The prologue got the mixed reviews I expected. I understand that the premise of this fic isn't for everybody—and that's fine. I, personally, don't think that Oliver acted like a pansy in the previous chapter; I actually think he was pretty brave for a guy without any fighting skills.
Anyway, to all the wonderful people who enjoyed the short glimpse that was the prologue and were so kind to send me encouraging comments: thank you for the support. I appreciate it deeply and hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic, now that it's finally, really starting. Love, Jules.
As always: this is Albiona-approved. She'll forever be my rainbow-colored muse of awesome.
Hi, I'm Oliver Queen
Looking into the mirror was a challenge for Felicity Smoak. Doing so meant facing what she had become.
There had been a time when Felicity had very much enjoyed the sight of her own reflection. Back then she had used any shiny surface to check her make-up and hair or to send herself a quick little wink for being ahhm-aaay-zing. That had been the time when her MySpace name had been SmoakinHot and her diet had consisted of champagne and cocaine—neither very healthy but both very low on carbs and fat.
That ditzy socialite was gone. She was just a distant memory, reflected in the room surrounding her: in the photos pinned to the wall and around the mirror showing smiling, posing, happy, very drunk people. It showed in the collection of liquor bottles on the cabinet with the bong in the middle, in the massive stack of fashion magazines that were thoroughly read (plus five years old) while her college books were still shrink-wrapped, and in the impressive walk-in-closet filled with designer clothes and shoes (all as dated as the magazines).
The girl all of that belonged to drowned in the North China Sea five years ago. Someone else entirely had returned home to Starling City.
What she saw looking in the mirror surrounded by memories was proof: scars, ugly and protruding and showing the lack of medical care she had lived with for so long. They spread out all over her torso, front and back, mixing with healed burn marks and tattoos on her hip and her ribcage. The inked pictures were different kinds of memories and permanent membership cards—and another irrevocable reminder of the past five years. She looked hideous, but couldn't bring herself to care because they fit. She was hideous.
A knock startled Felicity, and before she could move to put on more than a bra and panties, the door to her room opened.
"Sweetie, I found the perfect outf—"
Her mother stopped dead in her tracks, the words dying on her lips. She had taken two steps into the room before not only seeing her daughter but registering what she saw. She blinked and Felicity could see her mother gathering her composure, fighting not to react too badly to the bad sight of her daughter's disfigured body. But Donna couldn't look away. Standing there in her perfectly tailored grey business suit, her blonde hair draped over her shoulders in styled perfection, she studied each scar closely.
"Mom—" Felicity started, but Donna cut her off.
"I guess, I didn't find the perfect outfit." Her mother let her right hand holding two hangers sink. "Crop tops are overrated anyway. That trend will pass." Carelessly she draped the clothes over the bed in passing and, without another word, walked to her daughter and hugged her.
Felicity hesitated before returning the hug. She stood for a few heartbeats, her mother's arms around her unresponsive body. Hugging wasn't an automatic response anymore. It felt unfamiliar being this close to somebody like that. Unfamiliar but nice. Felicity hadn't noticed how much she had missed hugs in the previous years, how much she had missed her mother's closeness, her warmth, her comfort, how much she had missed being loved. Feeling a lump in her throat like she did every time her mother held her, Felicity closed her arms around her mom. She was dimly aware that she held on too tightly, but Donna's only response was to tighten her own hold, whispering, "Oh, sweetie." Neither woman let go.
Felicity Smoak had never been much into hugging… before—unlike her mother. Donna had always been a hugger, somebody who wore her emotions on her sleeve, who cried easily and shamelessly.
How that woman had taken over a multi-billion dollar company after her husband and daughter were lost at sea, even managing to increase its value, was a complete mystery to her daughter.
Felicity granted herself another moment to relish the tender human contact. Loosening her arms, she was about to step away from her mother, but Donna held on. Making sure to catch her daughter's eyes, she stated firmly. "You are beautiful, Felicity. Whatever you had to live through, it's done. You're home. You are my miracle."
With a nod Felicity accepted her mother's words, unable to actually say anything, the lump in her throat growing once more. It was nice to hear that—but the niceness triggered guilt. Some things felt like they could never be over, like she should never be allowed to move past some of her doings. A tiny voice within Felicity told her that she didn't deserve her mother's comfort.
Finally, Donna let go and instead moved a gentle hand through her daughter's blonde hair, falling long and thick over her shoulders.
