Title: Sparks Fly
Word Count: 2468

Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow. If I did, this might have been canon. And then we wouldn't be excited about a potential date.

Notes: So, I'm minding my own business on Tumblr today, and I see this post called "Scenes from the Obligatory Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU." AND GUYS I READ IT. Surely by now you know what happens when I'm given crossovers. (If not, see "The Arrow and the Songstress" and "The Last of the Guard" for this.) AND THIS IS CHASETHEWIND'S FAULT-SHE CONVINCED ME TO WRITE IT. So, reviews/comments are appreciated to make me feel better about this madness, but if I scared you off, I understand. ;) Thanks for reading!

"So, why do you think you're here?" Dr. Wexler asks in that perfect marriage counselor's tone, and Felicity senses more than sees Oliver roll his eyes. This was her idea, and so he's going along with it, but that doesn't mean he's going to take it seriously. And she has no doubt that he's going to make her pay for this. Subtly of course.

Oliver looks at her, but she raises an eyebrow in answer. Sighing, he says to the counselor, "I guess I'll go first." He's smiling that ridiculously charming smile that sets Felicity on edge immediately. She knows that smile, and nothing good ever came from that smile. Except maybe that first time they met, when he threw her that smile, and she called his bluff with an eyebrow arch and a head tilt. She's never figured out that lie, but "my coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood"? Honestly.

"We don't really need to be here," he says with a wave of his hand, leaning in his chair casually. "We've been married five years."

Felicity instantly bristles. Seriously, what is wrong with him. "Six years," she corrects quietly, and he looks at her in complete and utter confusion. Under different circumstances, it would probably cause her to kiss him absolutely senseless, but this is a particular pet peeve, and she almost thinks he's doing it on purpose now. Louder, she repeats, "Six years, Oliver. Six. Not five, not 'a little less than ten,' not 'half a decade ago.' Six damn years." She's gritting her teeth by the end. And it's been exactly six damn years that she's been correcting him about how long they've been married.

He waves a hand, and she could cheerfully kill the man she married as he casually continues, "Right. Five or six." And then that hand waves her off again, like it's not important, like, less than a decade ago, they didn't know one another even existed. Theirs had been a romance consisting of a shot-up laptop, a whirlwind romance in Colombia, and a six short weeks of dating. It didn't take them long to decide that they were each other's elusive "the one," and that still makes her guilty because she has to lie to him all the time. It's part of the nature of her job, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. "And," Oliver continues slowly, "this is like a check-up for us."

Felicity snorts. "A 'check-up'? I'm sure there's a bad car analogy in there somewhere," she says to him, and he grins in response. Even so far into their marriage, an earnest smile is a rare thing, and she thinks it's nice that she's the only one who seems to elicit them.

The marriage counselor seems willing to comply. "Very well, then. Let's... pop the hood. On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you in your marriage?"

Felicity thinks about that for all of two seconds because that's really all her mind needs to process it. She's not in eternal bliss or anything, but she's not upset with the dynamics of their marriage. Admittedly, it is a little bland and she would like some adventure, so it's not perfect. But, in the middle of her analysis, Oliver says firmly, "Eight."

Felicity holds up both hands. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait." She turns to her their psychoanalyst for the day. "Define your scale. Is ten eternal-wedded-bliss and one I'm-divorcing-you-as-soon-as-we-finish-this-session. Or is it the other way around? Or is zero I'm-leaving-you and one is if-you-make-me-any-more-miserable-I'm going?" She crosses her arms. "Really, you need to give me a scale here. I don't want to say 'eight' and have ten be perfectly miserable or anything. Because we're not perfectly miserable. We get along fine and—"

"Felicity," Oliver interrupts, and her mouth closes promptly. That's one of the things she's always grateful for; he seems to be able to shut her up when no one else can. Her babbling has been known to get pretty intense and, well, she needs someone to let her know when she's making a fool of herself.

He gives her one look, and together they both turn back to their observer and say, "Eight."

This time, he asks something neither of them are prepared for. "What about your sex life?"

