Title: Mind Over Matter
Word Count: 8064
Notes: First of all, Merry Christmas, Twink! She and I decided to do a Christmas fic exchange, and so this is her gift. Thanks for the last few months of flailing over Arrow, my friend, and for all the awesome feedback. *raises imaginary glass* Here's to you and a Merry Christmas, my dear!
Secondly, I'd just like to say that this is the strangest thing I've ever written. I know you've heard that from me a lot over the past few months, but seriously, does not hold a candle to this. Utterly bizarre. I have no idea what I've done, and I'm tired of second-guessing this. I'm really thinking the first part is either going to have you in stitches from laughing so hard, or make you hit the "Back" button. Either way, thanks for reading. And I'm definitely looking forward to hearing what y'all have to say about this one. :P
Finally, shout out to my friend Lightly Salted Pringles and her "good birthing hips"—the opportunity for me to use that comment was there, and I took it. ;)
All it takes is a blizzard and one cancelled flight to make Felicity decide that she really doesn't like airports. The chairs are hard, there's no room to relax, and the constant cacophony of sound makes it difficult to concentrate on her book. Of course, it could also be that she's already read it twice during the layover and she doesn't think it will be as appealing the third time, but she prefers to blame the noise and the airport boarding lounge.
Giving up the fight, she starts looking around the lounge, wondering if anything exciting is happening. Nothing. The most fascinating thing is the room is a guy in the back, digging through some of the garbage bins. He looks up at Felicity, and she thinks he looks creepy. And not the normal kind of creepy, either, like the weird homeless guy who tells her she has "good birthing hips" when he sees her, whatever the hell that means. She's talking about a more sinister level of creepy with malicious intent, like I-have-a-white-panel-van-and-give-out-free-candy-to-children creepy.
A cough in the background reminds her that she's been staring, so she finds her eyes wandering elsewhere. There's a woman with long, black hair and an unpleasant disposition off to one side, and the badge draped across her briefcase identifies her as a Stellmoor International employee. Even though she's reading through The Wall-Street Journal, she's frowning way too much to be that unhappy. Seriously, Felicity thinks that someone wasn't loved enough as a child. Ms. Grumpygills looks like someone stuck a pile of dog excrement under her nose, and her face froze that way. She'd be tempted to give the woman a hug, if she didn't think Ms. Grumpygills didn't have a knife concealed on her person for that exact reason—to ward off potential huggers. Sure, they might have had to go through a metal detector, but still, you can make knives out of things other than metal. (She saw something like that on a crime drama once—the one with the guy who has to stand side-profile all the time and does the weird thing with the sunglasses and the horrible puns.)
There's another soft cough somewhere in the background, and then Ms. Grumpygills looks up. Felicity's mind immediately screams, "Abort mission!" and then she examines the rest of the lounge. A guy in the back corner is reading the Journal of Forensic Sciences, which would be fine, if he wasn't smiling. She had to read a few journals in her freshman biology class, and she's pretty sure she cried afterward, so she has no idea why he's so happy about it. His smile is a different style of creepy than Dumpster-Diving Creeper's—like he's secretly plotting the demise of the world. Or maybe just his ex-girlfriend's death—his girlfriend who left him because he talked about death all the time. (Which she notes would be an interesting turn of events.) Either way, Felicity would not leave that man alone with an abandoned building, a knife, and a shrink-wrap machine. Especially since he reminds her of that so-called "nice" neighbor who asked to borrow her car and brought it back smelling like a herd of goats and an entire league of dirty, sweaty football players had been transported in it.
This time the cough sounds again, and she realizes it's been the same guy all three times. She rounds on him, expecting Sir Coughs-a-Lot—he coughs again, a poorly contained smile stretching across his face—to be old and senile, but what she sees is exactly the opposite. He's stretched across the row of seating directly in front of her, looking snazzy in a suit that's probably tailor-made to fit him. Black suit, cufflinks—the whole works. The suit jacket is draped over the back of one of the chairs and his silk tie over it, and he's casually perusing a well-worn book of sorts. Clearly he's heard the old ZZ Top song because he dresses like he thinks that every girl is crazy about a sharp-dressed man.
Now that she's actually looking at him, she's struck by how handsome he is—sharp jawline, short-cropped brown hair, stunning blue eyes, and just the beginnings of a beard. Not to mention she could stare at him in that white dress shirt and those suspenders all day long. Yes, she decides, the higher powers that be have been good to her; if she has to be stuck in an airport at two a.m., let it be with her sitting across from a man who looks like that.
