Note: Here's chapter 2. Barry gives Oliver a nickname and this gets closer and closer to a coffeeshop AU. Enjoy! (chapter 3 is already up on AO3 if you're interested)

Lasagna, Oliver thought, was not supposed to be crispy, as he swallowed another damn near inedible bite. He hadn't thought it was particularly possible to ruin lasagna so thoroughly, but the restaurant down the street had managed it. Even his school cafeteria food was infinitely better than this—and damn, if those kids from his school could see him now… Oliver Queen, royalty among the rich, choking on overcooked pasta in an apartment roughly the size of his old bathroom.

Not for the first time, he wished he had the time and money to try cooking for himself. But all of his time was devoted to the mission and all of his money went to basic expenses. Most of what he ate these days was take out and ramen; the lasagna was actually supposed to be a treat.

Really, it figured. Today was one of those days where nothing went right. He was having more and more of those days as time went by.

"Arrow, check in." It wasn't Waller on the comms this time, but rather his other handler for whenever Waller wasn't available. He hadn't met them in person yet; all he knew about them was their codename—Harbinger.

"I'm back at the apartment for the night."

"Contacts?"

"Mockingbird at 0923. Anton and Nikolai Babkin, Vasily Antipov, Alyona Vanzin, all from 1004 until approximately 1700 hours. The cashier at Jitters at 1732 hours—nametag said Gabby. Whoever answered the phone at Mario's at 2223. The cashier working at Mario's at 2249—no nametag." He sighed. Barry Allen wasn't someone he wanted ARGUS to know about; two run-ins in one day would surely pique their suspicions. It had for Oliver, after all, but two minutes of conversation was enough to convince him that Barry Allen was not a threat. But Waller would be much harder to convince, and she already knew that someone had spilled coffee on him—but maybe not about the second run-in? Where he'd actually learned Barry's name? He'd turned off the comms by then, and there were no security cameras in Jitters. It was risky, but…

"Someone ran into me on my way to meet Mockingbird at approximately 0900. Spilled coffee on my shirt and apologized. I left the scene almost immediately. No further contacts."

Oliver waited with bated breath for Harbinger's response.

"Copy. Anything else to report?"

"No."

"Next check in tomorrow at 0600."

"Copy." He flicked the comm off in his ear and removed it, heaving a relieved sigh and placing it on the counter. He wasn't particularly tired and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep any time soon, but with nothing else to do, he lowered himself onto the sleeping bag in the corner of the room and prepared himself for a long night.

Barry had barely sat down with a wince as the still-tender burn twinged and an exhausted sigh before there was a knock at his door. Heaving himself to his feet and shuffling over to the door, he looked through the peephole to see old Ms. Cavendish standing there with a tray of cookies.

Loretta Cavendish was one of the most interesting people he'd ever met: some odd amalgam of the most stereotypical old person traits one could imagine and yet she led the life that Barry could only hope to lead when he was her age. She regularly brought him home-baked goods as a bribe to get him to come help her with her electronics, but then at 80, she'd had both hips and knees replaced just so she could keep dancing with her dance troupe. Up until she'd moved to Central three years ago, she'd been an avid gardener and beekeeper. She was a tall, but pudgy woman, her dark skin drooping off her like melting wax. She'd never married—as far as Barry knew, she'd never looked at anyone in a remotely sexual or romantic way her entire life ("Romance is cute and all," she said once when he asked her about it, "but I've never had much interest in it. Always had something more important to take care of. Like my bees." She'd laughed a little, then—"I think you kids have a word or two for it—asexual? Aromantic? I don't know; I've never cared much for labels myself.")

"Hey there, Ms. Cavendish," Barry said as he opened the door, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to conceal a yawn. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, Barry, I saw you come in and I had just baked this batch of nice chocolate chip cookies and I thought, 'that nice young man looks like he could use a pick me up!' so I brought some over." Ms. Cavendish always did this: she presented the baked goods as being a gift completely independent of her request for help. Then she got a good look at him. "What happened to your shirt?"

Barry had forgotten he was still wearing the shirt Robert had spilled on. "Oh, someone spilled some coffee on me." At her suddenly angry face, he cut off what he was sure would be a well-intentioned rant on his behalf, "He apologized and cleaned me up and besides, I spilled on him first."

She gave him a look that meant she didn't quite believe him but let it rest, handing the platter of cookies over to him.

"Thank you, they look lovely," Barry said. He thought back to the piles and piles of work waiting for him back in his room and mentally groaned even as he spoke, "Is there anything I can help you with this evening?"

"Now that you mention it…" she said, green eyes twinkling, "I'm trying to get one of those Facebook whatchamacallits and I could use some youthful assistance."