"Is it okay?" Felicity asked, referring to her hairstyle. "I'm a little out of practice." It was the truth. Today was the first time in five years Felicity used a curling iron.
"Well, sweetie, there are some things a woman never forgets how to do," Donna said and added with a quick wave of her hand, "It's like riding a bike." She turned. "I'll get you one of my suits. I have a pencil skirt that will look beautiful on you—and it's perfectly appropriate for going to court and to get legally resurrected. Finally. I can't believe it took the lawyers two months to get the necessary paperwork done. As if you were an imposter trying to get access to your trust fund." She crossed the room. "We should hurry, Quentin's waiting already."
Coming home to Quentin Lance living in Smoak Mansion had been a shock. During her time away Felicity thought a lot about her mother, but her love life had never been part of that consideration.
After picking up her freshly returned daughter from the hospital, Donna used the drive home to fill Felicity in on what had happened while she was away—her wedding one year ago one of them. It made sense to Felicity that her mother had moved on and found new love, doing so fit her mother.
But, at first, Detective Quentin Lance hadn't seemed like a good fit.
In Felicity's memory, her best friend's father was a moody man who frowned a lot and had perfected pursing his lips in annoyance. Felicity had received a pinning stare nearly every time she met Quentin Lance before taking the boating trip. He had been the one parent who hadn't let his child get away with all the crap they'd pulled.
In light of everything she'd experienced in the previous five years, his behavior seemed different to Felicity. Quentin Lance seemed different. He still did the eyebrow-thing and the lip-thing and that annoyed huff, but he did so because he cared. He was a hard-working, serious, honest man and he was a very different person from Donna Smoak—maybe that was why they worked, maybe that was why her mother was Donna Smoak-Lance now.
The urge to apologize to Quentin Lance had been overwhelming when Felicity returned, even if there weren't any words to make it right ever again. Felicity had been the one to invite his daughter on the boating trip that had ultimately led to her death. It was Felicity's drama that the friends had tried to escape. It was her fault.
When she had told Quentin Lance, when she actually had apologized, he had pursed his lips at her, called her an idiot, and said, "How can you be to fault for a storm? It was nature's fault. Sara asked if she could go with you. Her grades were good that semester, so I agreed. Does that mean I'm to blame, too?"
Obviously, the mother had way better man-picking skills than the daughter.
Even though, her mother didn't sound too happy with her husband thirty minutes later, sitting in the passenger's seat of Quentin's Ford on the way to the courthouse. "We should've taken the Bentley."
"Donna, I'm perfectly capable of driving. I don't need a chauffeur."
"Nobody needs a chauffeur," Donna answered, dismissively. "But there will be paparazzi at the courthouse and the Smoaks have a reputation to uphold."
"Well, we're the Smoak-Lances now and we don't participate in that press hibbididy-bob."
The last word was ridiculous, but Quentin Lance managed to say it in such serious disgust that it stirred dim amusement within Felicity. Sitting in the backseat of the well-kept but also well-used car, she enjoyed watching her mother and her mother's husband (she couldn't bring herself to think of him as her stepfather) interact. She enjoyed the normalcy of their conversation, how unguarded and open they were around each other. She enjoyed witnessing this. Part of her longed to participate, to join their banter, but she didn't know how. She had forgotten how to be easygoing. She longed to get that part of herself back, while feeling deep within her bones that it was lost. She had probably lost it around the same time she had bashed a man's skull in under the disapproving eyes of Slade Wilson and Yao Fei.
Coming back, she had tried to act like nothing had changed, like she still was the carefree, fun-loving girl with the easy smile. Her mother had seen through her bad act instantly. And Felicity had given up pretending just as quickly. She had changed. Most of the time she didn't like who she had become, but this was who she was now. She had to accept that and make the most of it.
Quentin Lance's voice ripped Felicity out of her thoughts—she did that often, she realized, zone out. That probably happened if you spent too much time with yourself as your only friend.
"I have to get to the precinct after this," the detective informed the other two people in the car. "Last night another transport bringing medicine to the free clinic in the Glades was robbed. That's the third one—and that's three too many." He sent his wife a sideways glance. "And not just because it's your free clinic."
"Our free clinic," Donna corrected, smiling fondly. She leaned toward her husband and pecked his cheek.
Felicity half-expected the man to chide his wife for distracting him from driving, but instead she saw the softest smile ghost around the detective's lips. He sobered up quickly. "Ricky will be here in one hour to pick you two up."
