(A/N: It is seriously hard right now to get one full, uninterrupted hour. So in the spirit of adhering more to the rules, I sacrificed editing time for writing time, so this isn't as clean as I would prefer it to be. Repetition, -ly adverbs, etc. But oh well. I will survive, and so will you. :P)
FF #2: Game On
Shouts coming from within the lair caused Oliver to tense, readying himself for a fight. When he realized that one of those voices was definitely female, he burst into the room, knife drawn and fists up. What awaited him as he rounded the corner was not the scene of chaos or danger that he'd expected.
The med table had been cleared off and moved to the center of the room. Two clusters of Dixie cups, set up like bowling pins, were arranged at each end. Felicity and Roy were standing at opposite ends of the table. There were damp spots on the front of Roy's ever-present red hoodie, and Felicity had kicked off her shoes. Roy was holding up a Ping Pong ball and squinting. As he raised his arm, Oliver stepped into the room.
"Are you two playing beer pong?"
Roy's throw was off. The ball hit the middle of the table at a weird angle and went spinning off to bounce on the floor a few times before rolling under Felicity's workstation.
"Dammit, Queen, I'm already losing," Roy grumbled. "I don't need your help."
Felicity reached down the front of her dress and withdrew a Ping Pong ball. She tossed it in the air and caught it like she was preparing for a tennis serve. Then she threw it. With a thock and a splash, the ball landed in one of only three cups left on Roy's side. He sighed dramatically, fished out the ball, dropped it in a cup off to the side, and downed the contents of the original cup.
Oliver approached the table and sniffed the air. "Please tell me you're not using my Russian vodka to play beer pong," he said.
"Hiiiii, Oliver!" said Felicity. There were twice as many cups remaining on her side, but she was swaying on her feet. "There wasn't any beer. Your super-secret new hideout isn't located beneath a club with a fully stocked bar."
Oliver turned and gave Roy the full power of his glare. The younger man held up his hands in surrender.
"Hey, it was her idea, I swear," he said.
"Right. Felicity?"
"Yes, Mr. Queen?" She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, but it was too much for her already unstable balance. She tripped over her shoes and tilted backward, but Oliver caught her before she could fall.
"Was this really your idea?" he asked.
She nodded solemnly. "I didn't have anything better to do, and Sir Broods-a-lot McPoutypants over there needed some cheering up. You know, if there was a World Series of brooding, youuuuu," she drawled, poking his shoulder, "might actually have some competition."
Oliver frowned. "How much have you had to drink? I thought you were winning."
"How long are you guys going to stand like that?" Roy asked. "I mean, it's cute, sure. You look like that World War Two picture of the sailor dipping that girl back and kissing her. But we have a game to finish."
Oliver looked down. His hands were still on Felicity's waist, and at some point she'd twined her arms around his neck. She was indeed angled back in a pose more reminiscent of a dance floor (and that iconic photo) than anything else. He set her upright and let go of her. She teetered to the left, then caught herself by grabbing the edge of the table.
"Well, I've only missed twice," she said, following it up with a triumphant grin. "But Roy bumped into the table and knocked over a cup and we decided not to refill it. And then I drank a couple to boost his morale because he was losing so badly. It was pity imbibing."
"Thanks, Blondie," Roy said sarcastically. "I'm actually kind of enjoying myself, though. Apparently alcohol is like truth serum for her," he said to Oliver.
"It's a Smoak family trait," Felicity said gravely. "But you said you wouldn't say anything about what I said." She frowned. "That's a lot of 'saids'. Anyway, you promised that—" She lowered her voice to imitate Roy. "—whatever is said in the lair stays in the lair."
"We're still in the lair," Roy pointed out.
"Have I had this conversation before?" she asked. "My head hurts."
"She's drunk, and she's still beating you?" Oliver asked Roy.
"She didn't say anything about being a beer pong savant before we started playing," the younger man said.
"It's just geometry," said Felicity, shrugging one shoulder. "I'm also really good at pool. And mini-golf."
"But not very good at holding your booze," Roy replied.
"Now that's just rude. You say that like it's an insult, like it's a skill to be honed, not a matter of biology and weight ratios."
The table was the only thing holding her up, so when Felicity whirled away from it, she crashed face-first into Oliver's chest. "Ow." She straightened her glasses. "Did I not cheer you up?" she said to Roy. "Are you not entertained?"
He rolled his eyes.
Oliver gripped Felicity's arms to steady her on her feet. "Why don't you declare victory, and I'll take you home?" he suggested.
"I win? Yay!"
Oliver had to support most of Felicity's weight on the walk to her car. He'd seen how full those cups were—he was shocked that she was still mostly upright because she was such a lightweight. Once he'd gotten her into the passenger seat and buckled her in, she reached out and grasped the hem of his sweater as he straightened up.
"Oliver?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't ask me anything on the way home, okay? Roy wasn't kidding about the truth serum thing. I just feel really, really honest right now, and I don't think you can handle it."
"Relax, Felicity," he said as she let go. "You wouldn't be telling me anything I don't already know."