The smile on his face grows wider, and his eyes dart toward her. It's almost eerie, but she waves it off as two a.m. jitters caused by not being able to sleep in the hard plastic chairs. Still, part of her wonders what he's reading and if he'd be willing to trade books with her. She tries to pretend to read her own again, but her eyes keep skimming over the pages and toward him. He slides a little in his seat, giving her a better view of him full-on. She finds herself staring at his jaw in brief, stolen glances, and his white shirt falls nicely over his chest. And all with those gorgeous blue eyes cast downward at his book, the corners of his mouth turning ever upward in amusement.
His eyes meet hers over their books, and she immediately turns away, frowning when she feels the tell-tale heat of a flush across her cheekbones. Instead, she turns to the last person in the lounge, an older man in the corner who is spending the remainder of his layover muttering to himself, rocking back and forth. Felicity is no expert, but she thinks that maybe he either needs his regular doctor to up the meds or that he needs to go a little easier on the self-medication. She's pretty sure that the guy is baked, and she thinks his drug of choice might be LSD. And she wonders why anyone would want that stuff after "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." Because if there's ever anyone who sees the girl with kaleidoscope eyes, it's that guy. If he was to get up right now and start dancing the hula to music only he could hear, she wouldn't be surprised.
Then she shakes her head, thinking she's probably just bitter; the one experience she had with drugs was when she accidentally picked up a pot brownie in college. Which should have been fun, except she's allergic to nuts. One moment she was tasting a particularly interesting brownie, and the next, she was waking up in the hospital with the contents of her stomach gone and a morphine pump to stop the pain in her broken leg. She sighs, still thinking about how much she misses those glowing rabbits she spoke to during those days. They were very cordial, except for the blue one. The blue one was angry and rude.
This time when Sir Coughs-a-Lot coughs, it's a poorly contained chuckle. There's a light amount of mirth in his eyes, and her paranoia really starts to kick in for Felicity. Too many science-fiction novels make her mind reel through the possibilities, and there's only one that makes sense—even if it makes no sense whatsoever. Okay, she thinks, if you're a mind reader, cough right now. There's nothing for a long moment, and she chastises herself for making such a ridiculous assumption.
But then he coughs again, and she changes her mind.
There's no way she's right. She can't be. And she's not that far gone, so lost that she doesn't recognize the impossibility of the entire situation. There's no possible way he can be right because it's madness, but she doesn't see how she could be wrong. Then she decides another test is in order. Alright, universe, she tries again, if you're screwing with me, give me a sign. If this is real, give me a sign.
Pretty Blue Eyes looks up at her then, a lazy smile on his face, and he winks.
This time she doesn't just flush—her face explodes into flame. Then suddenly he's standing up, after stashing his book into his inside coat pocket, and headed her way. Don't come over here, she thinks, and it becomes her mantra as he takes step after step across the row, closing the distance between them.
He ignores her, instead sitting down on her right. "Hi," he says lightly, and she can't do much more than gape at him because, dear God, he's even more lovely in close proximity, especially those beautiful blue eyes. "I'm Oliver."
It's the name and the close proximity that does it for her; the face is so similar she'd be a fool not to recognize it. The hair is different and he was cleanshaven before, but there's no question of the man in front of her—except the fact that he was declared dead five years ago. "You're Oliver Queen," she breathes lightly, hardly able to believe it herself.
He winces instantly. "Yes," he agrees, "but maybe we could keep that a secret until I return home." It's not a question, even though it probably should be; he seems perfectly content to trust her with that information. "I'd like my family to know before the local news outlets."
Felicity mimes zipping her mouth. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." She takes a moment to think about how relieved his family will be, and then it dawns on her that it's the beginning of December. "And right here before Christmas, too—your family is going to be pleased." She can't imagine their feelings—the relief, the amazement—at a time where they're already reminded so much of family and their losses.
He smiles at the thought, but doesn't directly answer it, instead changing the subject. "Since you know who I am, I think you should return the favor." There's a slight smile to his eyes and the upturn of his mouth, and she decides she very much likes the way he leans his elbow against the back of his chair, leaning toward her in rapt fascination. Like she's an exciting science experiment, she supposes, but it's nice to be recognized every now and again—especially by someone who looks like him.
She shakes her head to clear it, and feels the beginnings of a new flush across her face. "Right," she mutters. Louder she says to him, "I'm Felicity Smoak." He offers his hand and she shakes it, surprised to find his hands callused and worn. They're not the hands of a billionaire, but then she decides that maybe he hasn't been one of those in a five years.
"Very astute assumption, Felicity Smoak," he says casually and she jumps because she's fairly certain she didn't speak anything other than her name aloud. "It's also correct." His expression darkens, a world of pain dwelling there. "I've found that money isn't useful on a remote island." She isn't sure what to say, but he saves her from speaking as his eyes lighten again as he changes the subject. "I don't think I've had anyone compliment my eyes so much in one setting before," he remarks casually.
