Work Title: Curiosity Killed the Cat
Part: 1 - Curiosity Killed the Cat...
Word Count: 9120
Notes: After a long drive arguing with myself, I've decided to gift this to alexiablackbriar13 on Tumblr as a late birthday present because this is the kind of thing I never would have written if I'd never met her. Her AUs are fantasy and fun, just crazy enough to work. And if I emhadn't/em met her, I would have had this idea and never thought, "Let's see how this plays out on paper."
Beyond that... I literally do not know what happened. I've written some weird freaking stuff in my day, but I just got this image in my head and I had to. I would say it's midnight crack!fic, but I had this idea while driving home from school. And crack!fic usually doesn't take itself seriously, but I take everything I write seriously, so maybe not crack. Don't know.
Basically, brace yourselves because it's about to get weird in here.
If you find it in yourselves to respond, thank you. If you take the time to read this insanity, thank you. If you can't handle the crazy, the exit is the big X located at the top right corner of your browser and thanks for playing. :D
More notes at the bottom.
Though it's below freezing in Starling City, Oliver perches on the breezy rooftop without feeling the cold night air. It should bother him, but after ten years away from home and eight of them on the island, he doesn't even really feel it anymore. It could be years of conditioning, and he'd like to tell himself that, but more likely it's the nature of what Shado turned him into three years ago.
When she told him how she'd saved his life, Oliver thought she'd damned him to a fate worse than death. But despite his original fears, being a vampire barely affects his life on a day-to-day basis. He doesn't notice anyone else's blood, other than a slight pulse in his ears, and he only has to feed once week or so unless he's injured. When he's thirsty, he doesn't feel compelled to bite people. The first time he was home, he hesitated around the Queen family silverware, but, to his surprise, it didn't burn him. He sunburns a little faster than he used to, but other than that, sunlight doesn't affect him, either.
But the biggest problem is immortality, a complication he'll have to deal with in a decade or so.
Though his newfound vampire situation has its difficulties—like trying to steal blood from the hospitals or blood banks—it's mostly a manageable situation. He stores extra blood in the fridge in the basement for his nightly activities as the Arrow, and if he plans to be out in the sun for too long, he has to use a high-SPF sunblock. Hiding his fangs is a constant chore, making sure not to smile too wide or yawn without covering his mouth. Not being able to sleep is a little annoying at times, even though it gives him more time to try and save the city in the only way he knows how. And having to ask permission to enter non-public places is a pain in the ass, but it's far better than the black scorch mark that appears down his bicep for a few weeks.
The real challenge, however, are the damn cats. Ever since Shado turned him into a vampire, nocturnal predators tend to find comfort in his presence—and none more so than felines. He doesn't understand why or how, but since becoming a nocturnal predator himself, every cat with in a five hundred foot radius seems to find him fascinating. It was a problem that plagued Shado on the island, too; every big cat on the island found her and followed her around. And now, after the destruction that happened in the Glades while he was away, hundreds of cats roam the city, most nights making him feel like the Pied Piper of cats.
Even now he can feel one making a figure-eight around his legs, and when he looks down, a kitten that might be a calico under all the grime is rubbing up against his boots. Sighing, he picks up the little feline and places it at arm's length on the rooftop before whispering to it, "Go on—get out of here." Unsurprisingly, it does; they seem to understand what he wants them to do, even if they don't understand his words. Since becoming a vampire, he hasn't been scratched by a cat, and even once, a leopard curled up next to him on a particularly cold night when he was alone and injured.
But the great thing about being immortal is that he's in absolutely no hurry for the monster in the alleyway to move into position beneath him while closing in on the woman he's cornered. The scum lurking three stories below Oliver is a predator he doesn't allow to hunt in his city.
Finally when the mark moves into position, Oliver leaps off the building, landing just behind the man he means to stop. Before the monster can even move, the vigilante pins him to the opposite wall, calling over his shoulder to the woman, "Go." She does as he asks, which allows him to turn his attention to the bastard before him, who is already shaking in his hands. "I'm going to let you live tonight," he promises under the deep voice modulator, "but if you ever try to hurt another woman again, I'm going to pin your heart to this wall." He's met with shaking. "Have I made myself clear?"
His answer comes in the way of vigorous nodding, and Oliver releases his grip on the scum. "Now get out of here before I change my mind," he declares, and the would-be rapist need not be told twice. By the time he hits the main street, he's already screaming, the noise shrill and high pitched. The vampire can't help but smile, not caring if he flashes his teeth while under the hood. At least the mask gives him some anonymity.
A noise catches his attention, and he turns to it, nocking an arrow and drawing his bow in seconds. When he makes out the silhouette of pointed ears against the dark brick walls, he sighs, lowering it and replacing the arrow. Just another damn cat, as always, even if it is obscured by the dumpster.
The cat strides out into view, stopping in the mouth of the alleyway and effectively blocking his exit. For being a nonhuman animal, it seems just as surprised to see him as he is to see it, a foot left suspended in the air as it stares at him with an intelligence in its eyes that borders on eerie. Because cats, the billionaire can handle—and has been for years. But in all his time, he has never in his life seen a cat quite like this one.
