Part: 1 - Only Come Out at Night
Word Count: 8315
Notes: I DON'T KNOW. That's the free answer to your first question. (That question, of course, being some variant of "WTF, Masque?" Provided, of course, you haven't asked it already after reading that summary.)
I know I said Drug in Me is You or Monsters in the Mirror after Technical Assistance finished up, but, uh, fate had other plans. But, in my defense, I did use vampires. Or one vampire. ;) It's told in three parts, so expect another update next Thursday.
Before anyone asks me, no alcohol or recreational drug use was involved in the conception of this fic. You'll understand why I feel the need to say this soon enough. Honestly, I'm not sure if that declaration makes this better or worse. I know I've said it a lot, but this takes the cake as the strangest thing I've ever written, and I'm pretty sure it will remain the reigning champ for years to come.
I already warned geniewithwifi that I was going to blame her for this. She tagged me on a Tumblr post, and I have a weakness for crazy AU ideas. If it's insane... *points to geniewithwifi* it's her fault. If you think it's good, please go send her a thank-you. I've played with this idea a few times, but I never would have written it if not for her.
I guess I've rambled on enough, so, without further ado, a fic of insane proportions. ;)
Note of mild importance: I'm going to be without Internet until Monday at the very earliest, so if I'm not answering reviews, that's why. I have no idea when I'll have Internet at the house, so I'm confined to school Internet until Monday.
Though Felicity Smoak professes to be a cheery person, it's come to her attention that she hates a lot of things that maybe cheery people wouldn't. She hates double-standards, kangaroos, mysteries, VIKI (the evil computer that gives her nightmares), and the fact that Black Blood Brothers didn't get a second season. She hates that her last boyfriend used her for blood and sex and computer support, then left her crying on the floor with an overwhelming desire to bite people. She hates that she has to get blood from her best friend at the coroner's office to stay alive. She hates that becoming a vampire doesn't grant her super strength, super speed, or any of the supers, really. She hates that she's an undead creature of the night and that, all things considered, she still lives a boring, average, non-spectacular life.
But, mostly, in this moment, Felicity Smoak hates nothing more than the book she's trying to read while waiting for her shift to end.
Honestly, she doesn't know why she does this to herself anymore. She started reading vampire novels as a sort of situational irony, some way to make fun of her plight since she can't exactly change it. Now, however, as the ideas get more and more ridiculous—first sparkling vampires and now vampire online dating sites, honestly—she can't help but think that she's just torturing herself. Her gran's words come back to her: Sometimes, by making light of things, you only make them heavier. Right now, Felicity's oh-by-the-way-I'm-a-vampire situation feels like a lead weight heavy enough to make her drown. Then she wonders if that could actually kill her.
With a sigh, Felicity looks up at the clock on her computer screen, praying for the clock to read four a.m. Instead, it's three-fifty-eight, meaning she has two minutes left of this misery. (Apparently immortality only makes her more impatient. And dramatic, she notes idly.) While she's grateful that she can work in the field she loves at night to avoid that pesky my-skin-melts-off-in-the-sun thing, Tech Village isn't exactly worthy of her MIT education. Most of the time, she spends her shift taking viruses off of porn-riddled computers, and very occasionally, she might even get to defrag a hard drive. It's miserable, but at least she's paid well for her services.
Even if she does have to wear the stupid uniform.
Finally the clock ticks four, and she wastes no time clocking out, sprinting to the employee locker room to change into her street clothes: jeans and a pink t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon duck with fangs named "Duckferatu." (Barry thought it was a great Hanukkah gift. Felicity wasn't as thrilled, but it's growing on her.) Then she gathers everything up in her purse and flashes the graveyard shift guy—Ray, she thinks his name is—a smile on her way out. He'd be cute under different circumstances—if, you know, she wasn't eternally undead and more likely to kill him than to kiss him.
That thought makes her shake her head wildly as she walks out the door. No matter how hard she tries, she can't make light of the fact that people could die if she isn't careful, if she doesn't control her impulses. Felicity may not have super strength or super speed, but when she's hungry, impossible things happen that give even her nightmares. She's not just violent in that state—she's deadly. That's why she drinks every day (blood, not alcohol, though she does enjoy a nice red from time to time), makes sure to keep away from her co-workers, even keeps Barry at arm's length: when she slips, the results are disastrous.
It's happened once. Only once. And Felicity would happily rip her own heart out before she'd let it happen again.
The thought makes her shiver in the night, and then a sensation crawls up her spine. While she doesn't have any superpowers of note, her senses of hearing, sight and smell seem to be more acute than before she went all Carmilla. (Well, sort of Carmilla—Felicity is blonde and she doesn't exactly scream Victorian porn.) It's so strong that she can hear the quiet footsteps on the rooftop thirty stories above her, as well as the stomping of the guy who smells quite tasty and has been following her for the last block. He also smells of vodka, which makes her wonder about his intent.