This time she knows she didn't say anything about his eyes, and she gapes at him while he winks at her. "And for the record?" he continues easily. "Dumpster-Diving Creeper is looking for his keys—he thinks he dropped them with some of his trash. He's an accountant, and owns a Prius—not a white panel van. Ms. Grumpygills is, in fact, that unhappy in her life, though I don't think she carries a plastic knife anywhere on her person. The man you think might be a serial killer is a forensics expert, and he's fascinated because he's found something about liquid arrays and pathogens that I don't quite understand."
He chuckles. "As for the man muttering to himself, his drug of choice is something called Vertigo, not LSD." He meets her gaze straight on as she can do nothing but gape at him because, yes, he is saying exactly what she thinks he's saying. "And I've actually never heard of that song—or ZZ Top, for that matter." Her mouth opens and closes a few times because he can read her mind, but he chuckles, seeming to understand her plight. "I should probably try to hide my… talents," he continues, "but you have such an interesting mind that I couldn't resist the opportunity."
It takes her a moment, but she finally finds her her voice. "So…" She trails off, letting the word dangle in the air for a moment. "Can everyone in the Queen family do this, or are you just special?" And by special she means mind-reading, blue-eyed gorgeousness, because it's clearly— And then she remembers he's reading her mind and that her thoughts aren't safe.
"They're safe," he assures her, "but I can hear them. And it's not hereditary—someone made me into this." He hesitates, his expression falling again, and she thinks he might be in more pain—emotionally or physically—than he lets on. Then she winces and mentally apologizes for the observation. "It's a long story that I don't think I'm ready to tell." He smiles. "But I'm still fairly new to this. I haven't had much opportunity to practice restraint." He smiles, leaning closer ever so slightly. "And there's no reason to apologize for your private thoughts. I'm the one intruding on your privacy." There's a sparkle to his eyes, and she notes that he doesn't seem to feel sorry about intruding on said privacy.
"I'm not going to apologize for what I am," he answers the thought with a resolute expression. "I didn't choose this, and I can't turn it off." He looks almost upset by her thoughts, and she doesn't know how to fix it because she's not going to apologize for the direction of her innermost thoughts, either.
"I wouldn't ask you to," she blurts finally, and he studies her again. "It's part of who you are—I get that. But you also can't expect me to think things you'll like all the time. I believe there's a saying about eavesdroppers never hearing good of themselves." He chuckles and she knows all is forgiven. "So, why me?" she blurts again, and then she sighs before clarifying. "I mean, why come up to me and start a conversation, tell me about this thing you can do? You don't know me—I don't know you."
He shakes his head, flashing teeth as he answers, "No, you don't know me—but I know you. I've been listening to you think for the better part of twenty hours." She urges him on with her thoughts, and he hesitates before admitting finally, "I know you work in IT at Queen Consolidated—that you're more qualified to do your supervisor's job than he is, but you're not promoted because it's a boys' club. I know you just came from visiting your mother in Vegas, and that you hate it so much you took the first flight out and then a connecting just to get away. I know that you've read that book twice, and, while you like the premise, you hate the characters because the main character falls all over herself when she meets the love of her life and stops being herself."
His eyes twinkle. "And I know you accidentally picked up a pot brownie in college, that you're kind enough to lend your neighbor your car, that you watch crime dramas." He actually laughs this time before saying, "And I know that some homeless man around your apartment building has high regard for your hips." His eyes flick downward, and Felicity freezes as her face goes crimson. Because, is Oliver Queen checking her out? Why, yes. Yes, he is. "I don't know if I'm an expert on what constitutes 'good birthing hips,'" he continues casually, and she thinks she might be the color of a fire truck by now, "but I can tell you that I don't see anything wrong with them." He does a breathy laugh. "And you're not the color of a fire truck—there's a little color to your face, but you wear it well."
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she says finally, "but I'm having trouble dealing with this right now. Not only is Oliver Queen sitting next to me in an airport lounge, but he's also a mind reader and he's flirting with me." She shakes her head again, trying to clear it. "This is a little surreal for me—believe it or not, this doesn't happen to me every day." She waves a hand out in front of her, the gesture putting on the brakes between them. "So, since you're always going to be Oliver Queen and a mind reader, how about we cut down on the flirting?"
She studies him for a moment, for the first time realizing that his smiles haven't quite reached his eyes and the flirting had been half-hearted at best. "And maybe you could..." She hesitates. "Maybe you could try to at least be yourself? I don't know who that is, but I know this"—she waves a hand dramatically at him—"is an act."