It's big for a cat, perhaps just as tall at the shoulders as a Great Dane. Its fur falls in long, wavy tendrils that somehow aren't tangled despite it being feral, most of its coat a dark mix of black, brown, and red in stripes of each color blending together. Raised ears flick back and forth as it stares at him, with tufts of ebony fur standing upright at the top of them. Oliver has never faced a cat quite like this before, and he knows for a fact that this one is a wild creature, not meant to be a pet but a scavenger in the city.
For a moment, all he can do is stare at it, but finally he comes to his senses. "Get out of here," he whispers to it, feeling just as ridiculous as he always does when he talks to them. Oliver expects compliance because it's what he usually receives in return, but instead the… lynx—if that's even what it is—sits down defiantly in his path out of the alley. Its head tilts to the side, tail flicking back and forth as it stares at him. Only then does he realize it has fangs not unlike his own, protruding out of its mouth and hanging down in sharp points.
Because he's not going to risk moving too close to a wild cat even with his typical luck with felines, he only scowls at it before firing an arrow and returning to the same rooftop he came from. Though he probably shouldn't, he can't resist looking down to see if the cat was actually real, or if it existed at all. It isn't there when he looks, and he frowns at himself; he didn't know hallucinations were part of being a vampire.
A small mewing sound draws his attention, and Oliver looks over to see the same cat as before on the rooftop, sitting and staring at him again, tail flicking in a lazy pattern of movement all the while. He resists the urge to shoot it with an arrow—of course the damn thing is going to follow him now. The last thing he needs is a cat prowling around him, announcing his presence and making him lose the element of surprise.
This time, he doesn't try to call out to it, but instead ignores as he traverses the rooftops. It follows closely on his heels, never breaking stride even through some dangerous stunts. After a while, he decides to go to ground in an alley, confident he can outrun the beast on the ground. But when he jumps, it doesn't follow, only staring at him over the edge of the rooftop with its head tilted to the side, as if to judge his decision to leave the rooftops.
Footsteps draw his attention, and he turns just in time to watch a police officer on patrol make the corner, pulling his gun as he takes in the hood. "SCPD, you're under arrest—" he starts, but he doesn't get the opportunity to finish because he's interrupted by a feral screech and his own screaming.
Though there's nothing funny about the situation, Oliver can't fight the way the corners of his mouth twist up at the officer's screaming when the oversized, feral cat lands on him, hissing and clawing with a ferociousness he didn't expect. Fur flies everywhere as the officer tries to push it off between nonsensical phrases. After a long moment, it finally chooses to let him up from the ground, and the officer runs out of the alleyway covered in red claw marks and a torn uniform.
The lynx, for its part, simply turns to stare at him again, red glinting at the ends of its teeth and soaking across the pads of its feet. It makes no move to attack Oliver, and he realizes that it isn't going to. The damn cat probably just saved him from being shot or arrested—or both. As that realization hits him, he mutters aloud to it, "I guess you aren't as useless as you look."
In response, the feral cat's ears lie flat against its head, and it hisses at him, tail lashing back and forth, and despite the warning it presents, it makes no move to attack him. Though it makes no sense, the only conclusion Oliver can come to is that he offended the damn thing somehow. Feeling like an idiot, he tells it, "Thank you." Its ears stand erect again, and it makes a low noise that he can't decipher He takes slow steps out of the alley, surprised when it doesn't turn to follow him; after all that time following him, even a cat doesn't change its mind that fast.
In a weary breath, he asks it, "Are you coming or not?"
Though he doesn't look back, Oliver can feel the wild cat trailing behind him. It should probably bother him that something is following him back to his lair, but he doesn't mind. A sense of loneliness has been plaguing him for a long time, but there's been little chance to do something about it. On the island, was forced to be alone through most parts of it, and now he has no choice but to keep everyone at arm's length due to the nature of what he does.
He can't help but think that Thea might have enjoyed if he could only tell it to her; she has loved cats ever since she was a kid and she volunteers at an animal shelter in the Glades after school. She's been dragging home pets since she could walk, and she seems to be very knowledgeable about them. Maybe he'll ask her about this one, see if she knows what the hell it is.
By the time his wandering thoughts clear, Oliver is standing in front of the heavy industrial door of what used to be the Queen steel factory. After typing in the code, he throws the door open, motioning for the lynx to enter. It takes a few slow steps forward on its long limbs, but instead of walking into the basement, it knocks its head against his hip, causing the vigilante to stumble. From there, it rubs its side against him as it passes. The cat makes a soft rumbling sound he more feels than hears, and he can only assume it's purring at him.
When he follows the feral cat, the corner of the archer's mouth lifts up as he watches it make a circle in the center of the room before climbing into the chair in front of his computer desk and starts licking its bloodstained paws. He pulls down the hood and removes his gloves and quiver as the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the metal gurney catches his attention, giving him an idea. He grabs the bottle and a towel from underneath the gurney, approaching the lynx with slow, measured steps.
It watches him, but doesn't tense as he approaches or show any signs of aggression as he sinks down in a crouch in front of it. "I'm going to clean you up," he warns it, squirting some of the hydrogen peroxide on his own hand as demonstration. Then he squirts the towel and, as though reaching for a hot coal, he latches onto the cat's foot.