She can hear him gaining on her, but she tries to keep walking at a normal pace. Instead of being worried, she thinks the bastard might have the world's worst luck by going after the only vampire in Starling City. Unfortunately for him, though, she hasn't had any blood today and she doesn't count it as slipping when her victim is a would-be rapist.
After intentionally turning down a dead-end alley and he follows, she walks to the wall before turning around and facing him. His figure is shadowed by the two taller buildings, but he keeps walking toward her slowly, enough to build the anticipation in her stomach and make her mouth water. Her fangs slowly start to descend, slipping down to press against her bottom lip and slip out over the top of it. For the first time in her life, she finds herself looking forward to the bite.
Suddenly everything goes sideways. The footsteps she noticed before on the rooftop come to an end, followed shortly by a thwip and the sound of something whizzing through the air. It hits with a crack, and then a zipping sound follows. Felicity looks up with a frown, just in time to watch the man land between her and the attacker (or prey, depending upon how she looks at it). He immediately draws back the bow in his hand, and only then does she recognize the green hood hanging over his head.
She's heard of the Vigilante, of course; he's been terrorizing the streets for the last few months, taking on the worst criminals in the city and not bothering to discriminate between the rich and the poor. Anyone attacking the Glades is up for grabs, and he doesn't hesitate to kill. In his full glory in front of her, bow drawn at the guy, he's a pretty impressive sight. Well, he's definitely more impressive than her, anyway—and she's the immortal, supernatural creature of the night.
As a side note, she acknowledges that he smells freaking amazing, but that's neither here nor there.
"Leave. Now." The Vigilante is succinct and direct in his command, his voice unnatural under a robotic modulator that he clearly doesn't know how to use all that well; his voice is coming out somewhat garbled. Not so garbled, however, that the would-be attacker/victim doesn't get the message and do just as the scary guy with the bow asks, running out of the alley like a bat out of Hell.
Felicity can't help but study him for a long moment, curious about the anomaly in front of her. Sure, a lot of odd things happen in Starling City, but nothing as fascinating as a guy in a Halloween costume putting arrows in bad guys. If she were human, she'd probably be afraid of him, but, as it is, she could have him paralyzed with her venom in twelve seconds and drained dry in two minutes. Provided he put up a fight, anyway—less if he didn't. It kind of removes his scary factor when the big, bad Vigilante is still a human, putting him firmly below her on the food chain.
"Are you all right?" he asks her quietly, causing Felicity to jump. It takes her a moment to wonder why he asked, but then she notices that the Vigilante is staring at her hands. Sure enough, they're shaking, and she groans. Withdrawals are a bitch on an empty stomach.
Because Barry is a medical genius who should be doing research instead of cutting open dead people, he's been studying her biology out of scientific curiosity. Medicine isn't Felicity's area of expertise, but according to him, various chemicals affect her ability to go into what she thinks of as a "feeding frenzy." The only one he's sure about is epinephrine—adrenaline—and it's apparently toxic to her vampiric biology in above-norma levels, causing her body to try and rid itself of it. They still can't figure out if the paradoxical result is a defect in her personally, or if it's simply a complication that arises when a human becomes another species entirely.
"Peachy," Felicity answers dryly, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. He takes a step toward her, and she takes a step back, trying to prevent him from seeing her fangs in the dark. While her night vision might be superb, she doubts his compares. "I should probably get home before any more trouble follows me." She holds up an index finger. "Oh, and thank you for the rescue, um… whatever your name is." In fact, it kind of bothers her that she doesn't have some sort of name to call him. She'll have to make one up. (Robin is her first choice, but that seems too easy.)
She moves toward the mouth of the alleyway as the first beads of sweat run down the back of her neck, and she picks up her speed. Just as she pulls even with him, everything in her world tilts and she stumbles to the side. He reaches for her, but she holds a hand out to stop him, even as her knees hit pavement. Felicity puts her other hand out in front of her to stop her fall, just in time for her least favorite symptom to kick in.
When she wretches, it isn't pretty—not that puking one's guts up is ever pretty. Fortunately for her, she hasn't had anything to eat or drink today, so at least it's dry and fruitless heaving, not the nasty, projectile vomiting heaving. She can feel the Vigilante crouch beside her, which is embarrassing enough, but he doesn't touch her, either taking the silent command to heart or subconsciously sensing that she's a lot meaner than he is.
"It's just shock," the still-nameless Vigilante states as she finishes retching. (Jacob, maybe? No, she decides, he doesn't look like a Jacob.) The sweat on her neck makes Felicity shiver in the cold, and she realizes that chills, dizziness, and vomiting can all be severe cases of shock. She wishes it were just shock—that wouldn't suck nearly as hard as this. "Just take it slow, try to concentrate on something else." There's a brief pause before he asks, "What's your name?"
The cramps start to hit her just as he asks. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes and clutching her stomach as she manages to say, "Felicity. Smoak." Most people would think twice about answering that question, but she doesn't mind it—not after he's saved her life and not when she's capable of draining him dry. "Not as in 'on the water,' but with an O-A-K at the end. Like the tree. It's a common spelling mistake."
