someone who can understand every aspect of this life, and Laurel is simply not her.
It's ridiculous, but the fiery little blonde guiding him in his earpiece is a more likely candidate.
"Okay, Green," the blonde says in his ear, "this is touching and all, but you two lovebirds are still in a prison. You know, with rabid criminals running around? It's time to pull out." It may be his imagination—or, a small part of him is willing to admit, his wishful thinking—but she almost sounds jealous. Surely she wouldn't be interested—he's damaged and nothing like the man she imagines him to be.
As if to punctuate her thought, sirens blare, and he pulls Laurel through to the highly-secure entrance, the blonde locking it down behind them. Laurel stops him, her hands on his shoulders. "You saved me tonight," she says finally. "Thank you." He means to reply, but the sirens are too close, so he runs out the entrance and into the nearest alleyway. He can't get caught now—there's too much depending on him staying out of prison.
After all, he has an earpiece to deliver to a particularly fiery blonde.
Felicity tries to tell herself that she's being ridiculous as she packs up her laptop, knowing the mission is complete. She's only feeling jealous because, well, she's the one saving his sorry ass, and he's never even civil to her. But then Laurel shows up, and of course she's his savior and can do no wrong. And she sighs because she knew better. She had this conversation with herself at home (well, her dog was really the voice of reason because it would be weird if she talked to herself), and she knew this would be how it all panned out in the end.
She warned herself about getting into bed with Oliver Queen because she knew this would be exactly how it all turned out.
(But not that kind of "in bed," she corrects herself in her mind—metaphorical sense, not literal. Because, you know, she's not interested in actually being in a bed with Oliver Queen. Well, maybe if she was really tired, and there was only one bed and she needed to sleep, she might consider it. But not the metaphorical "sleep with," as in to have sex; it would be the literal "sleep with"—and, dear God, she's rambling in her head even.)
It didn't take her but five minutes and a bullet-ridden laptop that she had seen the night before in Floyd Lawton's hotel room to figure that one out. At first she had been a little flustered because, well, Oliver Queen was in her office, but the moment she saw the laptop and heard the lousy cover story, she put two and two together. And—imagine that—they actually equaled up to four. It had been a shock, but, the more she thinks about it, not really. The island, the fake smiles, the bullshit story—they all make perfect sense.
But then she remembers that night at the docks, the way he leaned over her, and she has to shake her head to clear it. That gives her a new title, at least—she can almost guarantee that she's the only woman to stand that close to Oliver Queen and still remain clothed. He sort of has a reputation, and she nearly pointed that out to him tonight. But her not-so-into-you feelings could also be because you, y'know, slept with her sister, she'd been about to say, but that would have made things worse. If he wants her to know who he is, he'll tell her.
But, well, she's never going to tell him. She likes the anonymity, the expression of this wilder side of herself that Felicity just can't live up to. No, the Gray Arrow (as she's started calling her vigilante persona because she's not very creative) is feral, mischievous, and fearless compared to Felicity Smoak. And then she realizes how that sounds—as if she has multiple personalities—but then she wonders if that's something all vigilantes do. Maybe it's a job hazard.
Either way, she's of no further use to him tonight, so she might as well pack up and go home. It's time to celebrate a job well done with Bellatrix, her Siberian husky, and enjoy a night of pizza and a few tear-inducing episodes of Doctor Who where the Doctor dies. Because that's how she feels—job well done, but she lost something in return. Her bow is the last thing to go; she unstrings it and jams it into her quiver a little violently, frustrated.
"Be careful with that," a synthesized voice says from behind her, and she jumps a foot in the air and knocking her quiver to the ground. "It's an antique." She smiles because of course she knows who that is. But she just didn't think she'd see him here. After all, she could hear him making goo-goo eyes at Laurel over the comm link.
He was wrong about her, so maybe it's just time for her to be wrong about him.
