AU - Felicity is an entertainment reporter who just decided she's quitting her job. Oliver is the star of a major network TV show who owes her a 15-minute phone interview.

A/N: Never planned on trying an AU, but this weird little fluffy kind-of-meta thing just kind of came out. Let me know if you like!

"I'm gonna step out for a sec," Tommy tells him. "You good for this last one? I gotta meet Laurel at the front gate. I'll be back in ten."

Oliver's only response is half-whine/half-groan, looking at the phone at his hand, and then back up at his friend and publicist.

"That's all you've got to give 'em, ten minutes," Tommy pleads. "Come on buddy, I know you got one more in you. Just remember, tease 'em up, but don't let 'em finish."

"You're disgusting."

"You know what I mean," Tommy sobers, just a little, just enough to go into work mode, what Oliver has dubbed his "Spin̈al Tommy" persona. It's Tommy, just not turned to eleven. "Give them a little, but don't answer everything."

"I'm not going to tell them that I 'die' in the season finale," Oliver parrots with mock-diligence and over-exaggerated air quotes.

"Attaboy."

"Don't you think constantly making me repeat it is a pretty good way to get me to slip up and accidentally say it?" Oliver asks teasingly. "You've got it right there at the front of my brain. How's a dummy like me gonna be able to stop himself from blurting it out?"

"I'd say that's some ugly thinking for such a pretty face," Tommy fires back over his shoulder as he makes his way out of the trailer. "C'mon Ollie, just charm this one last girl, or guy, and then we're off to San Fran! Hiatus time! Babes by the Bay, baby!"

Oliver sighs again, heavily, but Tommy's already shutting the screen door behind him. He raises the phone in his hand like a brick and hits send, dialing the number that's already on the screen.

"Mr. Merlyn, I have Felicity Smoak for Oliver."

"It's me, Caitlin," he says, rolling his eyes as Tommy's assistant begins to sputter immediately. She's a sweet girl, really, he just can't tell why he makes her so nervous. I mean, he sort of can, but doesn't she talk to actors all day long?

"Right...of course Oliver, Mr. Queen!" Caitlin stammers "I've got her for you, just, right, one moment."

The line cuts her off, but the call still sounds open, so he asks half-heartedly into the void.

"Hello?

"Mr. Queen?"

The voice on the other end is familiar, but not in the way that he's used to.

He's always been good, but not great, with reporters. As a Queen, a level of distrust and distance between himself and members of the press is essentially scripted into his DNA. He remembers names, certain voices, but rarely any in specific.

As far the entertainment writers go, bloggers and the like, he always ends up talking to them between scenes, or over lunch, or right before hiatus. He's always tired and unfocused and they all ask essentially the same questions, all want essentially the same thing from him, so it's not his fault if they always seem to blend together a little bit in his head.

But this one sounds...different?

He shakes the thought from his head, focuses himself on the same platitudes and semi-spoilery hints he's dropped the last half dozen reporters he's talked to today. Tommy's right, just get through this last one and then he's off on a much-needed hiatus.

"Yes, this is Oliver,"

"Hi Mr. Queen, Felicity Smoak," she answers, and he can't help it, he's still trying to place her.

"Smoak?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant. "Have we talked before?"

"A long time ago," she says sunnily. "I used to cover you guys back in season one, before Barry Allen came on board. Now he's our main comic book-slash-nerd culture guy. Not that all your fans are nerds, of course. Though, nerd culture is actually pretty mainstream cool these days, so maybe that's not…"

He should be annoyed by this. Really he should. But he kind of just wants to listen to her ramble for the next ten minutes. And, because he can't help himself anymore, he puts her on speakerphone mid-babble and uses the browser on Tommy's phone to search her name. "Showing results for Felicity Smoak," Google chastises him as he clicks on the image tab. There aren't many photos of her, but the first few results are all the same picture in varying sizes, what must be her byline photo. She's cute, he realizes. She's dressed professionally for the photo, of course, but he can just picture her without the glasses, hair down instead of in that sleek ponytail. And those eyes.

There's some silence on the other end of the line, and he realizes, belatedly, it must be his turn to talk now.