To his surprise, it doesn't react, doesn't lash out at him. Instead, it lets him lift its foot into the air and wipe the blood away from each of its front paws. He expects resistance when he goes for the cat's muzzle, but it lets him anyway. Once he finishes, it simply runs its tongue around the outside of his mouth before dropping onto the floor in front of him. Only then does he realize that its eyes are a shade between blue and green, its slit-like pupils wide in the dark room.
From there, he rises to his feet, walking over to the mini-fridge he put downstairs when he first started this mission to save the city. Oliver pulls out a packet of blood, pouring it into the silver thermos and taking a drink before sitting down in the same chair the cat occupied earlier. From there, he turns to the computer to check the news websites for potential targets, but the familiar sound of arrows clattering to the floor interrupts him. He turns at the sound, only to discover the damn cat draped across the long desk with its front paws tucked under it, staring at him with innocent eyes, despite the arrows he was working on strewn all over the floor.
"You're too big for the desk," he growls at it, causing the beast to tilt its head to the side, ears standing erect. "Get down." As expected, it only continues to stare at him without blinking. Almost as if in defiance, it pulls its front paws out from under its torso, letting one dangle off the desk and the other draping across his arm. When he doesn't respond to the action, the cat paws at him, which he also ignores, turning back to his computer screen.
That's when the damn thing bites him.
It isn't hard enough to draw blood, just a playful nip at his hand to draw his attention. He glares at it, throwing its leg off his arm, which is met with a low growl. Of course it had to be cats—Oliver never really even liked the damn things when he was human, and especially not now that they serve as such nuisances in his life. He takes another sip from his thermos before saying to it in a flare of irritation, "Don't you have something better to do?"
In response, all it does is reach out for his hand again, almost biting it again before he wrenches his hand back. Though he tries to fight it, the corners of his mouth turn up of their own accord, and he reaches out to run a hand over its head. The action is met with a sound that resembles purring, especially when he scratches behind its ears. Oliver isn't sure how long the moment lasts, but then it jumps down from the desk, moving to his cot in the back of the room and lying across it, watching him with those blue-green eyes and a tail flicking back and forth in curiosity.
The two of them spend the rest of the night like that, in a relative quiet. Even though his newfound friend doesn't do anything else to try and gain his attention, the cat somehow manages to provide a nice, comfortable feeling of companionship through the night. Time passes at a relatively fast pace, until scratching and yowling gets his attention. When he looks up, Oliver finds the beast scratching at the door as though frantic for escape.
Frowning, the archer rises to his feet, walking to the doorway and typing in the code to open it. He expects the feral cat to run out, but instead it takes a moment to rub against his leg as it brushes past him again in that same affectionate gesture from before. Scowling as he shuts the door again, Oliver turns back to his clothes lying on a table next to the cot, deciding it's time to return home and call it a night—or perhaps a very early morning.
Because, as much as he hates to admit it, the place is a little too quiet all of the sudden.
While he can't tell Thea about his cat situation, as he sits at the bar of Tommy's nightclub, Verdant, Oliver settles for telling his best friend about it while he tries to do inventory of the bar. Once he finishes the story, the Merlyn heir laughs. "Sounds like she adopted you, Ollie," he teases, reaching for a bottle of alcohol at the top shelf of the bar. Even when he stretches, the shelf is too high, so the next thing the archer knows, a black bear is cradling the bottle between both paws, standing probably ten feet tall on its hind legs. As soon as he has hold of the bottle, Tommy shifts back, cataloguing it as though nothing ever happened. "I think cats are just like that," he continues with a grin. "When they like you, they're going to claim you—whether you like it or not."
While Tommy's ability to shapeshift has always seemed a little fantastical when they were kids, Oliver doesn't really even think about it anymore. It's a part of who he is, not unlike having brown eyes and dark hair. Since he's been back from the island, though, the vampire has had even less trouble accepting the impossible than he did before. "You've gotten better at shifting," he can't help but note to his best friend, a hint of pride touching his voice as he finishes up the last of his thermos of blood he started last night.
To his surprise, Tommy smiles, too. "I guess I've finally learned to accept I'm a freak of nature," he answers with a laugh. He throws another grin the archer's way. "After all, if my best friend can handle being a vampire, I can handle being a shifter." He tilts his head to the side. "Is it weird that I'm completely okay with you being a vampire but having a hard time accepting that you're the Vigilante?"
Oliver cracks a small smile at his best friend. "Not really," he assures him. "The supernatural has been your normal for a long time, Tommy." After all, his father, Malcolm had been a shapeshifter, too, and had spent their childhood shifting for laughs until Tommy's mom had died and he left. In a very rare moment, the vigilante allows himself a smile wide enough to flash his fangs. "I'm just glad I have someone to talk about this with—you must have felt pretty alone as a kid." He can't imagine what it must have been like to live in a world full of humans and know that you're nothing like the people around you.