"You're right," he admits, and then the smile falls from his face, making him look a little more intimidating than before. "I'm trying to practice for my family. That's also why I'm going to try not to answer your thoughts." He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing. "You think I look intimidating?"
Felicity can't help the laugh that leaves her at that. "If you're trying to act 'normal,'" she says, using air quotes, "you're not exactly succeeding." She doesn't answer the question, though, not sure how to explain what she was trying to explain to herself. Brooding and sad, maybe, but intimidating was the wrong word, she decides. "And I don't think you should have to be anything other than yourself for your family—they'll just be glad to have you back." She hesitates. "Whatever has happened in the past five years, it's changed you—and they should understand that."
His expression stays stoic, but the look in his eyes makes it look as though he's reliving some of the things he experienced. "They won't understand the things I've seen," he answers quietly, looking away from her. She refuses to answer until she knows he's looking at her, and finally—reluctantly—he does. "So I need to be what they expect." He changes the subject quickly, not wanting to hear what she has to say about this. "I have a proposition for you," he states abruptly.
Felicity honestly doesn't know what to think about that; the only propositions involving Oliver Queen she can think of require alcohol and wild nights. That's not exactly up her alley. After all, she's just a boring, lowly computer technician from Vegas; about all she can do is string code together for him. And, well, there was that hacking thing at MIT, but she made her choice there. Hacker or hero, Cooper had said to her, and so she had chosen hero. At least, she'd like to think she did. She didn't exactly choose hacker, though.
It dawns on her that Oliver heard every bit of that inner dialogue, but he doesn't touch on the personal history. "Not that kind of proposition," he assures her with a smile that's genuine. "As it turns out, I have a need for a lowly computer technician." He leans a little closer to her, before quietly stating, "I have plans for Starling City, and I'm going to need help."
She has to admit he's mastered the art of drawing people in; Scheherazade would be proud of him, the way he has her on the edge of her seat, wanting to know just exactly what he means. Knowing there's no reason to hide the fact he has her on the hook, she asks, "What plans?"
He shakes his head, smiling. "Not here," he answers. "I have some… friends who helped me charter a private jet. "I'm headed back home, too, and we could talk about it during the flight." He must sense her hesitance that she hasn't yet formed into words because he adds, "And, if you say no, we'll walk off the plane, go our separate ways, and you'll never hear from me again." He frowns. "I just need an answer before they start boarding."
As if to punctuate the thought, a woman's voice comes over the intercom, stating that the flight to Starling City is now boarding. Oliver only looks at her expectantly, letting her go through her own thoughts and make her own decision.
Her first thought is that getting on a plane with a man who has been dead for five years is a horrible idea, and that she should probably walk away from this insanity trip while she still can. On the other hand, she isn't likely to forget that he can read minds, and she's always going to wonder what other impossibilities are out there—and wonder what he was planning. So, really, now that she puts it all in perspective, there's no choice to make.
"I'll hear you out."
Felicity sighs one Wednesday when the text alert on her phone goes off, startling her out of her work. She forgot it wasn't on silent, so she jumps so violently that her hands on the keyboard type a string of nonsense into the report. Sighing, she wonders when she became so jumpy, but then she figures it has something to do with Oliver Queen.
It had started with the jet plane. She'd thought the mind-reading was hard to process, and then he'd gone and dropped the bombshell of his plan for Starling City on her. Oliver Queen had surprised her by being an idealist, by talking to her about his father's dying wish for Oliver to help save the dying city that Robert had poisoned. He told her what she already knew about Starling: that the police were mostly corrupt, that the laws and courts couldn't stop the criminals, that it was spiraling into something terrible.
And then he told her something she didn't know: his plan to fix it.
It had been an enlightening look into his mind, a fair trade for all the snooping he'd done in her own. He had told her of his skill with a bow, ability to fight, the assorted skills he'd picked up in the last five years. But then he had told her that there was something he needed that he couldn't do: someone who could use cameras and computers to watch over Starling and help him hunt down the people he intended to bring to justice.
Your friend once asked you what you wanted to be—a hacker or a hero, he had concluded, looking at her thoughtfully. I don't see any reason why you can't be both.
Really, it was only a matter of time before she said yes.
She'd had demands—ones he'd met without argument. I'm in, she'd said after a long moment, holding up her hand when he'd smiled. But I have a few demands, too. He'd waited her out patiently, letting her list them. One: no killing. That's a deal-breaker. I don't mind being an accessory to vigilantism, but I am not going to be an accessory to murder. Two: I want a computer setup equipped for what we're going to be doing. I'm talking state-of-the-art. I wouldn't ask, but you're a billionaire and I know you can spring for it. Three: no injuring cops. If you want to be a vigilante this city will accept, you need to leave the cops alone. For the most part, they're trying to do their jobs, and you want to work with law enforcement, not against them.