He took a moment to process what she'd said. "Accounts? Facebook accounts?"

"Yes. It's the social media for old people, right?"

"Alright, it should only take me a minute."

All told, it took him about thirty minutes after he'd gone over to her apartment (the woman was 82 and she lived on the third floor all by herself) because Loretta kept asking him to go back and explain exactly how he'd done everything he'd done and then she wanted to do it herself. Just when he was finally about to leave, she called him back.

"Barry, wait! I have something for you." She shuffled into her kitchen while Barry waited alone in her living room.

"Ms. Cavendish, I've got a lot of work to get to—"

"Found it!" she interrupted his attempt to extract himself from her presence as she came back into the room and thrust a tube of some sort into his hands. "It's ointment. For that coffee burn that's had you wincing all night. Now go get your work done." She sent him off with a wave.

Later that night, as he took a bite of her gooey and delicious cookies, he couldn't help but think he preferred crisper cookies, like his mom used to make.

Oliver loved Saturdays.

The Bratva didn't exactly operate on the standard work week, but he generally wasn't expected to do anything for them then so it was like a day off. A day where he could read (and who knew that reading would become a luxury for him), or exercise or relax a little (not that he ever really relaxed).

On this particular Saturday, Oliver was in a corner booth back at Jitters. He had four different coffee shops that he went to for security reasons and by all rights he shouldn't have been back there again so soon after such a public incident, but it was the only one without security cameras and he desperately needed a few hours without feeling Waller's watchful eye on him (not that it ever went away, really; he had the damn bomb in his head to prove it).

"We've got to stop meeting each other like this."

Oliver looked up from the book he was reading to see Barry Allen, standing over him with his arms crossed and a cheeky-ass grin on his face. "At least neither of us has any coffee this time."

"That is true. And might I ask," Barry said, sitting down across from Oliver without further preamble, "what are you doing in a coffee shop if not buying coffee?"

Oliver raised an eyebrow at him. "Reading," he said, holding up his book with one hand.

The other man (man was something of an exaggeration—seriously was he even twenty?) looked at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say more. Oliver returned to his book, smirking a little at his outraged huff. "You're not gonna ask me why I'm here?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"It just so happens that I'm here visiting my best friend," Barry said as though Oliver hadn't even spoken. "She's a waitress, working right over… there." He pointed at a beautiful black woman chatting amicably with a couple of her customers.

"Isn't it rude to point?"

"I wouldn't know. What are you reading?"

Oliver held up the book so Barry could read the title.

"To Kill a Mockingbird. That's a great book." Barry paused, again with expectation on his face. When Oliver said nothing, he laughed. "You're not much of a talked, are you, Rob?"

"…Rob?"

"You don't like it?"

"Just call me Robert."

"What about Bob?"

"No."

"Robby?"

"No."

"Bobby?"

"No matter how many variations of Robert you propose, my answer won't change."

Unsubdued, Barry thought for another moment, then snapped his fingers in realization. "I've got it! Bobbo."

Oliver stared at him for a long moment. "I changed my mind," he said slowly. "From now on you can call me Mr. Wilson."

"Whatever you say, Bobbo."

Oliver couldn't hold back a groan. Barry grinned.

"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

Oliver hadn't laughed like that in a long time and soon he and Barry lapsed into easy conversation.

"Who's the hottie?" Iris asked when Barry came back over to see her almost half an hour later.

"Robert Wilson," he said, throwing a look back over his shoulder at the other man, still reading his book. His thin jacket had seen better days, and there were dark rings around his eyes that looked like they had been etched into his skin. "Could you do me a favor?"

"If you tell me what it is."

"Now don't overreact, but… Could you…" he hesitated, knowing exactly how Iris would react and not looking forward to it, before plowing on, "maybe send him over a coffee? I'll pay for it, but don't let him know it's from me. Like wait 'til I'm gone and then tell him it's on the house or something."

Iris opened her mouth wide. "Does someone have a crush?" she teased.

"No!"

"You do! Oh Barry, this is so exciting!"

"No I don't Iris. I just—he looks like he could use some coffee. And he seems like someone who wouldn't accept it from me. That's all."

Iris just laughed and patted his shoulder. "You're so easy to tease, Bare. Seriously though," she said with a brilliant smile, "I think it's a really sweet thing to do. And don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't know it was you."

"Thanks Iris," he said. "I'm sorry; I know I didn't end up hanging out with you much but I've actually gotta run—got some more work to do, but I'll see you tomorrow for dinner."

"Go! Do your work!" she said, giving him a little push toward the door. "See you later."

Barry took one last look at Robert, sitting alone with his book, before heading back to his apartment.