"Never," Tommy answers on the heels of Oliver's words, his tone firm and confident, as if trying to assure his best friend of something. "You may not be a shifter, Ollie, but you've been really cool about what I am—who I am." He writes something down about the bottle of wine he pulled from the top shelf before adding, "Honestly? I'm kind of glad you're a vampire now so I can try to be the same friend to you that you were to me through all those years."
Though the change in conversation is probably going to become more serious, Oliver can't stop himself from asking, "Have you told Laurel yet?" It's one of the biggest surprises in his life that after being gone for ten years, he came back to thfind that his best friend and his ex-girlfriend had been together for the last three years or so. They seem to be happy together, and while Oliver will probably always be in love with her, he knows that it can't happen now. Not with his immortality issues; it wouldn't be fair to either of them.
Despite that, Tommy still hasn't told her about his ability to shapeshift—or the impossibly long life span that comes with his own situation. While Oliver understands his dilemma, he knows that Tommy won't be truly happy with Laurel until he stops lying to her by omission. Already the archer can tell by his best friend's sigh what the answer will be. "No," he says in a flat tone. "I know it's crazy, but what if it freaks her out enough to leave?"
"Then she doesn't deserve you," the vigilante answers in a tone to mirror Tommy's own. Perhaps it's oversimplifying the issue, but his ability to shift shouldn't affect their relationship in any way—not if Laurel loves him as much as she says she does. It should be another fact about him to file away with clinical detachment, not a reason to leave. "I know it's easy for me to say that," Oliver tacks on, "but it's the truth, Tommy."
Though he says it aloud for his friend's comfort, the nagging part of Oliver reminds him that relationships between humans and Myths, as Tommy calls immortal creatures like the two of them, always seem to end tragically somehow. Tommy's dad spent a lifetime mourning Rebecca's death, and when he died in the earthquake, it was no doubt still heartbroken from his wife's murder. And then Shado and Slade had loved each other so intensely and so completely, only to end with her crying over his lifeless body. It had changed her, hardened her after that, and Oliver remembers her saying to him once, For creatures like us, Oliver, loving a human is deadlier than a bullet to the brain.
Perhaps immortality is empty, then, but at least he has an infinite amount of time to find someone.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Tommy adds in a soft voice, "And then I'm worried what happens to us in the long run. I'll live forever, Ollie, but she won't." He shakes his head before scratching at one of his slender, pointed ears. He's always had them, and Oliver just assumes they're a feature unique to shapeshifters. "I feel like there's always a clock ticking in the background somewhere."
"There always is," the archer answers, finding truth in it. "Tommy, we might be able to live forever, but that doesn't mean we will." Because despite being immortal, the two of them aren't invincible, and Oliver's chances of dying young are much higher than a human's with his given line of work. But the island gave him the ability to see beyond the ticking clock—to live for today and hope for tomorrow. "But it isn't about that. Life is too short not to love someone, however short a time." Despite the curse of their relationship, both Slade and Shado had the opportunity to love completely, without reservation or jealousy. Maybe there's a piece of salvation in that, too.
Tommy scoffs at him, turning to humor when the subject cuts so close to home. "When did you get so wise, Ollie? Did you meet Yoda on that island or something?" He cracks a smile, and Oliver returns it with a smaller one, though just as genuine. "You're starting to sound like a one-woman kind of guy, and we both know that's not your speed."
It still isn't his way. At first when he arrived home, Oliver found women in clubs not unlike Verdant, until he found little interest in it. Indiscriminate sex had been a way of lashing out as a teenager, but now he just finds it tiresome to strike up the same conversation every night, to manipulate variations of the same women to invite him home for the night. Perhaps it's not satisfying in the same way, but at least he feels like, by donning the hood, he's giving his life meaning somehow, whereas meaningless sex just feels pointless at the end of the day.
Taking mock offense, Oliver straightens a little on the bar stool before saying, "I could be—if I found the right woman." He can't even say it with a straight face; there's no question that Oliver is never going to be the type to settle down. The motto of his youth had been something along the lines of live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse. Though he's mellowed somewhat, it still isn't that far off the mark with the dangerous stunts he pulls. And Oliver isn't going to bring anyone he cares about into this life of dangerous but meaningful work.
Snorting, Tommy answers, "She'd have to be one hell of a woman, Ollie."
It takes Oliver about a week to find the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity, cornering Thea in the hall of the mansion one day after managing to get away from his bodyguard for a few moments. He expected that he'd never see his feline companion again after that first night, but instead, the beast had been waiting for him in front of the locked door the next night, staring at him with those too-intelligent eyes and its head cocked to the side. It hasn't missed a night since, sometimes yowling at the door after he's already arrived and sometimes already there waiting for him.
Despite his initial hesitance to somewhat adopt a cat—the same creature that he spends most nights trying to avoid—the cat in question is more companion than pet. He doesn't feed it and it doesn't try to steal food from him when he brings down food from the Big Belly Burger several blocks away. It rarely demands attention from him other than when he first arrives. And, more surprisingly, it usually follows him on patrol, sometimes lending assistance in the form of distracting guards and, one very interesting occasion, gouging a man's eyes out when Oliver was pinned down.