"So, um...where's Barry today?"

"Tied up with Suicide Squad and Star Wars news," she sighs. "Unfortunately, we're stuck with each other.".

Leave it to his last phoner of the day to make him want to stay on the line for another few hours.

"Okay, well, um…" he trails off, suddenly nervous? Which is absolutely crazy. "Let's get started?"

"Right," she says. "Well I was just wondering if you would talk to me a little bit about...your favorite alcoholic beverage."

Huh?

"Well here's the thing," she continues, almost conspiratorially. "I've decided that I'm quitting my job today. And after I do that, I'm going to go down to the bar, and I'm going to have a drink. And I'd like for it to be a very good drink. So, I'm taking suggestions."

"If you're quitting your job," he starts to ask, and she's thankful that he sounds more curious than annoyed, "why are you on the phone with me?"

"The big bosses haven't left yet, I've got to keep up appearances," she glances through the glass walls of the conference room to see the editorial offices starting to empty for the evening. It's Friday, so people are hustling their way out as quickly as possibly, but there are a few stragglers, one of which, she is annoyed to notice, is her managing editor, Ray Palmer. "They can see if I'm still here, but they can't hear what I'm saying. So I'm going to bullshit my way through the rest of these interviews, which are my last assignments of the day-slash-forever, I'm going to send a very strongly-worded email to my managing editor, and I'm going to walk out of this office and never look back."

"Why?"

"I can't write another Kardashian story, Oliver," she says, the words flowing out of her mouth before she can stop to remember if he's got any ties to the famous family that she should be wary of. "I can't do it. I won't."

He laughs a little at that, sounding slightly more surprised than anything. The sound makes her heart skip a beat.

"And where are you going, Felicity?" Her eyes go wide, and she can't tell if it's because of how his question sounds in her head or because she's realizing she just called him by his first name. He continues quickly, like he can somehow see her reaction, covering his words. "I mean... who's going to...who's going to be taking over for you?"

She knows that the question he's really asking is, "Am I going to have to do this damn phoner again?"

"I don't know," she says in a little trance, because she honestly hadn't thought about it until now. She had thought of quitting before sure, dreamed of it. But she had never really considered the logistics. "Do you think Miley Cyrus's tits have been out in public enough that they've developed cognizant thought? They might be able to write stories about themselves at this point."

He laughs again, a little louder this time, and she returns the sound almost involuntarily. But when she looks up, Ray Palmer is glaring daggers at her from his corner of the editorial office and she sobers immediately. She's strayed off-course somewhere, and as nice as it is to make this hunky television star laugh at her dumb jokes, she's got some serious fake interviewing to do.

"So, Mr. Queen, what do you think of the Blue Jays so far this season?"

He sputters in disbelief, and that's the sound that makes her grin harder than anything yet.

"Hold on," he says. "I have to check and make sure I didn't accidentally dial a 1-900 fantasy number."

"Please," she laughs. "You're a jock from Toronto. Besides, everyone has Twitter. It might be my last day on the job, but that doesn't mean I didn't do my research."

"You called me Oliver," he says, ignoring her, voice as soft as she's heard it yet. "Before."

"I'm sorry," she breathes, surprised at his sudden serious change of pace. "I got carried away. It's been quite a day. Well, you understand, it's your time that I'm wasting as part of this crazy stunt."

"I could always hang up, you know," he warns, but the teasing way he says it lets her know he's not planning on it.

"You could," she says, almost eagerly. "Or you could talk to me about Josh Donaldson's hot streak. Come on, wouldn't you rather do that than answer the same seven questions from each of my colleagues?"

"Actually, you're my last talk of the day," he admits, and something flutters in her chest. Whatever crazy plan she was half-forming in her head rapidly dissolves in an unbidden rush of disappointment.

"Oh," she says then, and if he didn't know better he'd think she sounded almost bummed? "I'm sorry, I'll let you go, I don't want to waste your time. I'm sure you're eager to get started on your hiatus."

