Felicity isn't sure what she was thinking when she agreed to let Sophia drag her to Oliver Queen's welcome back party.
(Correction. She knows exactly what she was thinking, but given that it's completely irrational that Oliver should have any feelings towards her after all this time—if he ever had any at all—she's electing to ignore those thoughts.)
"It's not like you ever have a night out," Sophia explained, as they sat in the back of the cab. "And since Candice couldn't come—which is such a shame, oh my God, she would have loved it—I thought it would be fun for us to do something together. We never hang out anymore."
(They haven't hung out in years, with good reason. In fact, the only time they ever spent any time together was at the QC mixer three years ago when Felicity was first hired. She doesn't have anything in common with the HR girls.)
The party is loud, dark, and packed with girls in tiny dresses; exactly the kind of thing Felicity promised herself she would avoid after college. Sophia disappears within minutes—so much for wanting to hang out—onto the dance floor, leaving Felicity to shover her way to the bar.
If she's going to stay here, she might as well have a drink.
There must be a God up there somewhere, because not only is the party open bar but the drinks are free.
(Then again this is hardly a surprise when your host is Tommy Merlyn.)
Felicity orders a whisky on the rocks, not because she's a fan of whisky, but because it's probably the quickest way to get herself drunk other than shots.
"A lady who means business. I like it."
Felicity turns, about to give this pretentious jerk a piece of her mind (she's really not interested in being hit on, not now or ever), only to find herself face-to-face with one grinning Tommy Merlyn.
(He's a lot more handsome in person.)
"You know, for someone with your reputation, I would have expected some better pickup lines," she says drily, sipping her whisky and trying not to say anything embarrassing.
(It would be really horrible if Tommy got the wrong idea.)
Tommy lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. "They're usually more interested in the charming good looks. The lines are just a package deal."
"Must be a sad package."
The minute the words are out of Felicity's mouth, she wishes she could take them back.
(Or die. Really, that might be preferable.)
"That was not at all what I wanted to say."
Tommy laughs. "Wouldn't be the first time. Probably won't be the last."
"Yeah, well that still doesn't help my New Year's resolution to not constantly be making a fool of myself."
Felicity takes a large gulp of her drink and nearly chokes as the whisky burns its way down her throat.
"I gave up on that one a long time ago," Tommy says easily, propping himself against the bar on one elbow.
It's funny. She's always imagined Tommy to be some roguish troublemaker, armed with a charming smile and the keys to a Maserati, but he really isn't very different from the boy who stole her heart at a party five years ago, only with fewer masochistic tendencies.
"You know, you're the second girl I've ever met who hasn't been impressed by my charm," Tommy says, scooting a little closer. Felicity stands as still as possible, hoping not to give off the wrong impression—she has no idea if Tommy is trying to come onto her or just being friendly.
"Really? Who was the first?"
Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, but Felicity sees his eyes slide across the room and settle on the curvaceous figure of one Laurel Lance, chatting with a couple girls by the speakers and looking like she'd really rather be anywhere else. Try as he might to play it cool, Felicity recognises the look in his eyes all too well; she's seen it a hundred times before in paparazzi snapshots of Laurel and Oliver.
(She's not proud of the mild stalker phase she went through after the Christmas party six years ago.)
Tonight is not the first time Felicity has found herself wondering what it is that Laurel Lance has that makes all the boys flock to her like moths to a flame. Obviously, it's not something Felicity has, or there'd be more ex-boyfriends in the picture. Or boyfriends, period.
(She doesn't count the look on Oliver's face that night years ago; he was too drunk to have any idea what he was doing.)
"Laurel doesn't take crap from anyone," Tommy continues.
"Which is why you find her so irresistible?"
Tommy chuckles nervously. "What?"
Felicity rolls her eyes. He can play the innocent all he wants, but Felicity knows all too well what it like to pine for someone you can't have and pretend not to feel anything. "Seriously? You're going to look me straight in the eye and tell me there's nothing going on between the two of you? Because the look in your eyes when you see her tells a completely different story—like not even in the same book."