From there, it had been a whirlwind of an entirely different manner. Because of all the mind-reading voodoo, he'd learned her well in only a few hours. On the other hand, Felicity still finds him to be unpredictable and mysterious. After the plane landed, he had asked to crash in her guest bedroom all night, and then she had dropped him a few miles from home. A day later, the kidnapping attempt had happened, and a quick heck of the SCPD server had informed her off Oliver's "the man in the green hood saved us" story. She had called him to make sure he was all right, only to hear club music blaring in the background as he assured her loudly that he was fine.
Then, the following Saturday afternoon, he had showed up at her house in jeans and with two huge bags, asking her to drive him down to the old Queen Manufacturing building—with no explanation of how he'd managed to get fifteen miles into town and another six to her house without a car. Despite the odd start to the day, they had set up what Felicity has started calling the lair (much to Oliver's chagrin), and he had gone into business that night by starting the attack on Adam Hunt. They had marked his name off the list a night later, and the names Marcus Redman, Martin Somers, and James Holder had been stricken off, too.
An assassin called Deadshot had complicated their last mission—and poisoned Oliver—so he had agreed reluctantly to take a few days off from vigilante business after recuperating at Felicity's house that night. But apparently he's rethought that, since he's the one texting her now.
It's an odd choice of communication for him; apparently five years on an island means that he lost any texting skills he had, and he generally prefers calling her. Still there's no mistaking the number or the message: What are you doing tonight? It's a random question, even for the most random person she's ever met.
Quickly, she types out the reply, I'm not working. Why? It's a subtle reminder that he's not helping him tonight, which means he isn't going to get anything done, either. She places the phone back on her desk, thinking with a wry smile that it will be another hour before he manages to answer it.
It's more like five minutes later when she gets the reply, but she's managed to get a little coding work done. I'm being forced into a charity auction tonight, he answers. It would be nice to have a friend by my side.
Only then does she understand the reason for texting: hesitance. He isn't sure what she'll say for once, and he'd rather be refused by text than in person. She thinks it's ridiculous that he's so uncertain about this—she hasn't ever turned him down before, and this is a far less bizarre request. This may be way out of her element, but she decides she doesn't mind. Smiling, she types out her response. Well, misery loves company, right? Just tell me the dress code and what time you want to pick me up.
He responds in a few more minutes, this text shorter than the last. The dress will be on your bedroom door. See you at seven. She frowns at it, wondering how in the hell he's going to pull that one off, and then she decides he's probably going to break in. That freaks her out a little, but then she decides this is Oliver and he does not snoop—he won't even open her cabinets to get a cup, for God's sake. It's just a logical means to an end for him.
To prevent any property damage, though, she types out, There's a spare key in the loose brick behind the porchlight. And you better put it back.
Felicity fidgets with her hair for what feels like the millionth time. "I'll say this," she says as they stand outside the ballroom where the event is being held, "you rich people really know how to throw a shindig."
Oliver chuckles at that, and she realizes that she actually used the word shindig. (Who does that?) "Technically," answers, still with a residual smile, "this was the charity's idea, but they have a lot of support to help with finances." He shrugs. "My mother might have written a check."
Felicity is about to make a dry remark of some sort, but it dies away when he offers her his arm. It's a simple gesture that she wouldn't think of with anyone else, but this is Oliver. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that something horrible happened to him on that island—something that makes him associate basic human contact with pain. Even now, he stands rigid, shoulders tense as he waits for her to take it.
But, then again, his tension could be because he hears the silent observations in her head.
That was perhaps the section of their partnership that was the most difficult to overcome at first; for a week, she had done nothing but apologize for the directions of her thoughts and the things that she knew bothered him. But just as he can't change the fact that he's constantly invading the most private space anyone has, Felicity decided that she can't change the way she thinks. In a way, it makes things much easier for her: she doesn't feel the need to hide from him, and, while he doesn't share much about the five years on that island, she gets the feeling that he's fairly transparent and honest with her now, too.
Without a word, Felicity loops her arm through his, resting her hand just above his elbow. As he leads her into the ballroom with a sigh, she realizes that she's walking into a charity gala on Oliver Queen's arm for the very first time. It's a little terrifying, actually—and a little surreal.
