Author's Notes: First true Flarrow fic! Diverges from canon after the dance. Enjoy!
Once Oliver makes him and he has to tell them all the real story, Barry knows it's over.
So he packs up, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He's bound for the next train that he can hitch, but it's late enough in the afternoon that there aren't a lot of options. So he finds a corner coffee shop and parks himself in the least noticeable corner, scrolling through his phone for potential tickets.
It isn't exactly how he thought his adventures in Starling City would go. For one, he imagined that he would fortuitously run into the vigilante at some point. Totally, completely coincidentally, of course. And not that the vigilante would say anything, but a close look would give Barry so many cool things to puzzle over. Even the make of his gloves could keep him occupied for hours.
How fire resistant are they? How quickly do they wear? It can't be fast if he uses them to glide down buildings on a tightrope. Does he have to replace them often? Who's his manufacturer? Does he make them himself? Where did he learn to do that?
Barry knows he's pining, as Iris frequently reminds him. "You can't date a superhero," she tells him pointedly, hauling him away from the Internet for a few rounds of boxing at the gym and some smoothies afterward.
And okay, maybe it's a little weird to ramble for two hours about a person he has never met and has all rights to fear, but he can't help himself. The vigilante is a living, breathing hero, someone who's doing the impossible in Starling City, and Barry would do almost anything to meet him. There's always one inextinguishable thought in his mind: Who is he?
Don't get him wrong: he loves Iris, and he loves spending time with Iris. The two things should coexist peacefully, but they don't. The ache in his chest has reached a level where even her body pressed platonically against his in a completely friendly cuddle sets him off. Why can't we be together? he wants to ask her. We've been dating for years.
Except they've actually been not-dating for years. It's never actually been a date. It's always just a friendly outing to the movies (zombie movies, and she hates them, criticizes them lavishly, but she does it so nicely and smiles secretively over her mocha while he waves his hands in increasing excitement because he gets so up in arms, Iris, zombies are awesome). Or a friendly visit to their favorite bowling alley (and he loves when she gets a strike because she all but leaps into his arms, and he's pretty okay at bowling but she's always had a better style, he just has two left feet, but it's never about the game). Or just a walk in the park, arm-in-arm, for all intents and purposes a couple, except in the way he wants to be.
Because he can't kiss her. He can't ignore the real fear that one of these days, she's going to meet Mr. Perfect, and he won't be lanky and awkward and clumsy, he'll be funny and charming and stunning, and she'll never look twice at him. He'll just be the best friend who gets to watch her be happier with someone else than she will ever be with him.
And okay, maybe he didn't need to bring her into it, maybe he should have left it at how betrayed Oliver and Felicity and Diggle looked when he told them the truth, but it doesn't make him feel better, either.
He doesn't really deserve to feel better, but who wants to be kicked when they're down? (Or doused in an impromptu tidal wave generated by a completely oblivious cab taking a turn too tight. Honestly.)
So he goes to the coffee shop for a pick-me-up and a ticket back home to people who love him and people who are ready to yell at him and is halfway through his latte when his phone starts vibrating on the table.
Barry frowns at the unlisted number, answering on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Listen very carefully."
Barry sits back slowly, feeling his heart pound. Oliver Queen isn't there, but he knows how to fill a room. Or, in this case, a phone. There's command in his voice – and something subdued. What's the likelihood that I'll disappear mysteriously for pissing off a well-connected billionaire?
Especially one connected to the vigilante.
"I'm listening," Barry says slowly, wondering if there isn't already an arrow trained on him, if he isn't about to become the next name on the vigilante's hit list. (And, okay, no, he does not have a death wish, but to meet the vigilante, wow. He might actually pass out. Which wouldn't be ideal if the vigilante is out to kill him because then he'd just drop him in the nearest deep body of water and let nature handle the rest. But still. The vigilante! In the flesh! How freaking cool would that—)
". . . favor. Barry?"