"Even if there were, she's not interested," Tommy mutters, cheeks turning pink. He must be drunk; otherwise, Felicity is sure that there is no way he would be telling her this.
(Oh for crying out loud. What is it with her and playing the matchmaker to immature playboys?)
"Have you talked to her about it?"
Another half-hearted shrug. "She's got a lot on her mind lately."
Felicity doesn't miss the subtext: since Oliver's back in town.
She's thought a lot about where her relationship with Oliver is going to go since their run-in at QC. With that has come a lot of thinking about the beautiful Miss Lance and the fact that Oliver is probably still not over her. (Because let's be real here, Laurel is incredibly beautiful and smart and Felicity wouldn't be over her either, if she were so inclined.)
(She's really happy to just be friends with him. Obviously, it's not what she wants deep down in her heart of hearts—or in her ovaries, but she really doesn't want to think about it because then it might come out of her mouth and that would be beyond embarrassing—but she's learned over the last five years meticulously tracking Oliver's presence through shady online backdoors—she knows he wasn't on that island for five years, no matter what the media says; the real question is what he was doing in all those places—that being with him in any capacity is better than not being with him at all. So if he's still not over Laurel, then she's okay with it. Or she will be. Eventually.)
"Besides, I'm not exactly her type."
"Really? Because last I heard her type was billionaire playboys with fidelity issues, and you fit that to a tee."
Obviously, the whisky is doing its job. A little too well, in Felicity's opinion.
"Sorry. That was— Wow. I'm sorry."
Tommy, mercifully, laughs. "I've been called a lot worse."
"Good." Laughter bubbles up out of her chest, allowing an escape for the nervous tension bottled in her chest. She really needs to stop coming to these things. It's not doing anything to help her sanity. "I mean not good that you've been called worse things, but good that I didn't offend you because I tend to do that a lot, not on purpose obviously, but well, because I talk to much, which is exactly what I'm doing right now. Sorry."
"Felicity?"
Felicity doesn't need to turn around to know that Oliver is standing behind her. She also knows exactly how this must look to him—or anyone else around for that matter.
Crap.
The party is not his idea. In fact, it's the last thing Oliver wants to be doing right now. Obviously, maintaining his image as a careless playboy is important to divert suspicion, but he has more important things to be worrying about right now. Like diverting forty million dollars from Adam Hunt without getting caught.
(He wishes he could use that as an excuse for being a total ass to Laurel, but he knows it's not. He needs her far away if he's going to continue with this crusade.)
Even once he's managed to get the money without being killed and the SCPD are blissfully unaware of his involvement, he can't seem to enjoy himself. There's not enough of the old Oliver left to care and the effort of pretending is exhausting.
He's trying to come up with an excuse to escape as he makes his way through the throngs on the dance floor to the bar, where he can see Tommy chatting up some beautiful blonde in a short, black dress. He can't see her face, but he swears he's seen that dress somewhere before.
Tommy says something and she laughs, tipping her head enough to give Oliver a view of her profile.
Felicity.
Oliver doesn't know why he didn't recognise her sooner—that dress isn't one he's inclined to forget.
(He can't help wondering if she wore it on purpose.)
He's crossed to the bar in moments, all thoughts of escape gone. The sight of Felicity and Tommy laughing together at the bar has roused a beast inside of him that he thought was long dead, and it's more than happy to rear it's green head in defence of its own.
"Felicity?"
Felicity starts, cheeks flaming. "Oliver! Hi!"
Tommy's grin is open and easy. Oliver wants to punch him. "You didn't tell me you two knew each other, Ollie. If I'd known, I would have sent out an invitation myself."
"It's fine. Really," Felicity stammers, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I didn't think I'd see you here—not because you wouldn't be here, obviously it's your party, where else would you be?—and I didn't even want to come—not because I didn't think it would be a great party but it's not really my scene and I didn't know anybody going—other than you, but I didn't think I'd see you and this is really embarrassing. I'm going to stop now. Sorry."