Felicity is the first one to answer this time because, one, it's rude, two, it's way too personal, and, three, she does not discuss her sex life with complete strangers. "I don't understand the question," she blurts out, a little loudly, and Oliver chuckles.

Oliver chuckles under his breath before turning toward her. "I don't think it's that difficult," he hints gently, and she could seriously slap this man. But the teasing smirk on his face stops her cold. There was once a time when he let her accidental innuendos slide without answering them, but she finds that she likes it when they flirt back and forth. It makes her feel less like an idiot, and, well, she likes that feeling.

"Well," she says awkwardly, waving her hand, "I mean, what are you asking? How often, how good is it, what are we into? Because that could be a lot of different things." She keeps waiting for Oliver to stop her, to beg her to stop talking, but he isn't cooperating today, and her mouth just keeps running. "Is this a one-to-ten thing again? Because I don't do those very well. And I mean, is one no-sex-whatsoever or is zero no-sex-whatsoever? Because, technically speaking, zero would be none. And what are we rating, quality or quantity? Because, well, I think quality would be more important." She waves her hands manically. "Not that I'm answering that yet—because I'm not. I'm just saying this question was flawed from the start."

Clearly Dr. Wexler thinks it's a wise idea to move on. "How did you two first meet?"

"We met in Bogotá, Colombia," Felicity answers with a fond smile. It was one of the best adventures of her lifetime, even if you discount the whole nearly-sent-to-jail, separated-from-her-partner-Digg, and the general we-went-to-kill-a-guy thing. But of course Oliver knows none of that; to him, she's just a quirky IT girl who gets lost in her work at her own consulting firm. She nearly scoffs at how accurate it is, but at the same time how completely wrong.

"That was an adventure, wasn't it? It was five years ago."

"Six."

"Right. Five or six."

Bogotá, Colombia
Five or Six Years Ago

Oliver is sitting at the bar, drinking away his afternoon in the local fashion, when everything changes. Suddenly, he can hear the blades of a chopper beating overhead, and sirens start blaring in the streets. He can feel his shoulders tense, but he allows the rest of his posture to stay the same. He can't blow this now, not after what he's done. A drug lord and a politician were murdered today, after all—both integral in Colombia's social structure—so the federales will want to pin him for either one of those. Which isn't fair, considering he didn't know a thing about the drug lord until he read it in the papers.

The politician, however, is another matter.

Gunshots fire. Screaming breaks out. Federales storm the hotel and the hotel bar, and Oliver turns to look over his shoulder casually, all the while preparing his escape plan. It might be a little dangerous, it might be a little bloody, but, hey, that's why he keeps a bow in his travel bag and several darts around his wrist. Oliver tried guns once, but he never really understood the point. Gunfire is chaos, but archery is control. And he wants very much to be in control.

Casually, he asks the bartender in Spanish fair enough to pass for a tourist, "What happened?" Sure, he's been fluent for years—and could probably speak Spanish better than the bartender—but it's all a matter of covers and identity.

He leans closer, saying quietly, "Someone shot the big boss. The police are looking for tourists traveling alone."

Oliver frowns, dropping some money for his drink and picking up his bag. He makes sure to unzip it partially, so that he can reach his bow if the need arises, but throws it over one shoulder and prepares to walk back up to his room. A lone policeman stops him, hand on the holster of his gun, and Oliver drops his bag, fingering a bow and arrow inside of it. The guy may be prepared for a fight, but Oliver's always been a fast draw with a bow, and he knows he can stop the guy before he gets shot. "Are you alone, sir?" the officer demands in a rush of Spanish, to which Oliver says nothing. He places a hand to his ear, making a motion as if he doesn't quite understand. "Are you alone?" the officer asks again, this time inching closer.

Their attention is drawn elsewhere, however, when the lobby doors open to reveal probably the most stunning woman Oliver has ever seen, even though he's seen enough beautiful women to last a lifetime. Though, aesthetically, she might not compare to some of them, it's in the way she moves, her demeanor. She's not in the shortest skirt he's ever seen, but her purple, sleeveless dress is flashes part of her thigh, and there's a flirty cutout just below her collarbone that throws a challenge to all men. Her blonde hair is pinned back on either side, falling down her back in curls, and her lips a a bright shade of fuchsia. She doesn't wear glasses for their first encounter, so he can determine her startlingly blue eyes from across the room.