"I'm listening," Barry repeats stupidly. Then, running a hand through his hair, he adds delicately, "Could you repeat that last part?"
Oliver sighs. Barry wonders if the vigilante charges on a case-by-case basis or in minutes, in which case keeping Barry on the phone is definitely costing Oliver a pretty penny. Unless they split the profits. Or have a mutual agreement: you take out people I don't like, I let you stay in my house. Posh place for your own in-house vigilante.
Cool.
". . . I swear to God, Barry, I am not repeating myself again."
Barry flushes scarlet, biting his lip as he tries to think of a diplomatic way to say, I'm so sorry but in my potentially last moments of life all I've got is 'does the vigilante have unlimited knockouts or charge on a case-by-case basis?'
"How are you a CSI assistant?"
There's enough exasperation in Oliver's voice that Barry should be affronted. Then he remembers that he's talking to billionaire Oliver Queen and tones down the bite. "I know my stuff."
"Which, evidently, does not extend to holding a conversation."
"I can—" Now he's puffing his chest out, ready to defend himself, before Oliver cuts him off.
"Listen to me. You are going to come to my house and you are going to dance with Felicity or I will make a very personal phone call to your boss to tell him where you've been all weekend."
Probably won't be necessary. Singh always knows.
Then the rest of the message processes and he blinks, shifting in his seat to argue and spilling his coffee all over his lap. "I—uh—what?" he asks, bunching napkins across the spill as a waitress side-eyes him. Sorry, he mouths.
I'm on the phone with my would-be assassin's consultant.
"You are going to come to my house," Oliver repeats, very carefully, as Barry continues to clump napkins over his lap, "and you are going to dance with Felicity."
"I thought that was your job," Barry says unthinkingly.
He can almost hear Oliver growling through the phone. "Felicity is not my job."
"Or your girlfriend," Barry supplies helpfully, because he can remember some things, thank you.
"We're not discussing that."
Or, you know, he could just take the revolver and shoot himself in the foot, that's fine, too.
His brain catching up to the conversation, he asks slowly, "Why do you want me to dance with Felicity?"
There's a long pause. Barry waits for an answer, dropping the clump of napkins strategically onto a fresh, flattened napkin on the table, and is about to ask, Are you still the—
"Because it's been a rough week for her, she deserves a break, and for some inexplicable reason your brand of geek is attractive to her."
It's a lot to take in at once, but Barry is offended because okay, Mr. Hotshot, geek has an ugly connotation there. Before he can form a proper rebuke, Oliver speaks. (You'd be good at a professional chess championship, Barry thinks sulkily, half-listening, because they play fast, too, overlapping each other in their haste to hit the winning move.)
"If you do not show up, I will ensure that a detailed report of this weekend is sitting on your boss' desk tomorrow morning. Understood?"
Dance with a beautiful woman or get yelled at by Singh.
"So I shouldn't keep looking for trains?" he asks slowly, running it by Oliver because honestly the offer seems even less likely than asking the vigilante to sign for an autograph. (Which he would never ask. Of course.)
A single brief word. "No." Then: "Understood?"
"Yeah," Barry says, finally understanding that Oliver Queen is inviting him to his house to dance with Felicity. The magnitude of the invitation is overwhelming. He's never been to a billionaire's house. Or danced at a billionaire's party. Except—"I can't dance."
"That's fine."
"So doesn't that throw a wrench in the whole 'dance with Felicity' plan—"
Oliver ignores him, rattling off his address and finishing with a brusque, "We are looking forward to seeing you tonight."
Click. And he's gone.
. o .
Wow.
Billionaires have big houses.
Objectively, Barry knows this, but it's still surreal to walk up to the Queens' front door and knock on it. Like he has any right to be there. He feels like a kid, awkward in his suit, and he doesn't know why he agreed to any of this, rented a suit because Oliver Queen invited him to a party and he can't exactly show up in jeans, but he's here anyway and an unfamiliar face answers the door.
"Is that Allen?"