"We could go downtown afterward," Donna suggested, turning in her seat to look at her daughter. "Alice Winter's having a birthday brunch and her daughter Willow will be there, too. You two could catch up."
"Mom," Felicity said, trying (and failing) not to sound annoyed, "Willow Winter and I never liked each other." (Partly, because Felicity had made some very nasty comments about the girl's name.) "We have nothing to catch up on."
"You should still give it a try," her mother insisted. "You need to put yourself out there, interact with people, people that are not Quentin and I, people around your own age. You can't go on keeping to yourself. I won't let you."
Felicity sighed and looked at her mother, staying silent.
"Okay," Donna said, "I won't force you to go to that brunch with me. But promise me that you'll stop your loner ways."
"Loner ways?"
"Promise me that you'll try to meet people. Have an actual conversation with somebody." The expression on Donna's face showed she meant business.
Fighting to keep another sigh in, Felicity gave a quick nod.
"I'll hold you to that promise," Donna stated and turned back to the front.
Silence settled over the three people. Quentin Lance ended it and suddenly the annoyance Felicity remembered so perfectly resonated in his voice. "Look at that circus! They are crowding the whole sidewalk!"
Shifting in her seat, Felicity looked out of the windshield. They were nearing the courthouse and, really, the steps leading up to it and the sidewalk were filled with reporters, cameramen, photographers. Subconsciously, Felicity tugged at a button of the purple silk blouse she had matched to her mother's black pencil shirt. It was buttoned all the way up. Not the slightest trace of skin—of a scar—was visible, she had made sure of that.
To her surprise, Quentin didn't slow down but drove right past the assembled press and around a corner. A guard waited there, but waved them past when the Detective showed his badge. Smiling widely, Donna turned in her seat as Quentin steered the car to the quiet entrance in the back. "The Smoak-Lances, way above all that hillbilly-bob."
"It was hibbididy-bob," Felicity corrected before she could stop herself. Why did her brain memorize everything?
"Oh?" Donna smirked, obviously taking her daughter's statement as a joke. "Good. I'm glad we're not participating in that either." Her smile turned warmer, more caring, and less amused, "Let's get you legally resurrected, sweetie."
Reading the subject heading of the email, Oliver's bullshit senses tingled. "Project Paperless Office" sounded like something the overpaid hipsters in the marketing department celebrated by patting themselves on the shoulder (look at the awesome, although apparent alliteration!). Those idiots obviously never left their offices in the thirty-first floor of Smoak Tower, because if they did, they'd know this project doesn't stand a chance.
Oliver Queen, sitting in the IT department on the twenty-third floor, looked at the stack of paper the department's secretary had just handed him.
There couldn't be anything more ironic than the head of the IT department, Eugene Hill, sending his employees handwritten notes.
And, yes, it was ironic. It actually fit the definition of irony. Unlike his mother's statement, claiming it was pretty ironic that his sister's graduation day was the one day of the year it rained in Las Vegas. That wasn't ironic—that was bad luck. Oliver had kept from correcting his mom, though. She had been unhappy enough with her high heels getting stuck in the muddy grass and with his sister Thea cutting her long curls just the day before.
Oliver loved his mother, he really did. But he loved her even more when there were a thousand miles separating them.
He was grateful for everything his hard-working mother had done, for the sacrifices she had made for her children, but Oliver knew he had nothing in common with the Queen women and every one of his sparse visits reminded him of that. He had only come back yesterday (after two exhausting days)—meaning he didn't have to worry about another Vegas trip until Christmas.
Chasing those thoughts away, he placed his attention back on the paper on his desk and studied the list of tasks his supervisor had given him. They were all routine stuff, nothing special, nothing challenging. Getting a job right out of college in a high-profile company like Smoak International had been awesome, but by now the awesomeness wore off. Fixing computers and updating servers weren't exactly exciting. Sure, there was the occasional hacker attack (every high-profile company had to deal with that), but ultimately fighting off those wasn't fulfilling either. Oliver really, really hoped his application for the new Applied Computer Sciences Department (ACSD) would come through. That would be an amazing opportunity, the chance to use all his skills to do real good and further technological progress.
If he didn't get to switch departments, he'd seriously have to consider if he wanted to keep working in this company—to hell with health and dental, with free food in the cafeteria and the break room, with the company gym and the company child care (he didn't use either anyway), to hell with the hefty Christmas bonuses and the flexible work hours.