"Well, I…" he's stuck, because she's right. He should go, he's got a flight to catch, drinks to consume, sun to soak up. But for the life of him, all he wants to do is keep talking to her. The sound of her voice, her quick wit and teasing tone makes his chest and head feel light like he hasn't felt in years. She's fresh air he just wants to keep breathing.

"I gotta tell you though," she interrupts his thoughts and he grins because that little saucy flirt in her voice is back. "I could probably write this story either way."

"You think?"

"Sure," she drawls before snapping into an over-exaggerated old-timey reporter impression that cracks his smile all the way across his face. "We've got something just incredible planned for our season finale. Something that will change the whole world of this show as we know it. You laugh, you'll cry, nothing will ever be the same again."

He's glad no one's here to see the expression on his face, because he probably looks like a goddamn fool right now. Eyes bugging with a grin he couldn't wipe from his face if he tried.

"You've really got us pegged, huh?"

"I just know how the game is played," she answers matter-of-factly. "You're going to tell me a couple pre-approved plot points, most of which, spoiler alert, are already on the internet. You're going to tease up what you've been told to tease without revealing anything major."

"Why don't I meet you for that drink instead?" he finds himself asking, without even thinking about it, without remembering that he's supposed to be on a plane to San Francisco in less than six hours.

"Huh?"

Her response is less of a word and more of an incredulous exhaled breath.

"I'll tell you what my favorite drink is, and maybe, if you're lucky, I'll tell you some real spoilers."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Well, it's not like you'd be able to use them, right?" he says with a smile. "Not after that strongly worded email you're about to send."

"What about co-star-slash-on-again-off-again girlfriend Laurel Lance?" she says lightly and methodically, like she's reading it to him. "Don't you think she might have something to say about this?"

"Just co-star," he corrects her. "Since mid-season two or so. You've been off the beat too long."

"Is that difficult, still working together?"

"Are you actually asking me real questions now?" he barks out a laugh, incredulous. "You must really not want to go out with me."

"I just.." she trails off, sounding less confident than she has since they started the call. "I don't know. I've got a couple more people to talk to and…"

He's come on too strong. He didn't even mean to do it, to be honest, he usually doesn't have to. He's a TV star and, in this town, pretty women who are into that are a dime a dozen. But there's just something about her he can't shake. She's smart and beautiful and jesus, she wanted to talk to him about baseball. So he asks again.

"Why don't I call you later then?"

"Why?" she asks, and he can tell she's genuinely curious, so he answers her honestly.

"I like talking to you, Felicity," he tells her, trying to stop himself before he says too much. "I'd like to do it again."

"I could just call you," she teases, some of her confidence back, though she still sounds slightly awed. "I have your number after all."

"Hang on," he says then, and she knows this is the kicker. He's finally come to his senses and he's going to hang up and she's going to lay her head on her pillow tonight convinced this was the best daydream she's ever had. Maybe it actually is, and this is the moment she wakes up.

"That's my publicist's number, I'll give you mine," he says then and her jaw drops to the floor. "I wouldn't want you calling him instead."

He tell her the digits and she traces the number on her notepad, stopping herself before she gets carried away and adds any middle school flourishes like a heart over the "i" in his first name or a scripted Mrs. Felicity Queen in the margin, remembering to tease him again.

"Why?" she asks. "Afraid he'll ream me out for wasting your precious time?"

"No, I'm afraid he'll ask you out first," he says and honestly, at this point, she's just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come storming in with a camcorder. Didn't someone tell her they were bringing that show back?

"Well who knows," she bites back her goofy smile. "I've got fifteen minutes of Roy Harper's time to waste next. You might not be my only offer of the day."

"Roy likes hockey," he says and she can hear an answering goofy grin in his voice (and because he's a freaking television star she can also see it clearly in her head, and isn't that just a perk). "Ask him about the Kings."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Queen," she takes a long-ish pause (because, seriously, did this just happen?) before saying, almost involuntarily, "I'll talk to you soon."

He exhales so forcefully she has to pull her ear away from the phone for a second, but when she lifts it back, she hears him answer.

"I hope so."

A/N: Should I go on? I'm thinking maybe he meets her at the bar?