Oliver's voice rings out from above as the woman in front of him smiles. "Depends. Are you?"
Barry nods stupidly, momentarily dumbstruck. I'm actually doing this. This is a thing that is actually happening.
Oliver comes charging down the stairs, clean, crisp steps looking so neat that the way he takes them down is almost unnoticed, almost, but Barry gets a sense of agility and power as he flashes a very white smile and clasps his hand. "So glad you could make it," he says, shaking his hand once enthusiastically. "This is my sister, Thea."
"Hi," Thea replies, "your tie is wrong." Then, without preamble, she reaches up and undoes it, and Barry flushes because he should not be here, he should be on a tired train lurching home to an office where mundanity will shortly follow and the most exciting thing that will happen is he gets to watch the Star Labs particle accelerator incrementally dish out miracles.
(And it could take years, he's fully aware of that, but he's been following this almost as long as he's been invested in science, keeping track of the whole project, admiring Dr. Harrison Wells from afar since he could spell nuclear.)
But no, instead he's standing in the breathtaking foyer of a billionaire's home, and Oliver doesn't even blink as he puts a hand on Thea's shoulder, gentle, arresting. "Let me handle it."
Thea rolls her eyes fondly, squeezing Oliver's waist in passing, and Barry thinks, Okay, so at least billionaire sisters still act like sisters.
Standing with an undone tie, Barry feels very, very out-of-place, except then Oliver puts a commanding hand on his shoulder and steers him into an expansive living room. "This is a valuable skill," Oliver says. "Watch."
Then, with deliberate slowness, he does Barry's tie. And it flattens neatly against his chest, looking exactly as it should; Barry lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's been holding. He doesn't wear ties often, doesn't have reason to wear them often, and when he does Joe usually helps him out when he needs it. He finds it surprisingly calming to see that underneath that hood of wealth and intimidation, there's an Oliver who functions so familiarly that he knows how to tie ties.
"Felicity will be here shortly," Oliver explains, looking him in the eye. Giving him the courtesy of his fullest attention. "Wait here."
For a time, he lets himself drift around the main floor. He feels like he's standing in another world, moving around the room and examining the intricacies, the loving touches indulged in every kinetic stone. The crackling fireplace throws off heat, illuminating pictures artfully displayed on the mantel. Barry examines them – family portraits, mostly, Oliver and Thea, Oliver and Thea and a woman who must be their mother, Thea and a man he doesn't recognize, her father, maybe, and the four of them posed for a family portrait. His lips twitch in a smile at that one, eyes lingering on the scene for a moment.
Oliver looks different, young. Very young. Then it hits Barry that it's been six years since the Queen's Gambit went down. He didn't follow the story closely at the time, only delving into the details days before taking off for Starling City on a whim, a breath on the wind of the impossible, but he wishes he'd paid more attention. He feels awkward, caught between knowing and not knowing their story. What they've been through.
They lost a father, he thinks, a husband.
Looking at Oliver in the picture, he hears Oliver's deep, familiar voice in the main living room, chatting amicably with someone. He hears Felicity join him moments later and his heart pounds, his fingers chafing restlessly at the cuffs of his suit because this isn't actually real, right?
He pinches his hand to be sure, drawing in a deep, shaky breath when the room remains unchanged and the friendly symphony of sound in the adjacent room continues on, unperturbed.
As easy and familiar as it is to be a fly on the wall, he knows he can't avoid them forever.
"I don't really feel like a dance, Oliver," Felicity says.
"I know." Barry lingers in the entryway, thinking he can still retreat, he can still walk away from this adventure and pretend it never happened, and then Oliver turns and his expression is utterly calm, grounding him. "And that is why I called him."
Barry is stricken, unable to think of a word to say because he's never been invited to a party this cool before, he's never even peered into the windows of a world this amazing (especially because that would be creepy and he's dedicated but he's not prying). He's never had the attention of two people as significant as Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak.
Being immersed in it is almost too incredible for words.