Oliver sighed. Who was he kidding? There was hardly a better working environment. Reaching for a pen, he checked his boss' list. The server update was done already. He ticked that off and brought the pen to his lips, thinking, studying the next task. WiFi on the seventh floor was buggy.
"Oliver Queen?"
Surprised, Oliver turned toward the female voice behind him. A blonde woman stood there. He blinked stupidly and opened his mouth to answer, only to notice the pen sticking between his lips. Hectically, he reached for it and wiped his lips, relieved not to find any traces of ink. He composed himself. "Yes?"
"Hi, I'm Jennifer Fisher. The telephone system on the top four floors is down and—"
Oliver stopped the blonde in the black business suit right there. "We know. Jeff Anderson's already on it."
"I'm aware," Miss Fisher said. "I was merely explaining why Mrs. Smoak-Lance's EA asked me to come down here personally."
"Oh." Feeling caught, Oliver finally placed the pen back on his desk. "Sorry," he apologized—and then Miss Fisher's words really registered within him. He groaned. "God, what did she do now?"
The woman with the blonde bob standing next to his desk frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," Oliver dismissed, keeping from lamenting the big boss' complete inability to handle anything electronic without breaking it. Instead, he reached for his tablet. "I'll head up there right now."
With quick steps he left his cubicle, the woman, the department, and headed down the hall to the elevators. At least once a week he was called to the top floor to fix something Mrs. Smoak-Lance had messed up.
Sometimes Oliver wondered if the computer self-destructed on purpose to catch a break from the CEO's mistreatment.
Oliver used the elevator ride to the thirty-ninth floor to check his reflection in the mirrored walls. The white dress shirt he wore had a bad coffee stain on its pocket, but he hadn't gotten around to doing laundry. The blue V-neck sweater he wore covered that up perfectly. Trapping his tablet with his arm, he fixed the knot of his tie. He hated ties, loosened them any chance he got, but his supervisor had deemed the damn things mandatory. Going to the CEO's office definitely wasn't the moment to break the rules and look sloppy.
His tie fixed, he stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the desk where Donna Smoak-Lance's EA, Gerry Conway, sat with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The man in the impeccable suit greeted him with a smile. "Oliver, I've missed you the last two weeks."
Yeah, the men saw so much of each other that they were on a first name basis. Glancing to the right, through the glass wall offering a perfect view into the CEO's office, Oliver saw that the adjoining room was empty. "Yeah," he answered. "I can't believe it's been that long. Did she really not break anything in the last two weeks?"
"Nothing that I couldn't fix." Gerry winked. "This time she said her email doesn't work. I checked and couldn't find her email client."
"I'll have a look."
Oliver always felt weird in the glass office, sitting at the desk, in the chair belonging to the CEO. Once he had sat there when Mrs. Smoak-Lance had entered and he had jumped out of the seat so quickly that he bumped his knee and crashed the chair into the wall behind him, leaving a dent. Mrs. Smoak-Lance had looked at him with pity in her eyes and given him official permission to sit in her chair when he fixed her technological stuff. That's what she had called it: technological stuff.
The computer took forever to boot (Mrs. Smoak-Lance had probably caught another virus). As he did every time he sat behind this desk, he took in the pictures standing next to the screen. There were two, one of Mrs. Smoak-Lance and her second husband (Oliver would have never taken her for a hyphenator, but when your international company carries your first husband's name, you probably can't go and just drop it), and one of the CEO and her daughter. When alone in the office, Oliver always took the time to study the latter—picture and person.
Felicity Smoak was hot. The picture showed her standing next to her mother on a beach. The sun made her blonde hair shine. Her eyes sparkled, matching the sassy smirk that Oliver found seriously intriguing. The short sundress she wore showed off her killer legs.
Looking at the picture felt strangely different since he knew that the girl in the photo wasn't dead.
He had seen pictures of Felicity Smoak after her return to Starling. She didn't look like the girl in this five-year-old photo anymore. Okay, she did, but she really didn't. She was still hot—so hot—but there was just a different air around her. At least, that's as much as Oliver could tell from the pictures he had seen... Because pictures were still his only sources to judging Felicity Smoak.