And, when he had been hit with one of Deadshot's poisoned bullets a few nights ago, it had stayed with him, curling up against his side with wide, alert eyes as he slept off the effects of the curare.
Now, however, his curiosity has the better of him, and he knows just who to ask. "Hey, Thea," he calls after his sister, who whirls in place to stare at Oliver. He holds up his phone, smiling at his sister. "I was going to get food the other night, and I saw a different kind of cat." He flicks through his photos to the one he took of it last night, lounging in front of the doorway. "I haven't seen one like it before, and I wondered if you can tell me what it is." He holds out the phone for her to take.
Studying it after zooming in and out on the screen, Thea squints at it with that same sort of excitement lighting up her face that he sees when she talks about the shelter. "Do you know if it's a tom or a queen?" she asks him, never looking away from the picture.
"What?" The words are nothing more than nonsense to him, things that he doesn't understand.
Only then does Thea look up. "A male cat is called a tom," she explains, "and a female cat is called a queen. Do you know if this one is male or female?"
"No idea," Oliver answers truthfully. Friendly or not, it's a feral cat, which makes it unpredictable. If he started poking around to try and determine sex, he has no idea how it would respond, and his sister has enough scars up and down her arms from pissed off, ten-pound housecats to let him know that he does not want to anger a beast that probably weighs eighty pounds or so. With the truth, he adds a lie: "I didn't get close enough to tell."
Thea frowns a little before responding, "From the picture, it looks like a longhair torbie of some sort." His brow furrows at the information, and she clarifies for him. "'Torbie' is short for tortoiseshell tabby. It's hard to tell from the picture, but if it is, it's probably a female—it takes two X chromosomes to be a tortoiseshell or a calico. Sometimes things go wrong and you can get an XXY-male, but those are pretty rare." She shrugs self-consciously at Oliver's raised eyebrows. "What? I paid attention in the genetics section of biology. It doesn't bore me to tears."
After taking a moment to digest that information, Oliver hedges, "It was a pretty big cat. Is there any way to tell what breed it is?"
His sister stares at it a moment longer before answering, "Usually we can't really tell cat breeds unless they've come from a breeder. So we just call them by their coat—this one is a domestic longhair of some sort. But if it's big, it could part Maine Coon. They can usually hit twenty, twenty-five pounds. They're usually pretty nice, too."
Oliver bites back a snort. "This one was bigger than that," he says instead, furrowing his brow in confusion that isn't all just show. "It was probably eighty pounds or more—and it has fangs." He points to the picture, zooming in to show her the proof of that. "I thought it was a wild cat of some kind."
It's Thea's turn to frown. "That's weird," she says aloud, her brow furrowing as she stares at the picture. "If it's that big, it's probably a wild cat of some sort, but it has markings like a housecat." She frowns at him, handing back the phone. "Maybe it's a hybrid of some sort. I've never heard of one that size, but it could happen." With a smile, she adds, "We had a few wire-haired boxer puppies in the shelter a few weeks ago because a breeder's full-grown boxer was in heat and their less-than-twenty-pound terrier mounted it." She flashes him a devious smile. "Stranger things have happened."
Smiling too, Oliver can't help but agree; after all, he's a vampire, his best friend is a shapeshifter, and he seems to have been adopted by a wild cat. If that's a possibility in the universe, then everything else by association isn't so strange. "Thank you for looking into it, though," he answers, bending over to kiss her forehead, causing his sister to beam in return.
He's already moving by the time she calls out behind him, "You can thank me in chocolate and a clothing allowance!"
Ignoring her, Oliver makes his way down to the foyer, where Walter is sitting and reading the financial section of the newspaper. It's a little surreal at times, Oliver can't help but think; his father has been dead a long time, but yet he didn't expect to come home and find his mother four years into a marriage with another man. Robert might have been legally dead for six years by then, but somehow Oliver still can't picture his mother with anyone else. Yet Walter is still sitting in the foyer, relaxed and at home.
Just this one instance, however, Oliver knows how to best use Walter's presence to his advantage. After all, the vigilante has an assassin's laptop burning a hole on his desk in the base, and he doesn't have a clue how to get anything from it. Surely the CFO knows a few IT experts at Queen Consolidated who can help him, hopefully without asking questions since Oliver's last name is on the side of the building. Discretion, however, is another matter entirely.
"Walter," he starts without preamble, scratching his head and donning perhaps a more mature variant of his pre-island persona that they've come to expect. "I bought a new laptop last week and was trying to set it up last night." Oliver shifts in place for show. "Only problem is, it's been so long since I had one that I don't know how to do anything with it now. Is there anyone you can think of that I could go see at the office who might be able to help me with it?"
Though Walter looks up at him, it's more out of courtesy than surprise or deep thought. "Felicity Smoak," he says without reservation, and the mention of the name pulls a smile out of the usually reserved Englishman for some reason. "My computer crashed after a corrupted update last year, and most of our technicians were baffled. I managed to catch her when I called down to the office one day, and she had it repaired in a couple of hours." Then he flips the page of the newspaper. "If you're having problems, Oliver, I would recommend going to see her on the eighteenth floor."