Thankfully, Felicity has a presence that pulls him like gravity towards her. He recognizes the authoritative stance but welcomes the easy smile. The friendly air. The hey. Our lives are crazy. Want to enjoy this with me for a while?
So he puts his trembling hands in hers and sways, because he can't dance, he wasn't kidding, but she falls into a rhythm with him that is somehow so much better.
He loses track of time, falls under her spell, and for a time he even thinks, I could be happy with her.
But she's bold where he's quiet, loud where he's soft. She's the take-a-punch type, the push-back type, quick-witted and immensely talented. She possesses a sort of resilience he can only admire, a sort of humor and charm he cannot match but can enjoy. All he can be is a receptive audience to her presence without ever hoping to truly understand her. He isn't stupid, but she is exceptional.
When Oliver drifts closer, inviting them to the bar just so the bartender can – with exquisite politeness – ask to see his ID, Barry feels the difference. The way she automatically leans towards Oliver, a tiny, unconscious gesture, or how she gives him her fullest attention. She's incredibly responsive, picking up the underlying vibes of a conversation before Barry even knows they're doing more than sipping their drinks.
Of course Oliver Queen would have amazing wine, he thinks, after his third glass, and Oliver neatly pries the fourth out of his hand. "I was just carrying it for Felicity," he tells him.
"Uh huh." Oliver sets the drink on the counter and says, "Felicity?"
She's there, just sort of materializes, but in reality he knows she was already close and just glided closer, drawn towards Oliver and they're so dating. Or 'not-dating.'
"Would you mind escorting our guest home?"
"I'm not even a little drunk," Barry tells him, and that's the last thing he really remembers before the rest of that exceptional wine hits him and he wakes up lying on the floor, hugging an encyclopedia.
His gaze drifts to a bottle of ibuprofen sitting helpfully nearby. Thinking that room service has really upped their game, he sits up and promptly clunks his head on the underside of a coffee table.
"Good morning."
Groaning, he reaches up to rub his head. Diggle's smile is blurry but unmistakable. "Thought I was going to have to bring out the spray bottle," he adds. "I would have, if you weren't up in another hour."
"Good thing I'm up," Barry says groggily, and oh, God, that's a hangover.
"After last night's performance, I wouldn't have believed you were actually twenty-five if Felicity hadn't looked up your birth certificate."
Barry groans. "Please let me die in peace," he says, draping an arm over his head because he will lie underneath this coffee table until his embarrassment or he dies.
"Nope," Dig says, dragging him out by a foot. Barry groans, not opening his eyes, and yelps when a cold squirt of water lashes his belly. "Up and at 'em," Diggle says, spritzing him until he sits up.
"That looks like fun," Oliver comments, sashaying into the room, and of course he looks perfect in a pressed gray suit because billionaires always look perfect. "Hi," he adds briskly, looking down at Barry. "We are having lunch. If you want to join us, we'll be downstairs."
Barry looks around, taking in his surroundings for the first time: a guest room. A very posh guest room. At the Queen mansion.
"You let me crash at your place?"
"It seemed uncharitably to leave you outside," Oliver says, "although Diggle had fun trying to find you in the gardens. Something about looking for 'signs of the vigilante.'"
Barry's grateful that the nausea hits him hard enough he can't focus on anything but it for a moment, too hungover to feel embarrassed. "I will – definitely spare you from any more vigilante quests in the future," Barry says, feeling tipsy as he climbs to his feet. "Thank you for – " letting me stay, letting me be a part of this, letting me feel important – "inviting me."
Oliver tips his head. "You're welcome."
And Barry doesn't – can't – know what's coming. How his life is going to change, in more ways than one. How he'll never shake hands with Oliver the same way, or look at him the same way, or even see the inside of the Queen mansion again for a very, very long time.
But for what it's worth, he savors it.
And when it's time to leave, he collects himself and walks quietly out of their lives again.
The very last thought in his mind before he's tranqed at the train station is, This was worth it.