He sighed and ripped his eyes away from the photo, finding the login screen had finally loaded. It didn't matter anyway. Oliver didn't have any illusions about this: his chances regarding Felicity Smoak were as big now as they were while she was believed to be dead. She was way, way out of his league. She was beautiful, rich, and popular, and he was the dude with a (hidden) stain on his shirt under fixing her mother's computer. He might as well be crushing on the girl in green leather who had saved him last week. Getting to know her was as likely as getting to know the Smoak-heir.
Giving a little jerk of his head, Oliver focused on the task at hand and nearly groaned. "She deleted her email client," he muttered in disbelief. "How did she manage to do that?" It was really an accomplishment. The program must have asked Mrs. Smoak-Lance at least three times if she was sure she wanted to proceed. That's it, Oliver decided. It was time: he'd Smoak-proof the computer. Smoak-Lance-proof. Once he was done, this woman wouldn't be able to empty her trash bin without his approval. Not that she ever would—virtually speaking. And probably IRL, too.
He brought his fingers to the keyboard. Time to ace this technological stuff.
The barricade consisted of two SUVs. Facing each other, the black, bulky vehicles blocked the road. Four men stood in front of the movable roadblock, automatic weapons in their hands. In unison they pressed the triggers, sending bullets into the pavement and a clear message along with it: these are warning shots, stop your truck if you don't want us to really take aim.
The driver steering the truck toward the barricade got the message and stepped onto the breaks so heavily that the back of the huge semi fishtailed slightly.
She was too late. She had taken too long to uncover the route the medical transport would take tonight and she hadn't had time to clear the road for it. Anger at her own failure bubbled within her, and she quickened her steps, running full speed across the adjoining rooftop. She pushed herself off the edge of the building, propelling herself through the air, landing on top of the trailer with a metallic bang. Balancing on top of the still-moving vehicle, she straightened up and drew her bow. She saw the recognition on the faces of the four men further down mix with shock. They took a second to gawk at the silhouette on the truck sliding toward them. They couldn't look away from the hooded figure with the bow drawn that had made headlines multiple times within the last weeks and that the press had named 'the Arrow.'
Felicity Smoak, who didn't really like her press-given nickname but knew it could be worse, used the moments of shock to live up to her alter ego: an arrow flew through the air. A second followed before the first reached its destination. Both hit men in their arms, making them let go of their guns, and wrapped cables around them, trapping them.
Their yells of pain were enough to bring the other two back to the senses. But by the time they pressed the triggers of their firearms, they found nothing to aim at.
The Arrow had jumped down, taking cover in the gap between truck and trailer. The semi had slowed enough that she dared to jump to the ground, knowing she could move fast enough not to get hit and pulled under the massive tires. Running full speed, using the momentum of the skidding truck, she headed toward her two remaining opponents. One was firing at her, but she zigzagged toward him, avoiding the spraying bullets. The trick was to keep moving, especially when somebody wasn't really aiming, putting quantity before quality.
Felicity headed toward the sidewalk and the huge dumpster placed there. It offered cover—the bullets hit the metal with forceful bangs—but most of all it distracted the shooter. She didn't slow down. Instead, she leaped. Her hands landing on top of the closed container, she pushed herself up and was on its roof in the blink of an eye. Within the next blink she was back on the ground, on the other side of the container. She hit the pavement running and reached the gun-waver in the next movement. Her foot connected with his chest in a well-placed and heavy kick, sending him backward. He crashed against the SUV behind him, so forcefully that the passenger's window burst under the impact. It knocked all the air out of him, but Felicity was already twirling around, sweeping his legs out from under him. He was still gasping for air when he hit the ground and black boots in size seven connected with his face.
The remaining opponent had been trying to free one of his partners-in-crime from the Arrow's bindings, but he gave up that attempt to raise his weapon. It was kicked out of his hand before his arm was even half-way raised.
Keeping her head low, making sure the hood fell deep into her face, Felicity stood over the man kneeling next to a bound and groaning man. "Go to your boss," Felicity said, relying on the voice modulator and seeing its effect in the widening eyes of the man slowly rising his hands. "Tell him his time stealing medicine is up. I'm protecting the transports. If he wants to keep failing this city, he has to face the consequences."
The eyes of the man twitched left and right to his defeated colleagues.
"GO!" Felicity roared.
Scrambling to his feet, he raced down the street as fast as he could.
She took a second to look behind him, to make sure the two men were thoroughly tied up and that the third was still breathing. All secure, she decided and aimed a cable arrow toward the nearest roof top.
"Thank you!"
Surprised, she looked to the truck driver, standing on the top step of his truck, holding on to the opened door. The man with the wild beard and bald head smiled at her.