Just as he finishes his sentence, one John Diggle rounds the corner, finally catching up to Oliver after he ditched the bodyguard nearly two hours ago. Still, there are some conversations that Diggle doesn't need to hear, and Oliver doesn't like being watched all over his own home; it makes him feel like he's a rat in a cage, and the survivor has had enough of cages for one lifetime. "Thanks, Walter. I appreciate your help," Oliver says, which earns him a nod in return.
Then he pats Diggle's arm in more taunt than anything as he brushes past the bodyguard. "Follow me, Mr. Diggle—we have somewhere to be today."
Of all the things he expected this morning when he woke up, Oliver did not anticipate Felicity Smoak in any way, shape, form, or fashion. When the tech points him toward her office after he ditches his bodyguard, the billionaire refrains from asking the clerk if he's sure he has the right person. While it's probably his own stereotypes at work, but he had a certain idea about a woman who would work in IT, and she doesn't meet his image in any way.
Though it's inappropriate, he can't help but study her for a brief moment, watching her swivel the desk chair between one side of her wraparound desk to the other, a red pen stuck between bright fuchsia lips, a shade he might have considered garish on anyone else. But somehow it just seems to… fit her somehow, just like the long, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, her square-framed glasses, and the turquoise polish on her short fingernails.
On anyone else, he would probably think the simple white button-down paired with a purple skirt and bright yellow heels was some sort of attention-seeking getup, but it's clear by her focus on the work at hand that the woman before him does not dress to attract attention, but as a way of expressing herself in what he imagines to be a very uncreative, logical profession.
After a moment, Oliver manages to find his voice again, shifting the laptop to his other hand so he can knock on the door frame. She jumps at the sound as he calls out, tentative, "Felicity Smoak?"
Her mouth falls open, forgetting the red pen for a moment but catching it before it tumbles to the floor. Color rises to her face in embarrassment, and he shouldn't find that as intriguing as he does. Her mouth opens several times, but no words come out. Though it's unnecessary, he adds to fill the silence, "I'm Oliver Queen."
That seems to give the ability to speak back to her. "I know who you are," she answers in assurance, in a tone that makes him think that, if she were the kind of person to say duh, that would have been the moment she chose to do so. Her brown eyes feel as though they're seeing through him for an uncomfortably long moment before she tacks on in an almost frantic tone, "I mean, how could I not? You're"—she waves her hands wide with a grand gesture—"Mr. Queen." She says it with emphasis, as though it's something sacred.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but he manages to contain the smile. Despite his control over his own features, Oliver can't keep the thought that accompanies it from escaping: How is this woman even real? She's not even trying (God help him if she ever does), but he finds the honesty in her speech both intriguing and refreshing. Despite that, he can't allow her to call him Mr. Queen. "No," he cuts across it, dismissing the thought as quickly as he can. "'Mr. Queen' was my father. I'm just Oliver."
"But he died," she blurts. Under different circumstances, it might offend him, but the wince that follows behind her words assures him it was a verbal gaffe and nothing more. And the idea of her blurting out her thoughts by accident captivates him in its own way; even now, he lacks that kind of rare honesty in his world. "I mean," she tries to recover, "he drowned."
When she winces this time, a flash of frustration follows—aimed at herself, not him. "But you didn't, which is why you can come to the IT department and listen to me attempt to get myself fired. And I am going to string together a coherent sentence in three… two… one." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before flashing him a sunny smile. "So, just Oliver, what can I do for you?"
This time he can't contain the smile, breaking so wide across his face that he flashes her his fangs, which she doesn't seem to notice. "I seem to be having some trouble with my computer," Oliver manages to say, though his voice comes out with an uncontained, breathy laugh. She holds out her hand for it, and he slips the laptop into her hands. "If there's anything you can do to salvage it, I would really appreciate it." Wanting to say more but unsure of what to say, he struggles for an explanation, leaping at the first one he can think of. "I was surfing the web and I spilled a latte on it."
His cover story is shot to hell, though, the moment she opens the lid. The vigilante expects her to balk at the sight before her, but Felicity doesn't even flinch. "Really," she drawls in a sarcastic tone as she circles a bullet hole in the screen. "Because, see, these look like bullet holes." Oliver opens his mouth to spout another lie, but the blonde actually holds up her hand to stop him, staring up at him while pushing her glasses up her nose. "Spare me another blatantly obvious lie, Oliver." She huffs out a breath in frustration, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "I don't know what this is about, but I know enough not to ask any questions. Instead of telling me that your coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood, maybe you could tell me what you want off of this thing."
Making the decision to trust her is a difficult, complicated one, but after a long moment, he finally admits, "I just need to know what's on it first, please. We'll go from there." Motioning to the chair next to her, Oliver asks, "Is it okay if I…?" For some reason, hesitance makes him trail off, though it would be a simple sentence to finish.
Felicity throws him a blinding smile, as though he hadn't just lied to her earlier. He wonders what it would be like to have that kind of faith in the world. Oliver isn't sure if he ever has. "Of course," she assures him, waving a hand toward it. Even better is the fact she doesn't try to make small talk as she plugs up the laptop to a screen, instead biting her lip and drumming her fingers against the desk. It's clear that she's dying to talk to him, but has no idea what to say.