All Oliver can do is stare at her as if she's the answer to all his problems. Because, in a way, she kind of is.

"Miss, your passport, please," one of the federales demands of her, but all she does is smooth down one corner of her dress. She turns in Oliver's direction, her gaze landing on him in two seconds. It's clear she's alone, too, as the guards demand her papers, and she and Oliver share a silent conversation—their first of many to be spoken in glances and sharp looks. "Are you alone?" the federale asks again.

This time, Oliver gets the pleasure of hearing her voice, clear as a bell across the distance. "No," she says firmly. When the man looks at her, she repeats firmly, "No." And then she looks at Oliver, pleading for a rescue.

She steps forward, her hand falling from the hem of her skirt, and Oliver takes his hand from his bag before zipping it up and throwing it over his shoulder. "She's not alone," he repeats in fluent Spanish. "She's with me. Está bien. Está bien." He catches her eyes with his own before saying again, "She's with me." Without asking, he threads his fingers through hers, and she accompanies him back up to his room.

There are two flights of stairs, and federales everywhere they turn, but he opens the door to his hotel room, waving her in as though they've been doing this for years. He closes the door behind them, and they lean against it, hearing knocking against the doors around theirs. She places her ear to it, hands splayed over the dark, rich wood of the door, and he leans against the wall, all the while admiring the hem of her skirt. He's allowed to look, after all; things with Sara had long since gone south.

"I'm Felicity Smoak," she whispers to him, and he realizes she knows he's been staring. "I'm supposed to be here on business with investors in my hopefully-soon-to-be IT company, but, well, I managed to get lost in this town. My Spanish is horrible—you would not believe how many times I had to ask for a map. I practically had to play charades with the storeowner before he gave me what I needed." She groans, and he blinks twice when he realizes she just made an innuendo. "And I didn't mean it like that. I needed a map, not..." She waves a hand. "And you did not help me so you could listen to me babble. Which will end. In three... two... one." She offers him a charming smile, and it's the first time he's smiled in years.

"Oliver Queen," he offers nicely, and she makes an "O" shape with her mouth as it dawns on her. He chuckles. "Yes, that Oliver Queen. I came to do some business on my father's behalf." He gives her a false smile, which she must notice is fake, judging by the way she frowns. "Actually, I have a computer that... may be in need of an IT girl." He doesn't try to charm her because he's already certain that's not going to work. "I was in a coffee shop, and I spilled a latte on it. It's on the table in there."

She goes to it, face flushing for some reason unknown to him, and she examines the casing before fixing him with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. "These look like bullet holes to me," she counters, in the subtly confrontational way he's come to know in the five or six years since.

"My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," he replies, and he winces at the horrible lie he throws her. When did he forget when to lie?

She doesn't look like she believes him, shaking her head as her lips quirk up into a partial smile. "You know, if this was anywhere in the world other than Bogotá," she says slowly, "I'd be inclined to call you a liar, Mr. Queen."

He walks up to her, trying to fight the level of attraction he feels for the girl he just met. "Well, fortunately for us, Miss Smoak," he starts, and she leans closer, so much that he's nearly speaking against her lips as he finishes, "we're in Bogotá."

And then he gently kisses those lips that have taunted him since the moment she first stumbled into the hotel lobby, and it's better than he imagined. She gasps in surprise at first, but then she gives in, and she apparently decides that he's being too gentle. He's a little surprised to find her take over the kiss with force, but he knows better than to complain. Her hands fly to his face as his fall to her hips, and it's suddenly too much for a single kiss. Somehow, he manages to guide her back into the bedroom without breaking contact.

And they're so engrossed in each other that she doesn't notice him sling the wrist band under the bed, and he doesn't notice the knife at the top of her thigh get tucked between the mattresses.