An odd sound leaves the modulator that sounds almost like a laugh, but when she opens one eye to check, his expression is just as impassive as ever. (She rules out Hunter on her list of names—that would be too easy.) With the mask over his eyes and the hood shadowing his face, she can just tell that his eyes are blue and that he hasn't shaved in quite some time, judging by the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks. (That causes her to rule out Connor—too silver-spoon for him.) She has no doubt that, with those cheekbones, he's probably pretty damn handsome under all the getup, and it's a shame he's in a profession where he has to hide his face.
Oblivious to her ogling, he notes, "This isn't the best part of town to walk alone at night." It isn't chastising, like her mother would have said it, but instead a statement of fact, no judgment rendered. She kind of appreciates that, even though he probably shouldn't be judging people when he wears green leather and carries a bow. "What are you doing out here, Felicity?"
"I work the graveyard shift at Tech Village," she explains sourly, her mouth twisting down into a frown. "Seven to four. Which, by the way, is not an effective use of my computer programming skills." She tries to raise herself up, but her head swims again. "I live just a few blocks away, so I usually walk. You'd be surprised how much money I save on gas."
The Vigilante rolls back on his heels slightly in his crouched position, and Felicity hopes he hasn't noticed that she's totally staring. Not in the creepy, I-wanna-have-your-babies way, but in the general, the-dude-in-front-of-me-is-dressed-like-Robin-Hood way. She's not quite sure he'd notice the distinction, though. Instead, what comes out of his mouth throws her for a loop: "I'd like to walk you home." She studies him for a moment to make sure delusions aren't part of her withdrawals, but his eyes are focused on the pavement. Not a delusion, then. After a pause, he adds, "You've been through a lot tonight, and I want to make sure it doesn't happen again. I could stay with you for just a block or two, if you'd like."
It takes her a moment to realize what he's saying. He understands that she probably doesn't want him to know where she lives, but he's also concerned about her well-being. (That makes her lean toward Tristan, but he doesn't exactly seem noble enough for that.) "And they say chivalry is dead," Felicity blurts, cringing at her words. She's glad she said it, though, because this time, she sees the corner of his mouth lift ever so slightly in amusement. He was laughing at her earlier.
His question does cause a dilemma, though, since her symptoms are only going to get worse as she tries to get home. It's fine if she's on her own, but, there's a reason she calls them "withdrawals," even though they probably aren't: the symptoms are almost identical. She opens her mouth to decline, but somehow it manages to come out as, "If you don't have anything more important to do, sure. After all, misery loves company."
Taking that as an invitation, the Vigilante rises to his feet in a fluid motion, extending a hand to help her up. Against her better judgment, Felicity takes it, knowing she'll probably need some help. Just as she rises to her feet, another dizzy spell washes over and she pitches forward. The hooded vigilante pulls her against him to steady her, and somehow her hands end up on his shoulders. One of his ends up circling her waist, the other pushing against her upper arm so he can study her expression. That's probably hindered, though, because she's too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
While his scent isn't something she needs at close proximity right now, it does give her access to the voice modulator on the collar of his jacket. When she reaches up to take it without thinking, his gloved hand snatches her wrist out of the air. He leans his head down to her ear to ask, "Just what do you think you're doing?" She'd call it a whisper because of the low tone, but there's an edge to it, almost like a milder version of the growl he used on the would-be rapist earlier. (That makes her want to go with Adrian, but that's not quite right, either.)
It takes Felicity a moment before she realizes there was a question in there. Her voice comes out a little breathless when she answers, "I was going to reset your voice modulator settings—you're coming out like you have a mouth full of gravel. Unless you do have a mouth full of gravel, in which case it's working perfectly." She pulls her hands away from his jacket, holding them up in a placating gesture. "But point taken: no touching. That works just as well for me, anyway." He blinks twice as he releases her, and she huffs at the direction of his thoughts. "Sorry to disappoint you, Ralph, but I don't care who you are under the hood." She starts to chastise him some more, but the name slip makes her jaw snap shut. And here she'd thought karma had decided to torment someone else for a while.
A smile quirks the corner of his mouth, pure amusement destroying his whole grr-I-will-arrow-you vibe. "Ralph?" he repeats, curiosity turning the tone of his voice at the end.
"Yes, Ralph," Felicity snaps back, fighting of yet more embarrassment. "I don't like that you can call me by name but I don't know yours. So I decided to give you one, since I know you can't tell me." She huffs. "Which you were never supposed to know about because it was supposed to stay in my head. I should have known that was futile—my brain is directly connected to my mouth."
"And you chose Ralph?" he questions again.
She ignores him, starting forward even as her vision starts to blur around the edges. Her hands shake, but she clenches her fists to hide it. Another wave of nausea passes over her, but she tries to hold it down. It's been too long to play her symptoms off as shock, so she only has the option to fight it.