Deciding to take mercy on her, Oliver finally says, "Thank you, Felicity." Something in his tone makes her turn around to stare at him, blinking several times. The quiet that follows makes him fidget in place just a little; he didn't say anything too ridiculous. To escape it, he tacks on, "For not asking questions." For giving me reason to trust you, he wants to add, but that makes it seem too real.
One corner of her mouth tilts upward in a small, tentative smile. "'Theirs not to question why, / Theirs but to do or die,'" she says with meter, as though reciting a poem. The billionaire can only blink at her several times. Felicity just looks at him for a moment. "I guess you're not a Tennyson fan, then." When he shakes his head, she waves a hand in dismissal. "It's from 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'—which is kind of a guy poem, so I took a swing and completely missed." She waves a hand again, and he makes note of the poem for later because she's piqued his curiosity. "The point is that it's my job to fix computers, not to ask questions." She waves her hands yet another time, the motion stiff and awkward now. "Which you probably already guessed. And I'm babbling again."
Because he can hear the apology in her tone and the last thing he wants her to do is apologize, Oliver assures her in a tone even he can't decipher, "Maybe, but I like hearing your voice." A light dusting of color appears across her cheeks, and too late he realizes that his tone might be construed as flirty. In an attempt to cover any awkwardness between them, he adds, "It's nice to have a conversation without being asked questions about the island."
It might be the worst thing about coming home; someone is always wanting him to open up about the island, to talk about what he's survived. Though he knows they mean well, that they think opening up will help him heal after his ordeal, being reminded of what he did during that time only reminds him of the monster he was forced to become to survive—the one he's trying to escape from.
"Well, to be fair," Felicity allows as the laptop's password box opens, "I did mention it once, but it was an accident." Without asking him for the password, she somehow brings up another screen, typing a string of white letters and code into a black box as if she was born knowing how to do it. "But if you're talking about your family, they have the right to ask you about those kinds of things. I barely know you, and something tells me that isn't considered light, first conversation material."
Oliver chuckles at that, the sound light and breathy, and it causes the corners of the blonde's mouth to twist upward in response. "But, to be honest," she continues, "I probably wouldn't ask anyway. For things like that, I think it's better to let people talk about them on their own schedule." She waves a hand before going back to typing code. "I think you're probably a great listener, but I don't exactly want to talk about my dad bailing out on me and my mom when I was six with you, either."
The new information that she's given him gives him something to think about, and Oliver decides that maybe the reason that everyone wants him to open up is because they don't consider their own secrets, their thoughts that they don't want to share with anyone. Felicity Smoak, however, seems to think about that as she talks to him. "I'm sorry," he offers in a low voice, low enough that if she doesn't want to address it, she can pretend she didn't hear him. But the blonde turns to look at him with raised eyebrows, so he clarifies after fidgeting a little, "About your dad."
To his surprise, she offers him a slight smile, something in her expression making him feel that she just gave him a test—and he passed with flying colors. "Thanks," she answers, just as quiet. Then she returns, "I'm sorry about the island." It isn't just a hollow statement; Oliver can tell by the sympathy in her tone that she's genuine. Then she shrugs. "My mom always says that we're never given a situation that we can't handle, that doesn't make us stronger for having lived through it."
The words come out of his mouth before Oliver makes the conscious decision to answer: "I think I could afford to be underestimated a little." At first it startles him and he wishes he hadn't spoken, but Felicity's laugh makes him glad he did. Her smile is so wide it flashes teeth, and the archer sobers and freezes as he sees them. There's no way to make sense of the sight before him, but yet he can't ignore the evidence.
Because Felicity's canines are just as elongated as his.
There's nothing about the woman that indicates vampire; the clear thermos on her desk is filled with water, and the smell of blood doesn't cling to her the way it does him. In fact, the only note of a smell he can pick up under her perfume and scented hair products is something light and perhaps a little woodsy—pine laced with cinnamon and a sweeter note not unlike vanilla. If she is a vampire, she's adept at hiding it, which makes him think she might be much older than him. Only now does he give any notice to the dark roots in her blonde hair, wondering if she's starting a new life—something he'll have to do at some point, as well.
Oblivious to his startled, raging thoughts, Felicity laughs at his answer. "That's what I said," the blonde replies with a smile. Her lips pull together a little tighter afterward, as though she's aware of the misstep she just made, but the moment fades otherwise as Oliver pulls his expression back into place. She turns as if to look at him when he doesn't speak, but then the computer's screen catches her attention.
"Oh, I'm in," the blonde informs him. She's lost to him for a moment then, delving back into a world of ones and zeroes that he can't even begin to comprehend. Squinting at the results of her work, the blonde decides after a moment, "Looks like there isn't much on this laptop, Oliver." She scrolls through the list. "The emails seem to be encrypted, as does most of the data, but… there's an image file on here that I can open right away." After a set of clicks, a white, mechanical design opens, set on a blue background. At the same time Oliver realizes it, Felicity says, "It looks like blueprints."
