Chapter: 4
Word Count: 1842

Notes: I know, I know. I'm late again. Stuff going on this morning and then I've been going over some of my other universes tonight. As per usual, I got carried away.

As always, thanks for putting up with me and reading my insane writings. Comments are always appreciated, too. ;)

Chapter 4
(Or: "That Time Oliver Bought a Reporter a Drink... Or Four")

From a dark corner of the club, former Major Oliver Queen stands, watching the woman who drops onto a stool at the far end of the bar. She does vaguely remind him of Sara, brunette instead of blonde with the same full face. Tommy does what he does best, chatting her up casually from the end of the bar. No doubt he's trying to find all the details of the situation so that he can pass them on to his best friend.

Or maybe he's just trying to get laid. One can never tell with Tommy.

"What do you think?" Diggle asks, draped across the sofa in front of the major. He watches the girl the same way Oliver does, but perhaps with a better sense of people. Digg always has been fantastic at reading a person in a single glance. "Looks clean to me. The MPs they put undercover are usually a little more solid under pressure. Her hands are shaking."

"I'll wait for the evidence," the major replies. After all, it doesn't do to start making a plan too early. Staying one move ahead of your enemy is easy; hell, even Roy—green-around-the-gills Roy—can do that. But being two to three moves ahead, meeting an opponent's move before they know they're going to make it, is the real kind of plan. It's one that takes precision, detailed information, and a little dash of luck. "We'll see what Tommy has to say about her."

Feeling the presence before he sees him, Oliver isn't surprised when a voice calls over the music, "I went to see the captain." Two IDs are thrust in his face, and he takes them, studying the pictures. They match up right to him. "Batshit knows her forged documents, but I ran a more thorough test myself. The driver's license is real, and the press credentials compare to some others I lifted for comparison. Either she's legit or these are the best fakes I've ever seen."

"I'll put my money on them being real," Oliver answers as he watches the woman at the bar. She keeps looking around, as if expecting someone to meet her in the open. As if they'd risk that sort of exposure when they're being hunted by one of the best bloodhounds in the military police. "Both you and Felicity can't be wrong about this."

Roy snorts. "Wouldn't trust me alone, huh?" he comments dryly. "Gotta have her word, too. Good to know where I stand." He holds up a folded piece of paper. "By the way, Loony sends her love. Or whatever the hell you talk about in those letters. If that's how you two get your rocks off, I don't want to know about it."

Ignoring him, Oliver unfolds the paper, titling it so that he can catch one of the spotlights above. It contains mostly information she already told him about over the phone—that she didn't remember telling him about—but her writing style always amuses him: multiple long dashes and few periods, her paragraphs rambling into one another. While he's fairly succinct, she's verbose, her letter almost three pages in length. "She finally got rid of Billy's fleas," he comments aloud. "And John, she says hi."

As he gets to the third page, he runs his thumb across the indentations in the page where she wrote her closing: Miss you like your chocolate chip pancakes and love you twice as much, Felicity. Even with the sadness that suddenly overwhelms him, he smiles at the words—so wonderfully… her, comparing him to chocolate chip pancakes.

Sometimes he hates himself for what he did to her, insisting she get help when she was exonerated and they were sentenced. She had begged to go with them, but he refused, knowing that kind of life wouldn't work for her. Felicity needs stability and routine in her life, and, because of the life he leads, he can't give that to her—not when his home varies between a basement and the back of their van. But as much as putting her in the psychiatric ward was the right choice, it was also wrong; she's already a prisoner of her mind, and now she spends her days locked in a cell, too.

His indecision must show on his face because a hand drops on his shoulder. John offers him a tentative smile, reading him with that uncanny ability of his. Having a right-hand man who knows him so well is a blessing, but at times like this, it's also a curse. "You made the right choice with her, man," he says, as quietly as he can over the blaring music. "I know it doesn't make it any easier, but she couldn't have held up to this." Oliver opens his mouth to argue, but John won't let him. "And don't tell me you did this to her because her mind was already shot when she came to us, Oliver. What happened to Felicity just goes back to war is hell. And honestly? She's not as screwed up in the head as she has every right to be."

"That doesn't make it right, John," Oliver responds. "She's one of ours and we left her." He doesn't know what else could have been done, but that doesn't make it right, either. It was an impossible situation, and no matter what choice they made, it would have felt wrong.