A warm sensation tugged at Felicity's heart. She didn't do this so that people could say thank you—her reasons were very different—but seeing the relief and the honest smile on this man's face was… nice. "Drive safely." The words were past her lips before she could stop them. The man nodded. Police sirens sounded in the distance and Felicity finally let go of the arrow, letting the cable pull her up the nearest rooftop, disappearing into the night.
So much for Smoak-Lance-proofing the computer.
Apparently, if Mrs. Smoak-Lance couldn't mess with the software, she simply went for the hardware.
In a, for him, unusually strained voice, Gerry Conway had told Oliver on the phone that the whole computer had shut down and wouldn't power up anymore. Considering Mrs. Smoak-Lance's all or nothing-mentality, it probably meant that throwing the thing out was the only thing left to do. Still, Oliver had to check. Holding on to his tablet and his private tool case, Oliver exited the elevator on the thirty-ninth floor.
"Thank God, Oliver!" Gerry raced toward him. "You need to get this thing going again, because she was Skype-ing and the head of the Warsaw subsidiary sent a contract over. Of course, she saved it on her desktop." The EA made Oliver go a little quicker by forcefully walking down the corridor himself. "I told her about the server, explained to her why it needs to be saved there. She made a joke about being a fan of easy access herself—and then she probably forgot everything I just told her." Together the two men headed toward the empty CEO office. "She's so good with strategic thinking, why doesn't she get any better with her computer?"
Oliver sighed. So much for throwing the thing out. "Did you ask her what she did when the poor thing died?"
"She said her heel got tangled in a cable and she pulled." Gerry's head snapped to Oliver. "And please don't ask me if I checked the power cord, because that's the first thing I did."
Oliver glanced at the ceiling. "Seriously, sometimes I feel like my request to switch to ACSD was doomed right from the start because I'm Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer."
"Oliver, you're Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer because you're the best in that whole department. I know that—and Mrs. Smoak-Lance knows that. And she might mess up her computer, but never her business." Gerry patted the taller man's back. "And now, please, save this contract. It's ten at night in Warsaw and that means we're way past happy hour over there."
The ringing of the telephone made Gerry rush out of the office to his own desk. A little disheartened, Oliver sighed. Time to live up to his image and make Gerry's life a little easier.
Sinking to his knees, his back to the glass wall, he crawled under the CEO's desk to have a look at the back of the computer tower. Oliver's first move was to make sure all the cables were plugged in correctly—he liked Gerry, but it was better to check than to trust blindly. But, sadly, the solution wasn't that easy—much the opposite. He groaned. How hard had Mrs. Smoak-Lance pulled? She had loosened the electrical connection in the power supply, which should be impossible. Leave it to his boss to do it anyway.
He reached for his tool case and a screwdriver. He felt the familiar weight of the well-used tool his sister had given him for his twelfth birthday. (It was perfect for these tiny screws—and, okay, maybe he was a little sentimental when it came to this… and all other things involving Thea.) Maybe he could fix the computer here in this office without needing to carry the damn tower down to the IT-department.
He worked methodically and quickly, loosening the screws and putting them on the black marble floor next to him. He had taken his mother's radio apart when he was only six—it had taken him two weeks to put that thing together in working fashion. He had been seven when he built his first computer with spare parts he gathered from the junkyard. He knew what he was doing. And he knew what he would be doing next: one look at the power supply told him he had to change the whole, damn thing.
"Gerry," he called from where he crunched underneath the desk, poking the unplugged electrical connection with his screwdriver, "good news. The hard drive's fine."
"That is good news for the hard drive."
In shock, Oliver straightened up, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. That wasn't Gerry's voice. That was his boss. He scrambled backward, shooting up and around. "I—"
The apology died on his lips. Words escaped him with the air that was knocked out of him. Forcefully, he was shoved backward, against the desk, the computer screen on top of it connecting with his back. Simultaneously, there was a slap against his wrist, a hurtful one, causing his hand to open, and in the next second he was bracing himself against the CEO's desk with a hurting spot in the middle of his chest and a numb hand.
He blinked and stared at the woman opposite him, standing there with her body angled to the side, her right foot placed forward and her right hand pointing at him—holding on to the red handle of the screwdriver that had been in his hand only a second ago.
Strangely, the most shocking thing wasn't his tool switching hands but whose hand was now tightly closed around it. The person pointing his screwdriver at him as if it were a weapon left him speechless. That most definitely wasn't his boss.