Despite how fast she moves, he's with her in a few strides. The traffic at four a.m. is nonexistent, but the Vigilante sticks to the shadows, out of sight. He doesn't say anything this time, only quietly keeping pace with her. The silence isn't weighted, but it's still agony; there's nothing like a hollow ache in her stomach to remind Felicity that she hasn't had any blood today, to remind her how fantastic Ralph smells. While her ex only had to drink when he was bleeding from an open wound, Cooper had a few centuries' worth of experience on her. Not to mention, he was methodical, careful, always in control.
Basically, the exact opposite of Felicity herself.
At least conversation keeps her mind away from that. "Is green your favorite color?" she blurts suddenly When the Vigilante looks at her, she shrugs self-consciously. "There has to be a reason why you picked it for your whole ensemble. Not that you don't make it look good." He lifts an eyebrow over the top of his mask, and only then does Felicity realize what she's said. "Not that I've been looking." After rethinking it, she corrects, "Well, I have been looking, but not in the ogling sort of way that's creepy and disrespectful. More in the just-looking sort of way." She waves a hand. "My original point being that green isn't a good color for urban camouflage. According to Barry, black is a better color for that—especially at night. Green camouflage is typically used for jungles."
"I chose it for personal reasons," Ralph answers after a long moment. Then he throws her a look that she interprets as apologetic. "But those are my own." Slowly she understands that it's a polite suggestion to back off, to leave it alone because he won't answer any more questions on the subject.
Felicity stops in front of the familiar driveway. "I understand secrets," she answers with understanding. Silently, she adds, Especially those that can destroy your entire world. Then the blonde points to the red door on the white house to her left. "This is me," she adds quietly, somewhat hesitant to let him go. Part of her knows that, when she does, it will be the end of it. The story of Ralph the Vigilante will be one she tells Barry's kids someday, one of those tales that means nothing and is told solely for entertainment value.
With that in mind, she sinks her sharp teeth into her lip as she twirls the key in her hand. "Thanks for saving me from that guy." Sure, Felicity might not have needed his help, but she'd like to think she isn't rude. "And for walking me home." Finally, she gets to the statement she's been trying to make all night: "I wasn't kidding about fixing that modulator, though. Drop it off sometime, and I'll take care of it for you. I don't like to feel like owe you something." More importantly, she doesn't like it that he might feel like she owes him something.
It may be the withdrawals screwing with her head (or wishful thinking), but she thinks that he might be a little reluctant to leave, too. "You don't owe me anything," he answers, so low the voice modulator doesn't pick it up. His voice is too quiet to distinguish, anyway, even for her ears. "I'll leave it for you in a few days," he adds finally, as though to appease her instead of any perceived debt she might owe him. Felicity thinks he's a smart man; he already knows not to argue with her. "Goodnight, Felicity." He turns to leave with some finality, then swivels back to face her. "Just try to be more careful next time."
Crossing her arms, Felicity answers truthfully, "Don't worry—I'm meaner than I look."
When she clocks out for lunch at ten, Felicity can already smell the food wafting down the hall, along with Barry's unique scent. It's a routine they've developed over the past few years, ever since the whole Cooper Debacle of 2009. They always have one meal together at least three times a week, though it's usually an everyday occurrence. While she doesn't socialize because of the whole I'm-a-vampire-I-might-eat-you thing, Barry is somewhat more pathetic than even she is: his one friend in Starling City is a vampire and people usually avoid him because he works around death as the day shift coroner.
Honestly, Felicity doesn't get why he's a pariah. He has a respectable job, he's smart, he's funny, and he's even easy on the eyes. Hell, if she weren't undead and venom-filled, she might even try to make their relationship more than platonic. But, as it stands, she's a vampire and he's human—and it would never work. Despite what the shelves of vampire novels might lead unsuspecting humans to believe, vampires and humans don't mix.
Felicity knows because she's been bitten before, pun somewhat intended.
He leans in the doorway of the tech closet they dare to call an office, flashing her a wide smile. "Hey," he greets her. Then he holds up a small, plastic lunch cooler, one that she already knows is filled with pints of blood. "I brought you something to eat." Then he flashes a smile as he drops the drink tray and the bag of Big Belly Burger on her desk. "And some food, too."
"Barry Allen, you are a saint and I don't deserve you," she declares. Barry always seems to laugh when she says it, but Felicity finds it to be the truth. If anything, she's jeopardizing his life by clinging to his friendship. Every once in a while, she has the decency to feel guilty about it, but no man is an island and all that. Especially not one very young, very lonely vampire who has the rest of eternity to look forward to spending with absolutely no one.
Those are the kinds of thoughts that the blonde vampire stores away for late in the morning when she's left alone with her post-withdrawal insomnia. In the interim, Felicity made a promise to herself to enjoy the time she has with her best friend while she has him. While she has eternity to mope, Barry Allen isn't so unfortunate. The least she can do is inject a little sunshine into his life.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Felicity takes her drink cup from the tray—just ice, the way she always has him order it. After making sure no one else is milling about, she pulls a blood bag from the cooler and dumps it into the cup. Once she seals the plastic lid back on it, she can't help but press down the "Other" bubble on the lid with a hint of humor. "Did I mention that I really like that these straws are red?" she asks him idly. "It's like they know a vampire is using it drink blood on ice. Maybe I should send them a thank-you note."