"That's because you're a Marine to the end," Digg retorts with a smile. "Semper fi, right? Always faithful. And you have been to her, even if you don't believe it." He tilts his head to the side. "Best thing you can do now is get a job squared away. We'll find a way to spring her for a week or two—I know you've got a plan in that head of yours."

"When does he not?" Roy answers in a dry tone. He turns back to the brunette stewing at the bar, making a motion toward her. She's fidgeting in place and her glass is nearly empty, meaning she's deciding whether to leave or to go. "You better make a choice, Major." The phrase we'll back your play is implied, not that he needs it said aloud anyway; Oliver knows that his team would follow him into Hell and back if he told them to—and they wouldn't even ask why.

"Go downstairs," he decides. "This could become a soup sandwich, and I don't want you two caught in it." Roy makes a noise of disgust in his throat and complies, but Diggle seems more reluctant. Because of that, the major tacks on, "Now, Sergeant. I'll be fine."

They may not be military any more, but after being in that mindset for so long, sometimes Oliver can use it to incite a response. Sure enough, John takes a step toward the stairs, shaking his head. "We've gotta get you out in the field more often," he comments with a partial smile. "We haven't even taken this one, and you're already on the jazz."

Oliver only smiles in response before making his way to the bar. Without looking back, he slides through the crowds as if he owns the place (because he technically does). No one looks at him twice, probably because his handmade suit fits in nicely with this crowd. There's a seat right by the entrance to the basement, one that puts him in perfect view of the reporter, so he takes it.

Sliding one of the napkins from the bar in front of him, Oliver pulls a pen out of his pocket. In a cursive that wouldn't win any penmanship awards, he writes down the address of an apartment in Starling Heights, along with a time and tomorrow's date. He'll give Thea a call; she doesn't mind working as their intermediary, and, if the MPs ever get close, they wouldn't believe his eighteen-year-old sister would be involved with this.

"What are you having tonight?" a voice asks, and the major smiles at the voice.

Tilting his head up, Oliver replies, "Top-shelf scotch. Neat."

Tommy shakes his head, eyes widening in surprise. "What the hell, Ollie?" he demands, crossing his arms. Not exactly the welcome he was going for, but it will work. "You know you shouldn't be up here. Your mark is sitting right there. She's gonna see you."

Smiling, the former major answers, "That's kind of the point, Tommy. I'll take that scotch, and I want to pay off her tab." It's the least he can do; she's been here for an hour while he's been watching to decide if she's another undercover. "Oh, and what's she been drinking after that scotch?"

"Martinis," Tommy answers, not looking pleased about the turn of this conversation. "Look, Ollie, as your friend, I gotta tell you that this is a stupid move. She seems clean to me, but you never know. Maybe the MPs got smarter this time and started using civilians. That could explain why she seems nervous—she's been roped into this somehow." He leans closer. "But if you're using this opportunity to get laid—"

"I'm not," Oliver assures him in a sharp tone. Despite dalliances in the past, these days his interests lie with one woman. While he knows this Laurel Lance is beautiful, beautiful isn't enough. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"She got to us through the captain, Tommy." His friend straightens ever so slightly; while he may not know names or faces of anyone on the team, Oliver has told him about Felicity being exonerated. She's a sitting duck in the psychiatric ward, and Oliver is not going to let her be a target if he can prevent it.

"Send her a new martini on me," he orders, holding up the napkin, "and put this under it. Make sure she knows I'm the one buying her a drink."

Shaking his head, Tommy insists, "I know you're trying to protect your friend. Whether or not the military wants to believe it, I get that she's part of the A-Team, too." Oliver winces; why they insist on calling them that, he'll never know. It implies that everything else is the B-team, and there were a lot of other incredible spec ops units out there. "But this is reckless, Ollie. Digg warned me about this… jazz thing you have, but this is just stupid. You could be walking into a trap, for all you know."

There's merit to Tommy's words, of course, but Oliver isn't the same wild teenager his friend remembers. A lot has changed since then, and now the major's responsibilities are first and foremost to his team. His plans may be unconventional, but they keep his team safe and put most of the risk on himself—just the way he wants it. "Maybe," he agrees after a moment, "but there's only one to tell if you're in a trap or not, Tommy."

Holding out the napkin to his friend with a smile, he finishes, "You have to poke the bait."