He gawked at her. Seriously, there wasn't another word for what he was doing. Even his mouth was slightly opened.
She flinched, her blonde hair flowing around her face. His mouth opened a little more.
"I'm sorry that was…" she said, giving up her offensive stance, "a reflex?" She seemed uneasy, shifting her weight. "I mean, I have a good explanation for this, which… I will tell you…." He could see her dig her brain. "I have this thing with pointy things—needles and stuff. Stuff like your screwdriver."
Oliver's brain tried to keep up—and failed. He honesty couldn't wrap his head around what was happening here. And he couldn't stop staring at her, both hands holding on to the desktop behind him, and then the one thing that consumed his thoughts in the last twenty seconds escaped his mouth.
"Felicity Smoak?"
It was a shocked whisper falling from his lips. Registering what he had said made him flinch. She knew who she was, he didn't need to tell her, she knew her name. Greet her, his brain urged and his mouth obeyed.
"Hi."
Hi?! How lame was he?! And how did his voice manage to crack saying those two letters? Forcing himself to pull it together to get something going that resembled a normal conversation worthy of adults, he let go of the desk behind him.
"I'm Oliver Queen."
That was good, he decided. He motioned to the tower. "I'm trying to fix your mother's computer."
"Yeah, sure." Felicity shifted her weight once more. "I'm sorry, I… pushed you. Are you okay?"
Oliver couldn't help but notice how her lips moved, colored in a brilliant shade of pink. Get it together, he chided himself. This was his boss' daughter. She was way out of his league and she had asked him a question. "Yes, all good," he made himself answer. He motioned to the screwdriver still in her hand. "I need that back, though."
"Oh. Of course." With a flick of her wrist she twirled the tool around, caught the metal piece, and offered the red wooden handle for him to take.
He did and nodded a quiet thank you, digging his brain for something to say.
Gerry Conway's appearance spared him from having to say anything. "Miss Smoak," he said, surprised, entering the office. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming."
"Yes, I realize that I should've scheduled a meeting." She spoke quietly, softer than she had before. She turned toward the EA. "I take it my mother isn't available for a late lunch?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Smoak."
Understanding Gerry's sympathetic way of declining, she nodded. "Of course. I just thought I'd give it a try."
Oliver's eyes were glued to the small woman, studying her intently: how she tugged a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, revealing a dangling earring tangled in it. How the loose skirt of her blue dress flowed around her legs as she took a step backward. How she gestured toward the door while saying, "Then I guess I should let you two get back to your work." She focused on Gerry. "Mr. Queen has good news for you: the hard drive's unharmed." Her eyes danced between the two men. "Have nice day."
"I will tell your mother you were here," Gerry promised. "Have a good day, Miss Smoak."
Oliver forced himself to add his own, "Goodbye."
With one small smile that looked a little forced, Felicity Smoak walked out of the office. Her black heels clicked on the marble and Oliver wondered how he hadn't heard her enter. He always got too lost in his work—and apparently he also got lost in staring after his boss' daughter, because only after she disappeared around the corner did he notice Gerry's amused gaze on him. Lamely, Oliver cleared his throat. "She's right, the hard drive isn't affected. I'll change the power supply and all's good."
Thankfully, Gerry spared himself any further comment and Oliver decided he'd rather do the rest of the work in the IT department. He pocketed the screwdriver and the screws, heaved the computer tower up and headed out of the office. He was waiting for the elevator to come back up when he noticed his prickling hand and the pain in the middle of his chest—both spots ached where she had… hit him.
Felicity Smoak had hit him.
That was more body contact that he had realistically believed to ever share with Felicity Smoak—while it was very much not the kind of body contact he fantasized about having with her.
With that realization the surrealism of the last minutes crashed down on him. Had that really happened? Belatedly, his cheeks started to heat.
The elevator arrived and he hurried to step into the cabin. The door closed showing him his reflection in the mirrored wall—and he saw that he had forgotten to fasten his tie. The black cloth hung loosely around his neck. Great! If his supervisor ever found out he had looked sloppy around Felicity Smoak, he'd have to face a ten-minute lecture. But part of him reasoned that it was a small price to pay for meeting Felicity Smoak and not making a total ass out of himself. Only… 35, maybe 40 percent of an ass. That was a clear win in Oliver Queen's book—even if his chest hurt.