Barry leans forward on his elbows. "You're awfully… sullen today," he notes with a frown as he pulls their food out of the bag. "It's not like you to be all gloom and doom." Because he's been her best friend for the better part of five years, he knows better than to ask her directly about her troubles, he flashes a smile and teases her instead. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the coffin this evening?"
In an attempt to act unimpressed, she huffs, but it's probably softened by the smile on her face. "If you ever want to leave the wonderful world of Autopsy, you could always put together a stand-up act," Felicity replies dryly as he takes a bite of his burger. "And that would imply I sleep in a coffin—or that I actually slept last night, for that matter."
His face immediately falls, and Felicity isn't sure she could feel worse if she'd intentionally kicked a puppy. (Not that she would intentionally kick a puppy—she's a vampire, but she's not heartless.) "You had withdrawals again," he realizes as she nibbles at a fry, and there's no question in his voice.
Like her, he's probably reliving the last time she slipped. While it was awful for all involved, Felicity discovered a universal truth that day: you can only know who your true friends are after you show up at their door at three in the morning, crying, bruised, and covered in someone else's blood. As it turns out, Barry Allen is the best friend she ever could have hoped for. Instead of shutting the door and calling the police (like a sane, reasonable person would have done), he hugged her—even though he knew she had just killed someone.
Finally, he decides that asking a question is necessary: "What happened?"
Because her mouth is full of food, she waves a hand to assure him that nothing happened, and he visibly relaxes in his seat. "Some drunk guy tried to follow me last night on the way home from work," she explains, even though it comes out kind of garbled with the burger in her mouth. She takes a drink before continuing, "I was going to go ahead and feed since he was a miserable human being who tried to attack me, but the Vigilante showed up and… blood-blocked me." She frowns. "Is that a word?"
The coroner's eyes bulge in surprise as he chokes on his food for a moment. After taking a drink, he asks in an incredulous tone, "You met the Vigilante?" Something changes in his expression, and he's more adamant now. "And you didn't call me about that last night?"
She rolls her eyes at him. This… obsession he has with the Vigilante is kind of unhealthy, but he's nice enough to supply her with free blood because she's a vampire. The least she can do is show a little understanding for his weirdness. "I figured you were probably sleeping," she answers truthfully, "and one of us should get a little sleep every now and then." She pops another fry in her mouth. "You'll be happy to know that Ralph is a decent guy." She waves a hand haphazardly. "I mean, he's killed a few people, but I refuse to define anyone by their bad deeds alone." After all, there's blood on her hands, too—she doesn't have the right to judge. "He scared off my attacker, and when I started going through withdrawals, he thought it was shock." She shrugs. "Then he walked me home."
Barry's mouth opens and closes a few times, as though he's trying to decide which question to ask first. Finally, he goes with, "His name is Ralph?" Anyone else might take offense that he didn't ask about her safety first, but if it had been serious, they both know she would have speed-dialed him on her cell phone.
"Of course not," she answers. If she were the kind of person who said duh, this would be the perfect opportunity. "No one is named Ralph. I gave him a name so I wouldn't have to think of him as an urban legend anymore." She tilts her head to the side. "I didn't mean to name him Ralph—it just sort of slipped out. If I had it to do all over again, I'd pick something different. He's too potentially handsome to be a Ralph."
The coroner across from her leans forward in his seat, ignoring his burger. "You got a good look at him?" he asks, clearly interested in the answer.
Felicity shakes her head. "Not enough to help you," she admits. "He's caucasian and tall, with a dark beard. He has a heavier build than you do, but so does everyone." Barry flashes her a withering glance, but with a smile, so it doesn't quite do what it's intended to do.
They continue to chat for a while, enjoying their food and each other's company. As she does, the ache hits Felicity yet again: she's going to miss him after he's gone. He doesn't mean to leave her any time soon, but that's the curse of her nature. Felicity might be frozen in time, but the world is not. It might be two days from now or eighty years, but eventually, Barry Allen is going to become a part of her past. And, while eighty years sounds like a lot when she's twenty-two, it isn't as long as she might hope—not in the face of eternity.
She manages to keep that thought bottled up throughout lunch (well, her lunch—his dinner), and she says goodbye feeling worse than she already did. Though she knows it's the insomnia dictating her mood, it doesn't help much. While she usually tries to make the best of what she has, tonight is proving a challenge. Sighing, she clocks back into work, deciding to work on a coding side-project because work is slow. "'To sleep: perchance to dream,'" she mutters under her breath, wishing the next four hours of work away so that she can curl up in her bed.