The smirk on Tommy's face makes Oliver a little uncomfortable, but it's probably only because he thinks Felicity might be the one to end his 1,839 day dry spell and not because he suspects anything between them.
(As much as he might like to do those sorts of things to Felicity, it won't be now. Maybe not ever. And certainly not as a means to an end.)
"Felicity here was just giving me some valuable relationship advice," Tommy continues, blissfully oblivious to the tense undercurrent. Oliver has always loved his best friend's ability to completely overlook things sometimes, but now, he wishes Tommy were paying more attention.
"You should take it," Oliver replies brusquely, not interested in knowing what Felicity has told him or why Tommy is seeking relationship advice in the first place. (Last he checked, relationships were the bottom of Tommy's priority list.)
Felicity's cheeks are flushing deeper by the second; she looks as though she'd rather be anywhere but here.
"I might just do that." Tommy claps a hand on Oliver's shoulder, smirk twisting into a full-blown grin. "In the meantime, however, I need to go speak to the DJ about putting a little more 2012 in his mix and less 2001. I mean, I'm a huge Shaggy fan, but you've got a lot of catching up to do. Speaking of, I'll leave you two. Nice chatting with you, Felicity."
He shoots Oliver a lascivious wink over his shoulder as he pushes through the crowd.
Felicity cringes, downing the rest of her drink—which looks suspiciously like whisky—and gestures hurriedly at the bartender for another. "That was not at all what it looked like."
"Really? And what, exactly, did it look like?"
He was definitely talked into doing too many vodka shots by those two supermodels after he sent the SCPD packing otherwise he'd never be so callous. He's always been better at practicing indifference than anger.
A dangerous spark flashes in Felicity's eyes. She's still got no time for his crap.
(Some things never change.)
"I don't need any judgement from you, Oliver. Frankly, you're the last person on the planet who should be judging people, given your history and all that."
Oliver can see the exact moment when she realises the knife she's unintentionally twisted in his breast because her anger dissolves slightly. To his relief, however, she doesn't back down. He's not interested in pretending to be fine anymore.
"I'm not judging you," he retorts sharply. "It's your life. Do what you want."
"I think I will," she snaps, snatching her clutch of the bar. The bartender appears at her elbow with another whisky, which she swipes off the bar before shouldering her way past him. The old Oliver might have winced at the impact, but Oliver feels nothing but the wet splash of whisky as the contents of Felicity's tumbler slosh over the both.
"Really?" she cries in exasperation, trying to wipe off the worst of the liquid with her fingers.
(Oliver doesn't even bother to salvage his shirt. He's got three different colours of lipstick on his collar, and a closet full of shirts just like it. It won't be missed.)
Felicity's dress, on the other hand, is not disposable - whether because of sentiment or financial need, Oliver isn't sure, all he knows is she's worn it to both the formal occasions they've attended - so Oliver snags a handful of napkins off the bar and presses them to the large damp spot on Felicity's bosom.
"Here," he mutters, trying unsuccessfully to shake the residual anger from earlier. He's not even really sure what he was angry about anymore or how any of it was Felicity's fault, but it simmers under the surface like the remnants of a bad dream.
(It doesn't occur to him until later that pressing his hands - napkins or no - to Felicity's breast is a terrible idea.)
Felicity, on the other hand, realises right away because two crimson splotches appear on her cheeks. "What are you doing?!" she splutters, flapping her hands in a wild attempt to dislodge the napkins. She looks incredibly flustered, and Oliver tries to squash the small part of himself that is equal parts satisfied and turned-on.
"Helping," he replies, slowly removing his hands and keeping them raised where she can see them. The napkins flutter to the floor like whisky-stained confetti. His lips twist into a smirk. "Is that not what you want?"
(So much for squashing his unhelpful side.)
"No," Felicity snaps. "Yes. Not the way I want."
A suggestive remark dances on the tip of Oliver's tongue, but Felicity silences it with a glare.
"Don't even say it," she hisses. "I'm so not in the mood."
She's gone before he has the chance to reply.
(It's probably for the better. Anything he would have said was likely to make the situation worse.)