After rising from his chair, he pulls it just to the right of hers so he can see the screen better, staring at the designs over her shoulder. After squinting at it for a moment, he decides that the building is familiar but not enough that he can place it. Leaning closer to her, he asks, "Do you know what of?" Because she's reaching to adjust her glasses at the same time he startles her with his close proximity, Felicity's hand brushes the corner of her eye. "I didn't mean to startle you," Oliver adds with a frown, his voice laced with apology.
The blonde rubs at her eye for a moment before answering, propping her glasses on her head to better reach and what must be a brown color contact. When she blinks, it moves just enough to flash him a hint of blue underneath. After a moment of staring at it, the vigilante decides that it probably has something to do with that dyed hair and pointed teeth; perhaps it's part of her attempt to hide the fact she's at a standstill in a world that constantly changes—an anomaly, just like him.
"No, you're fine," Felicity assures him as she situates her glasses again, the contact situated again. "You just startled me because you're so quiet." It sounds complimentary, but at the same time, Oliver isn't quite sure. She turns to throw him a mischievous grin before adding, "Are you part panther?" It isn't too far off the mark, when he thinks about it; after all, he is designed to be a predator—both by vampire nature and the one he was made into on the island. But neither of them are a threat to her now.
"I think you missed a calling as a private investigator," she continues, oblivious to his inner musings. Again she's too close to the mark for his comfort; little does she know he spends his nights as the Vigilante. "Of course, it would be kind of a waste to go into a profession where you'd have to hide that face." This time he expects it when she cringes at her words. "And I did not mean to say that aloud."
Because he's unable to resist taunting the blonde, against his better judgment, he answers, "I feel the same way about your eye color." She turns to him, eyes widening, as he allows, "The real one. You have beautiful eyes." The words come out in a tone Oliver does not want to define, and there's nothing he can do to relieve the sudden intensity between them. All at once she seems far too close for comfort, and the same eyes he complimented seem too insightful to be staring at him that way; it's as though he's laid bare for her, and it's not a comfortable feeling.
"Blueprints," Felicity almost squeaks, turning away as her turquoise fingernails adjust the collar of her dress shirt. The dusting of color on her face lets Oliver know that he wasn't the only one to sense the moment that just passed between the two of them. "You asked me about blueprints," she clarifies, though it's unnecessary. "It looks like the exchange building where the Unidac auction is going to take place tomorrow night. QC is competing for it, but it looks like…" She squints at the registration she's pulled up on the device as she's been speaking. "Warren Patel probably wants both it and his laptop back." There's no judgment in the words, just statement of fact, and, true to her word, she doesn't ask—even though Oliver can tell it's on the tip of her tongue to say something. After a moment she settles on, "I can try to decrypt the emails, if you want, but it's going to take a while."
"No," Oliver assures her, "you've done enough already." Fighting back the hint of dark humor so it doesn't show on his face, he adds, "I'll make sure Mr. Patel gets his laptop back—I'd hate for him to lose it." He must not succeed because the archer swears he sees a shiver pass through her as she shuts it down, preparing to give it back to him. Running his palms across his thighs, he asks, "What do I owe you for doing this, Felicity?"
To his surprise, she actually looks insulted by the thought. "If you'll let me keep my job after spouting too many inappropriate things, we'll call it even," Felicity assures him, though the tilt at the corner of her mouth shows that she knows Oliver has long since forgiven her—especially since it provided such a wonderful change of pace from his usual conversations with people.
Though he hesitates to do it, after a moment, he lets his hand linger on her arm. "Then thank you, Felicity," the billionaire answers, taking the laptop from her extended hand. She flinches a little at the contact, but the smile on his face lets her know it isn't unwelcome, but instead surprised her. "If there's anything I can do to help you, let me know." Whether or not she wanted payment, it's a hold-over from the island that Oliver doesn't like leaving a debt unpaid.
Again she does what he doesn't expect when she replies, "Likewise. If you ever need any computer help, you know where to find me." Her mouth quirks up into another sunny smile. "And if I ever need the help of a billionaire for something I'll call—" She trails off, waving a hand. "Well, I don't have your number, but if it's that important, I'll just hack into phone records and pull it." She bites her lip then, her eyes going as wide as his at her admission. "Which I would absolutely never do."
Because teasing her has been so much fun, Oliver can't resist doing it once more. His lips turn upward ever so slightly as he reaches across her for the red pen she had her lips wrapped around when he walked in, jotting down his cell phone number in a very shaky print. "Use your powers for good instead of evil," is the only explanation he gives her—advice he's trying to take himself. He knows better than to ask for hers in return; if she's trying to stay off the radar, asking her would only make her uncomfortable. From there, he walks out of the room, calling behind him, "I'll see you around, Felicity."
Felicity offers a flustered response behind him, but he doesn't turn around as he walks out. Some of the IT department employees stare at him as he passes by, so he averts his eyes and walks past as though he doesn't notice. He catches sight of one of the glass walls along the way, and in the reflection, he watches the blonde collapse onto her desk, rubbing at her temples as her mouth moves as though she's talking to herself.
For the first time in ten years, Oliver laughs aloud.
Notes: You survived it. Have a virtual cookie—you earned it.
This is just part one. Part two comes next week.