Oliver feels like he's made the right decision as soon as he sees her slam her bow—the ancient, decrepit one she uses so well—into her quiver. She's upset, and he figures tonight has something to do with it. He takes a deep breath and two steps forward before saying, "Be careful with that—it's an antique." She jumps slightly, and her quiver topples over. She turns with a smile that takes his breath away, but her foot slips on one of the loose arrows, clumsy as she is, and she starts to go down.
Before she can crack something open or break something that shouldn't be broken, he reaches for her, catching her about the waist. "Careful," he says gently as he steadies her. "Are you okay?"
She brushes his hands away, and he can see the hint of a flush behind that mask. "Yeah," she says, turning away and crouching to pick up her arrows, "I'm fine. Just a klutz. Today has been a do-nothing-right day." She sighs in frustration.
Without a word, he crouches next to her, his bent knee touching hers as he helps her pick up the arrows. After everything is back in order, he gently tilts her chin toward him, so he can look at those captivating eyes. "Thank you," he says finally. When her mouth turns down in confusion, he adds, "For tonight. For helping me escape." Then he adds the hardest part of his admission. "For saving me from myself."
She shrugs. "You're protective. You're upset. You're a little bit pissed at the world. So am I." She chuckles bitterly. "After all, no twelve-year-old picks up a bow unless they're just a little bit angry at the world." She bites at her cherry red lips, and he finds his eyes focusing on them more than they should. "But I think you don't need me to tell you about angry." Her expression changes instantly. "I want to join your crusade," she says abruptly, her hand falling on her arm. "It's the only thing I do that I actually feel good about. I work every day of my life. I like my job, but I feel like I'm just wasting my time. That's easy, Green. This is a challenge. And I'm going to go insane if I stop doing this."
She pauses, rising to her feet, and he stands with her. "But not the same way. I can't keep chasing after you—because I don't chase after people. I need to count on you to call me when you need help. I'm a better shot than you"—he opens his mouth to protest, but she holds a hand up to silence him—"and you know it, and I'm the best person with computers you'll ever see." He doesn't think now is the time to bring up Felicity Smoak, so he lets her go. "They haven't made anything yet that I can't hack." She takes a pen out of her jacket pocket, and pulls off his glove, writing a phone number on the top of his hand. "Call me the next time you decide to be an idiot and go after one of Starling City's elites," she says, her eyes silently pleading with him.
He snatches his glove from her hand before quietly saying, "I promise." Somehow the moment gets too intense, and he blames the adrenalin; sometimes he thinks he survives on the stuff. It's then that he decides to keep his earpiece, just in case he needs it again. He'll allow this partnership, though he doesn't particularly like the idea of involving someone innocent, but he needs the help and she's smart enough to track him anyway. Trying to stop her would be like trying to stop a tidal wave.
She tries to hide her relief by waving him off, but Oliver still sees it shine through for a moment. "Now go find Laurel," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's obviously attempting humor, but it falls short. "You two can go make goo-goo eyes at one another. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll be able to steal a kiss from the woman of your dreams." She chuckles, but it's too high-pitched. "Get it? Steal? Because you're a criminal, and a crim—"
He can't believe he does it. Later when he looks back on the moment, he'll blame a the adrenalin, but for now he kind of thinks she's been taunting him with that mouth for three weeks—either with her words, or that color that screams trouble. He swoops in with ease, planting a very chaste, innocent kiss on that taunting mouth of hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. She stares at him a moment, her face turning the same color as those painted lips, and he flashes the first full, genuine smile since the island before firing an arrow and running away from it—the same way he runs away from all his mistakes.
"Tease!" he hears her call from the rooftop after he leaves, and he can't help but chuckle.
The songs that inspired this particular piece are as follows:
"Sick" - Adelitas Way
"Monster" - Paramore
"Bang Bang" - 3OH!3
"The Only One" - Evanescence
"Uprising" - Muse
"Surrender the Night" - My Chemical Romance
"All that I'm Living For" - Evanescence
"Our Solemn Hour" - Within Temptation
"If You Can't Hang" - Sleeping with Sirens
"Round and Round" - Ratt