The ballroom is filed with the sounds of clinking glasses, casual conversation, and false laughter, just as Felicity expected. Everyone is dressed to the nines in black ties and designer gowns, paired with all the right cufflinks or jewelry. Everywhere she looks, there's someone in what has to be million-dollar jewelry, and the blatant display of opulence is a little hard for her to process. When she had put on her dress earlier in the night, she felt like she could fit in with this crowd, but now she feels like she's in the ring of a dog show—only she doesn't have a pedigree.
Oliver leans in toward her. "No one is going to question your right to be here," he assures her quietly before offering her a smile. "Not in that dress." His tone is subtle and hesitant, as though he isn't sure how she would take his praise. He seems to be trying to compliment her without doing so directly, and Felicity can read between the lines.
She subconsciously runs a hand down the skirt of the dress she found on her door after work, the red number that fits her like a glove. She probably couldn't have done any better with dress shopping herself—from the moment she laid eyes on it, she'd loved everything about it, from the off-the-shoulder straps to the tasteful way the hem falls on her thighs (somewhere below the risk-of-being-called-a-slut line and above the risk-of-being-called-a-prude line). Truthfully, she's surprised that Oliver managed to find something like this, especially on short notice, but he nailed it.
"Well, I would talk about my amazing fashion sense," she replies dryly, "but I can't take credit for this one." She frowns. "I don't really want to give it back." She sighs because she saw that label, and there's no way she's going to be able to pay him back for a couture dress—not on her salary.
"It was a gift, Felicity," he remarks gently, but she's not buying it. Friends don't buy friends couture dresses. Oliver's breathy laugh lets her know that he's listening to her thoughts again, and he amends the thought. "Consider it a signing bonus."
"I only take gifts for my birthday and Hanukkah," she answers dryly, before her thoughts catch up to her mouth, "and it's a little late for my birthday."
Oliver doesn't budge, just as stubborn as she is in his own way. "Well, then, Happy Hanukkah," he replies with a cocky smile that would make her want to slap him if his smiles weren't such rare occurrences. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't slap me in front of the cameras."
He's trying to distract her, even though he knows better. She isn't going to let this go, and they both know it. "I didn't get you anything for Christmas, though," she tries, hoping she can still talk him out of it somehow.
Again he takes her by surprise, saying the last thing she expects from him. "You're the first person I've been able to trust in five years, Felicity," he answers, eyes too intense for his words. "That's a better gift than anything you could have bought."
The words makes her feel like someone sucked the air out of the room, and she can't breathe for a very long moment. There's so much sadness masked under those words, and she doesn't think anyone needs to feel that alone in the world. She doesn't know what to say—he won't want her sympathy and she isn't the kind of person to show pity—so she, for once, keeps her mouth shut instead of babbling.
Oliver finally stops as they reach a back corner of the ballroom, one surrounded by windows and away from the party scene going on in the middle. Felicity finds it interesting how he scopes the room, his eyes darting around as he discreetly faces the entrance to watch the flow of people into and out of the room. For not the first time, she wonders what kind of thoughts flow through his mind. It's probably a lot less muddled than her own.
She drops his arm (albeit reluctantly) when she turns toward the table sitting against the wall, offering her a variety of wonderful-looking sweets and hors d'oeuvres. Knowing it's probably best to let Oliver do his meet-and-greet thing on his own (the last thing she needs to do is embarrass him, which will inevitably happen), she carefully mulls over the options, trying to avoid anything that will make her allergies flare up or anything that looks suspiciously not kosher. She studies a brownie for a moment, only to decide that brownies are not her friend since the college incident and she reaches for one of the white chocolate chip cookies instead.
It lands on someone else's, and she pulls back immediately to find herself nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with a man she recognizes from the tabloid covers (she skims a little, but she does not read them) as Tommy Merlyn. His charming, blatantly manipulative smile is more impressive in person, and she isn't sure that she likes that.
He hands her the cookie she was reaching for, taking one of his own. "I'm hiding from the crowd," he announces flatly, and Felicity can only furrow her eyebrow at him. "That's the obvious question when someone goes to the back corner for food, right? Are they just trying to get away from the phony smiles, or are the snacks really that good?" A surprised chuckle escapes her, and the grin is worse. "I'm Tommy."
Felicity finds herself smiling, even though she probably shouldn't be—charm like that leads to nothing but trouble. (Oliver has taught her that over the past two weeks.) "I haven't been hiding under a rock," she replies with a dry smile. "I do actually know who you are. And I'm Felicity." She examines the room for a moment, noticing that Oliver is apparently going through the motions of civility with a brunette whose back is to Felicity. She turns back to Tommy before he can follow his gaze. "I'm mostly here for the food, partially here because this is not my scene, and maybe a little bit here because I'm afraid of putting my foot in my mouth around all of these powerful people."