"That sounds poetic," a voice answers, and Felicity nearly jumps out of her chair. It's been a long time since someone has managed to sneak up on her; heightened senses make sure that she can at least hear or smell the other people around her. It takes her a moment to realize the air has switched off, which means she doesn't have the movement of air on her side to discover his scent, and if his footsteps are quiet enough, the carpet will muffle them.
Irritated with the failing of the senses she depends upon so much, she pokes her head around the monitor with a frown to stare at her visitor. Staring seems to be less complicated than frowning, though, because he's quite lovely to look at—a lovely combination of intelligent blue eyes, brown hair, and a square jaw line covered by thick stubble. His gray sweater fits tight enough to hint at a muscular frame, but somehow, Felicity thinks it's a bit understated.
It takes her a moment to recognize him, and when she does, all of her previous anger abates in favor of surprise. It's rare they get a celebrity in Tech Village at all, much less during her shift. And especially not someone as famous at the moment as Oliver Queen. Words don't readily form on her tongue—a rarity for her—but, fortunately, someone else saves her from herself.
"Of course it's poetic," a second man cuts in. The suit and tie make her think he's a bodyguard, especially because he's not trying to hide his build. But, then again, the smile and the casual way he speaks to the Queen scion belies something like friendship. "It's Shakespeare, which you'd know if you actually studied anything in college." He extends a hand across the desk, and Felicity can't help it when her nose wrinkles in distaste. She doesn't like to touch humans if she can avoid it. "I'm John Diggle, and I think you probably recognize my employer"—it's said with an ironic tone—"Oliver Queen. You must be Felicity Smoak."
Reluctant though she is, Felicity shakes his hand. "That's right," she assures him of her identity as she motions to the two chairs on the other side of the desk. "How can I help you two?"
"I'm just along for the ride," the bodyguard assures her as he drops into one of the chairs. The look that passes between the two men indicates anything but, especially the hint of humor on the bodyguard's face coupled with the frown that the young heir responds with. "You'll have to talk to Oliver about that."
After Felicity flashes him a polite smile, she turns to the younger man with a burning sense of curiosity. "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?" There has to be a reason why he chose here, of all places, for his computer support. She knows he has an entire IT department waiting for him at Queen Consolidated; she had been perched to become a part of it, had the whole Cooper Debacle and subsequent blood-and-fangs situation never happened.
Grimacing at something she's said, he insists, "For starters, you can call me Oliver. Mr. Queen was my father."
Because karma is an absolute bitch who is still torturing her for that one screw-up, she somehow manages to blurt, "But he's dead." He blinks twice, probably in absolute horror, and Felicity rushes quickly to cover her mistake. "I mean, he drowned." Well, that was better. "Which you probably already know because you were there, and you probably didn't want to be reminded of it." Closing her eyes, she continues, "And in three seconds, I'm going to make a coherent sentence come together." After taking a deep breath, she counts, "Three… two… one."
When she opens her eyes, Oliver smiling at her in pure amusement. Something about the set of his mouth strikes a chord with her memory, but she dismisses it. If she'd met Oliver Queen in a previous life, Felicity would most certainly remember. "I seem to be having some trouble with my computer," he continues without missing a beat, apparently more generous with her verbal gaffes than she deserves. "I thought that someone here could help me with it."
Felicity can't help it; she cringes when the laptop comes into view. Battered is too kind a word for it; the poor thing looks like a war zone happened on top of it, complete with a tank rolling over it. As if sensing her hesitance, he continues. "I was at my coffee shop surfing the web," he lies so badly it makes her heart hurt, "and I spilled a latte on it."
Though she likes to think of herself as a generous person, the blonde can't help but lose a little patience with that. Apparently she isn't the only one; Mr. Diggle raises an eyebrow at Oliver in question before shaking his head. She finds herself shaking her own when she opens the lid and finds actual evidence that Oliver Queen is lying through his teeth. She turns it around to face him with a quirked eyebrow of her own. "Not that I don't believe you, Oliver," she starts with a strong sense of irony, "but this doesn't look like a latte accident." She pokes a turquoise fingernail into one of the three holes on the screen. "Actually, this kind of looks like a bullet hole."
Mr. Diggle breaks into a grin immediately, studying Felicity with something akin to approval before leveling a look at his employer. Oliver nods once, pressing his lips together. "My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," he answers simply, insistent upon continuing the lie.
Not deigning fit to give that one a response, she simply looks at him over the top of her glasses for a moment. In response, he just flashes her the prettiest insincere smile she's ever seen in her life, exposing his pearly whites and very human canine teeth. (It's something Felicity pays attention to, now that her own are noticeably pointy.) "If you could salvage anything from it," he continues with a delightful chuckle in his voice, "I'd really appreciate it."
Instead of answering immediately, she decides to let him stew as she takes a sip from her Big Belly Burger cup, careful to ensure none of the blood smears on her lips. He's just starting to get a little antsy, that thousand-watt smile starting to fade, when she answers. "Damage seems to be contained to the screen," she notes in a thoughtful tone. Then she picks it up, examining the bottom. "The hard drive compartment seems to have survived the carnage intact." She stops to level a look at him. "Which, by the way, would have been one of the first things damaged if you spilled something in the keyboard." Mr. Diggle actually laughs at that, even as Oliver throws him a look. "The components are delicate, so no promises, but I've done more with less." She frowns. "But if the smallest thing is wrong with the power supply when I boot it up, this whole thing could become a very expensive paperweight."
He slides forward, to the edge of his seat. "I'm willing to try if you are," he answers with a shrug. "Go ahead and see what happens."
She nods. "I'm your girl," Felicity answers absently as she starts to hook up the laptop, but then she cringes. "I mean, I'm not your girl—I wasn't making a pass at you." After stopping to wave a hand, she adds honestly, "I don't think you've ever done anything bad enough to deserve that."
Fortunately, the laptop powers up without a problem, the screen popping up on the troubleshooting monitor without a hitch. At least, until the password prompt pops up. Felicity turns to Oliver with a smirk, careful not to flash her teeth. "Let me guess, you forgot your password, too?"
Despite the obvious lie, she can't help but admit that his self-deprecating smile is spot-on. "I really need to remove that feature—I can't seem to keep up with mine."
Felicity rolls her eyes as she plugs the laptop up to her main computer, then pulls up the password override software. "It should take a few minutes to override," she informs him. "It would be faster to do it by hand, but I'd have to access—" His eyes actually glaze over, and she remembers that not everyone finds this as fascinating as she does. "Sorry to bore you with the techno-speak. It will be done in a few minutes." To fill the following silence, she takes a long drink from her cup.
Mr. Diggle seems to be the first to notice the logo and put two and two together. "I hope we didn't interrupt your lunch break, Miss Smoak," he hints before giving Oliver a look. "If you'd like, we can always come back later to pick up that information."
"Felicity," she insists firmly. "'Miss Smoak' makes me feel like I should be in a period drama. And my lunch hour ended at eleven," she assures him. "You've saved me from another four hours of complete boredom. I've mostly been tinkering around with computers to avoid reading the rest of my book." She points to it on the corner of her desk. "It's actually kind of awful, but I always finish books when I start reading them. And I refuse to let this piece of misery become the black mark on my record."
Because Oliver seems to be quiet and tends not to ask any questions, she assumes it's because he's a bored billionaire and, while polite, he doesn't really give a damn about carrying on conversation with a woman who clearly has no interest in taking him to bed. (What he doesn't know is that he wouldn't want her to, anyway. Felicity has a tendency to bite—and not in the fun way. More in the I'm-going-to-drain-you-dry way.)
However, the blonde vampire decides that she's read him completely wrong when he picks up the book with a curious frown, turning it over in his hand to read the synopsis. Maybe she's mistaken his self-contained personality for disinterest. Finally he finishes reading it, looking between her and the book he places back on her desk in precisely the same spot. "A vampire novel?" he asks her, tilting his head to the side in a mixture of surprise and confusion.
The one plus of being a vampire, Felicity has always thought, is that her blood typically doesn't flow as well to the surface capillaries, mostly ridding her of the ability to blush in embarrassment. However, she finds that, every great once in a while, she can manage a pink tint across her cheeks if she's suitably embarrassed.
When her skin suddenly feels warm across her face, she knows it's one of those rare instances. She tries to shrug it off, though, like she isn't completely mortified that Oliver Queen just called her out. "Guilty pleasure," she explains, even though it's more like a study in sociology for her. It's interesting how humans see the race they believe to be mythical, how many variations there are.
Fortunately, the computer finishes breaking the password before she has to explain further. With a triumphant smile, Felicity says, "I'm in." Oliver leans across the desk to see the screen, and she waves him to move around the desk with a roll of her eyes. If he's still trying to insist this is his computer, the least he could do is act like he isn't curious.
"Doesn't look like there's much on here," she comments, pulling up the list of files. "Two emails to an anonymous remailer service and an image file." Felicity turns to look at him. "The emails are encrypted, and I can't trace them, anyway. But the picture? I can work with that." She takes a deep breath through her nose before turning back to the screen, and that's when his scent finally reaches her senses.
To say it hits her like a battering ram would be an understatement. The scent isn't particularly potent or strong; it's subtle, and he certainly doesn't smell bad. (His human scent, she means, the one that identifies him to her independently. Of course he doesn't smell bad to other humans; he's so loaded up on nice soaps and colognes that, as her gran would say, he smells like a French perfume shop.) Maybe it's the soap thing that masked it for her at first, but no way would she fail to recognize how wonderful he smells at close proximity like this.
Or how much he smells like a certain arrow-wielding vigilante.
Suddenly it all makes sense to her: the laptop, the pathetic lies, the way he made sure to visit her with his computer problems, the smile that seemed way too familiar, the eyes that seem to focus on the room too sharply for a partying billionaire. Apparently Oliver Queen is more than he seems, much like Felicity herself. For the first time, she finds herself curious about his five-year trip to an uncharted island, wondering just what could possibly turn a womanizer into a vigilante.