Tommy studies her for a moment. "You seem to be doing all right," he comments. "But it would probably be a lot more exciting if you would do something." He rolls his eyes. "These things are boring as hell—my dad left town after saying he'd be here, so I get to come instead. Did someone throw you to the wolves, too?"
Felicity chuckles. "Oh, I volunteered," she replies, waving a hand. She isn't sure how much to tell him, or if Oliver wants to admit he knows her yet, so she tries to give Tommy mostly truth. "A friend of mine asked me, and I mistakenly thought this would be fun."
She attempts to bite into the cookie in her hand, and she jumps a little when someone seizes her wrist before she can. She's about to jerk her hand away when it catches up to her that those callused fingers can only belong to Oliver, and she throws him a confused look, since this is out of his realm of typically-spontaneous behavior. "That has macadamia nuts in it, Felicity," is his explanation as he releases her, concern and something else mixing in his expression.
Either way, she has to break eye contact to get away from that level of intensity, promptly depositing the cookie into a nearby trashcan. "That was a close call," she says after a long moment. "I was in such a hurry to get ready that I forgot to pack my epi pen." She holds up her clutch, tapping it against the palm of her other hand awkwardly. "And anaphylactic shock and an ER visit would not have been a good end to this night." She purses her lips for a moment. "So, thanks for that."
He surprises her yet again by replying, "I didn't think you had time to pack one, so I took one from the medicine cabinet." She amends her previous thought: apparently he does snoop, but only when he's trying to be thoughtful. He hesitates, and there's a slight smile before he tacks on, "I didn't want a repeat of last time—and you never did tell me how you broke your leg."
Felicity doesn't think she'll ever get used to it, the way he's able to pick thoughts out of her head—or the way he seems to remember them weeks later when it's just a passing thought. God knows she wouldn't have told him that story; it's not exactly one of her finer moments. "I don't remember," she says after a long moment. "I wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind during that." It's only then that she notices the same brunette from before standing with him, and that she remembers Tommy. She figures she's red again, embarrassed by her own absent-minded behavior. "But, more importantly than an old college misadventure," she rushes on quickly, "I think I ran into one of your friends."
Tommy stares at them for a long moment, as if he isn't sure what to say. Sure, Felicity gets that she isn't exactly the kind of woman Oliver is known for inviting to parties like this, but it's a little insulting, frankly. Oliver has the decency to ignore his friend's behavior, at least. "I was just catching up with Laurel," he says in a nice, unsubtle subject-change. He gives the brunette one of his fake, I'm-smiling-because-I-have-to grins. "Laurel, this is Felicity." He flashes Felicity the smile this time, and, even with the blatant insincerity in it, she's still a little overwhelmed by the charm factor of an Oliver Queen smile. "Felicity, this is Laurel."
"Oh," Felicity replies, her thoughts bypassing her brain and going straight to her mouth, "you mean your Laurel." When all she's met with is a set of narrowed eyes, Felicity feels the need to continue, waving her hands frantically, nearly hitting Oliver with her clutch. "Not that you belong to anyone," she adds quickly, this time talking to Laurel. "I hate that phrasing—makes women seem like property, and it's not like we're goats or anything. I just meant that you're the Laurel that Oliver knows, as opposed to some random person named Laurel on the street." She pauses as her words catch up to her, wincing. "And I just did exactly what I was trying to avoid."
The little babble causes a mix of reactions; Oliver's mouth turns into a small yet genuine smile, while Laurel looks at her as though she's some sort of alien creature. Tommy, however, is probably the most indecipherable, looking at Felicity as though he's suitably impressed while still managing to appear bewildered. "That..." Tommy starts after a long moment, then shakes his head. "That was a first-class case of foot-in-mouth. Now I see why you were worried."
"That doesn't even make my greatest hits list," she mutters. "I'm—"
Oliver cuts her off before she can finish talking about her social awkwardness. "You're uncomfortable and out of your element here," he finishes for her in a firm yet reassuring tone. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the self-comforting gesture he's doing with his right hand, rubbing his thumb against the side of his index finger. Maybe she's not the only one with a nervous habit. Then she realizes this is just as awkward as him as it is for her—except he actually learned how to communicate with people at some point in his life. Felicity wryly tacks on an unlike me to the end of that in her head, and she watches Oliver try to conceal a smile.
For a moment, she can do nothing but look at Oliver with a small smile of thanks, but then Laurel's voice snaps them both out of the moment. "How long have you two known each other?" There's an underlying protectiveness underneath, as though she's watching out for Oliver.