As it is, she tries to save those thoughts for later; she'll have plenty of time to think about Oliver Queen when she pretends to sleep today. Instead, she brings up the picture, taking a drink as she tilts her head to the side to study it for a moment. "These look like blueprints," she notes.
Oliver responds by dropping a hand on the back of her chair, his fingers brushing between her shoulder blades as he leans over her shoulder to get a better look at the screen. His other hand reaches over her shoulder, resting the heel of his palm on the desk next to the hand she had on her mouse. Though he doesn't realize it, he's taunting the beast with his close proximity, and her eye teeth start to extend of their own accord. No biting, Felicity tries to remind herself. The message is immediately discarded, however, when his breath tickles her ear as he responds, "Do you know what of?"
It takes all of her self-control to keep her fangs from extending beyond her lips. She clamps her jaw together, eyes watering as the fangs in her overbite pierce her own gum line. It does the trick, though, because they start to retract. "It looks like the exchange building—the one where the Unidac Industries auction is scheduled to take place." She can't help fixing him with a knowing smirk as she turns to study his face. "I thought you said this was your laptop."
Without missing a beat, he nods several times in succession. "Yes," he answers with false solemnity.
The whole scenario is so ludicrous that Felicity can't suppress a laugh as she shakes her head, and Oliver Queen looks utterly pleased with himself. Clearly she isn't going to get any answers out of him like this. Maybe when she wraps her head around this mess, she can try to confront him about it. "As something of note," she adds as she pulls up the screen, "this is a company laptop associated with one of the guys that are competing for it, Warren Patel." She turns to him. "As a side note, so is Walter Steele. Does that help you with… whatever you needed to know?"
It takes him a moment to respond, as though he's assessing her before trusting her with even the answer to this one question. "It does," Oliver decides to answer finally, slowly pulling himself upright. The hand on the back of her chair moves to her shoulder, and Felicity wonders if he's that oblivious, or if just likes flirting with danger. "Thank you, Felicity."
That's the final thing to confirm his identity: the way he says her name, with a quiet yet burning curiosity. Almost like he's trying to figure out the puzzle of Felicity Smoak, the same way she's trying to decipher Oliver Queen. "Not a problem, Oliver," she assures him, surprised to find that it's the truth. "It was… weird meeting you, but in a good way."
Mr. Diggle actually chuckles at that. "I think that's probably nicer than he deserves," he adds with some seriousness. "I hope this is the weirdest thing that happens to you this week, though."
After shutting down and unhooking the laptop, Felicity pulls one of her business cards from the holder in the front of the desk, preparing to write on the back of it. Having a sudden urge to throw a cat among the pigeons, she answers dryly, "It's already too late for that, Mr. Diggle. Yesterday I was saved by a guy in a Halloween costume who uses a weapon that hasn't been considered modern since the seventeen-hundreds. This is nothing."
For a brief moment as he processes, the bodyguard's eyes flick to Oliver with confusion across his features before throwing a soft laugh at Felicity. The vigilante himself is more restrained, meeting her gaze with a perfect poker face. At least she knows he can lie, but for some reason he's choosing to do it badly around her. Still, it confirms an important point: John Diggle knows, and he's in on it somehow. However, he didn't know that Oliver saved her last night, which is an interesting mystery.
Felicity finishes writing on the back of the business card, then holds it out to Oliver. "In case you have any… sensitive computer problems that you don't want Tech Village to know about, that's my address." He seems surprised, even though they both know he's already aware of where she lives. "I work the night shift—four to seven—but you can drop by there during the day if you need to."
He takes the card with a slight nod before saying, "Goodnight, Felicity." With that, he nods at the bodyguard, and both of them leave just as quietly as they arrived. With a burning sense of curiosity, Felicity watches them go. Of the many things she hates, one of them will always be mysteries, and Oliver Queen is a giant mystery. The compulsion to solve it comes to her, but she forces it down for the moment. Later, she'll figure out what to do about it.
She arrives home four hours later to find a voice modulator on the bar in her kitchen with a note scrawled on it in a rough hand. Thank you, it says—nothing more—but it makes Felicity smile so wide her teeth show. Of course he would drop it off while she was at work, when she wouldn't see him come or go. Part of her wonders if he dropped it there before or after he came to see her at Tech Village. Still wide awake, she pulls a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream out of her refrigerator and a spoon out of the drawer, deciding she needs to process this a little.
When she drops the repaired modulator on the table two hours later, she smirks as she writes the answering note.
Playlist:
"Weightless" - All Time Low
"Mz. Hyde" - Halestorm
"In the Middle of the Night" - Within Temptation
"Afterlife" - Avenged Sevenfold
"M.I.N.E. (End This Way)" - Five Finger Death Punch
"Break" - Three Days Grace
"Believe" - Hollywood Undead
"Careful" - Paramore
"Absolute" - Thousand Foot Krutch
"Heaven Knows" - The Pretty Reckless