Felicity doesn't answer because she doesn't know the story they want to go with on this one. As always, Oliver picks up on her cues, replying with something like the truth: "I was in need of a computer technician." It's all he offers, and she likes how he bends the truth a little to cover the lie.
Felicity backs the story up with a nod. "He's not kidding," she adds. "The initial computer setup? Tragic. I haven't been hurt so badly since someone asked me why I ran Linux instead of Windows." Oliver flashes a partial smile that she's come to know means nothing good, and she cuts him off when he starts to take a breath to speak. "Please don't. I can only handle so much heartbreak, Oliver. You're on thin ice as it is, without asking that question."
Oliver smiles before subtly excusing them from the group, claiming they should probably put in appearances—to which Tommy groans and agrees. The typical goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous are exchanged, and Felicity barely has time to finish her last sentence before Oliver's hand is firm against the small of her back, guiding her away as though he's trying very hard not to run in the opposite direction.
Oliver offers her his arm again, and they push through the crowd together without really interacting with anyone. It takes Felicity a moment, but eventually she notices that his posture has relaxed somewhat after leaving Tommy and Laurel. Teasing, she asks, "What, were you afraid that they were going to tell me all about your party days? Or maybe about your D in tenth grade algebra?"
He throws her a look with that last one, and she waves a hand. "If it's on the Internet, I can find it," she answers the unspoken question, her tone dry. "Which is why you shouldn't worry about it—I already know." She pats his arm with the hand at his bicep. "I don't like the person I was five years ago, either," she admits softly, and the way his eyes fix on her makes her think he doesn't already know that. "I wouldn't judge you by the person you were back then, either."
He doesn't immediately answer, and Felicity presses on. "I know we're just partners in this..." She waves a hand, looking for the words. "Thing—and not friends—but part of my job as your partner is to make sure that when you"—she drops her voice for the next two words—"hood up, you're both physically and mentally up to the job." She bites her lip for a moment. "If you ever need to talk to anyone about what's going on in your head, you can talk to me."
"I know that," he responds instantly, easing her fear of him pushing away. Then he sighs deeply before stating abruptly, "Tommy and Laurel are... together." The revelation surprises Felicity—as does the fact he's admitting it to her. "They're happy together, but..." He hesitates again. "Coming back to Laurel was what kept me alive on the island, and I just..." He flashes a frustrated frown.
"You didn't move on from her," Felicity offers as explanation, "and you didn't expect her to move on, either." She hesitates. "At the risk of sounding like a shrink, how do you feel about that?"
A brief smile flickers across his face, probably because of her poor attempt at humor. "Tommy and Laurel are happy together," is his reply, even though he sounds like he feels the opposite about it. "Even if they weren't, Laurel doesn't know me anymore."
"Maybe not," Felicity tries again, "but, if it's important to you, I think you should try to show her that you're not the same person." She's trying very hard not to push, but Laurel and Oliver have a lot of history together, and she wants them to at least have an amicable friendship out of this. It has to be hurting him, keeping a secret of this magnitude from everyone.
Oliver is already shaking his head by the time she finishes. "Even if I told her, I don't think she'd understand. I don't think Tommy would understand, either." She wonders briefly if Oliver ever feels like just woke up one day in someone else's life and now he has to try to make it work. He offers her another flicker of a smile. "I've only told one person, Felicity, so I think that makes us friends." He does one of those breathy chuckles that make only the faintest hint of a sound. "After all, you know me better than anyone."
"That's a terrifying thought," she mutters. His brow furrows when he looks at her, and she explains, "I feel like you're the most unpredictable human being I've ever met." She rushes on to add, "And I mean that in the nicest way possible."
His reply is just as quick as it is sincere: "You're the most remarkable person I've ever met." His eyes fall on her with the same intensity he seems to radiate from time to time. Part of her wishes he'd stop it, but, then again, she's never seen anyone look at her quite like that.
Felicity can't help but scoff. "This coming from the man who is reading my mind right now," she retorts dryly.
He offers her a rare genuine smile. "Then that should mean something to you," he replies easily, refusing to let her out of the compliment. She's done this with him before, and she knows she's better off just to accept her fate on this one.
"Well," she says after a long moment, her voice going soft, "thank you for remarking on it." The way he smiles at her makes her think they're done with the conversation, and they settle into an amicable silence for a few moments, and Felicity decides it's nice to feel appreciated—something that's been missing from work for the past few years.
"You deserve to be appreciated," he replies—not to her words, but her thoughts. He smiles briefly, but this time it's more self-deprecating. "And you deserve to have your holidays with your family, but thank you for coming with me tonight."
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," she replies, and it takes her a moment to realize that she isn't just talking about the Christmas Eve charity ball.