An Old Friend
"Oo," Felicity batted a hand absently behind her, careless of whether she got Diggle or Oliver. "Facial recognition got a hit off — God, how do you say that?" She squinted at the Russian street name. "Maya—Mayask— whatever — it's Knyazev. We found him."
Felicity swiveled in her chair while Oliver scrutinized the screen over her shoulder. She exchanged a glance with Diggle behind Oliver's back, the both of them waiting for him to decide on this one. It wasn't as if they were part of an elitist, violent Russian crime syndicate anyway.
"I guess even the heads of crime organizations need some air," Diggle commented. Knyazev was on the rooftop of a squat building the Bratva used as a front for its Moscow operations, as one did. Maybe he was having one of those super-villain-mob-boss moments of triumph, surveying the smoggy Moscow skyline.
Felicity realized something.
"Is that the bar you guys went to?" she said, indignantly. "The last time we were in Moscow — when you made me take a cab with the crazy sword lady?"
It was Oliver and Diggle's turn to look at each other, telegraphing one of those guy looks that she didn't have the dictionary for.
"No offense, Felicity, but Knyazev doesn't really like Americans." At least Oliver looked mildly apologetic, though she would have preferred it if he didn't also look 75% amused, as if he was imagining her babbling to his old friend in the Russian mob.
"Hey," she said. "Hey. You need me on this one, babbling or not."
Oliver's hand was warm against her back as he bent and kissed her. Perks of having a ponytail — more exposure. A quick kiss on the temple, but progress considering how he usually kept things discreet. Still, Felicity made a face at him. Just because he was being mature didn't mean she had to reciprocate.
"So now what, Oliver?" Diggle asked, looking at them like he was the one amused.
"Now," said Oliver — in a voice Felicity thought was inappropriately calm, given the circumstances — and reached for his phone, "I make a call."
Felicity gave him a look of the seriously? variety. "You had his phone number the whole time?"
Oliver's fingertips brushed the back of her hand. "I have to see his face if I want to make sure he's not bluffing on this one. People forget to tell a lie with their whole body when they're on the phone."
The way he said it made Felicity wonder. Three guesses who'd taught him that — how to lie. Oliver's back straightened to the point of unnaturalness, his face taking on an expression Felicity wasn't sure she recognized. It was both Oliver and not-Oliver, the fluid assumption of another identity when she thought that he'd merged them all.
"Anatoly," he said, and all Felicity could do was wait.
"Oliver Queen," Anatoly said, with a laugh that Oliver watched on the monitor. He bent back from the strength of it, a full-bodied laugh that had a reassuring level of genuine gladness in it. "I am surprised to receive your call, my wayward friend. I have heard about your troubles with the Starling City clan."
"Misunderstandings, I'm sure," Oliver said, politely. He tuned out his friends' presences in the room, focused on the half-truth he had to sell Anatoly, against the reality that he didn't believe in the Bratva's ideals as much as the convenience their unscrupulous code of favors provided for him in the field.
"I am not so certain, my friend. I should not even be speaking to you, but I trust you understand this."
Anatoly could always be relied on to see the bigger picture. If Oliver was calling him, it meant that he had an offer he knew Anatoly couldn't refuse.
"I do. Which is why I'll be coming in person — I have an offer."
Anatoly didn't say anything for the longest minute. Oliver watched him reach into his pocket for a silver cigarette case, light one at a leisurely pace, and inhale, deeply. Smoke issued from his nose and mouth like a dragon surveying its territory below the mountain.
"Your ledger is full of debt, my friend. I am not sure such an offer will be sufficient." But he was probing, curious.
Oliver couldn't help but glance at Felicity. She nodded, once.
"I'm sure the Bratva has debts needing collection," he said, keeping his voice deceptively casual. "High-value assets, ones that can withstand your strong-arming. Certain funds of substantial amounts that you'd rather the FSB not get their hands on, because then you'd lose a sizable cut of it."
Anatoly's brow had his attention now. "The FSB looks most closely at money. How you propose to cheat them — I do not believe such a thing exists. Just what do you suggest, my friend?"
"I have a way to get you that money."
Anatoly laughed, again, but it was cautious. As if he was intrigued enough to consider Oliver's offer as sane, even though by all counts it should have been impossible. The FSB was the one entity even the Bratva had to respect.
"You ran a grave risk coming to Moscow, but I do not forget a debt. If this — offer — turns out to be false, you risk your life coming back to the Brotherhood. That is the one warning I am allowed to give you." Anatoly took another long drag of his cigarette, and blew it slowly into the wind. "Do we understand each other? They are braying for your blood, my friend. A Captain who has flouted the code. If you show your face, and your offer turns out to be a fiction — even I cannot protect you."
Oliver nodded. "I understand."
"Then I will see you in an hour, my friend." Anatoly tossed his cigarette from the roof. "If you can do this, I look forward to seeing one of my Captains once more."
"Anatoly?" said Oliver, watching him turn on the monitors. "You really should have put that out before throwing it into the street."
His friend's laugh frayed over the line, and Anatoly shook his head like he was resigned to accepting the impossible when it came to Oliver Queen.
When Oliver hung up, Felicity and Diggle were watching him, each with varying degrees of surprise.
"So we've established that even Knyazev thinks you're crazy," Felicity said, lightly. "Welcome to the club."
Her words drew a smile from him — as little as he was expecting one — and he gripped her hand, unsure whether it was reassurance for her, or himself. Diggle leaned against the edge of the desk, watching him with a steady gaze. "Now what?"
Their eyes met, and Oliver was reminded of the last time they'd been in Moscow. "We get a drink," he answered, and it was Diggle's turn to smile.
Oliver caught the gun that Diggle tossed him without comment, wielding it with the kind of ease that made her wonder at his usual choice of weapon. Sitting at the desk, Felicity watched them both with concern, getting antsier by the minute because she wasn't coming with them. Because she had work. Real-life, grown-up, and legal work.
In hindsight, she and Oliver really shouldn't have spent that much time in bed.
Felicity started at the sound of her phone. She picked it up and made a small sound of annoyance. Ray had not only squeezed in a workout and a conference call, he was waiting downstairs in the lobby for her. "Aaaand regular life calls," she said, snapping the computer shut and groping under the desk for the high-heeled shoes she'd kicked out of the way.
Felicity squeezed Diggle's arm. "Wrap up warm, it's cold out there," she said, and tugged gently on the lapels of his coat. Irrelevant and inadequate warnings were standard etiquette before a suicidally dangerous mission.
Diggle gave her a hug. "I'll keep an eye on him," he said, in an undertone. Accurate, as always.
Felicity kissed him on the cheek and reached for her bag. As always, Oliver was last for the goodbyes. They were both by the door, and he watched as she buttoned her coat. Fumbled with it, more like.
"Wish I was coming with you," she said, struggling with the buttons. "Gloves — and small holes — do not mix well." She winced. "That — sounded dirtier than I meant it to be."
Felicity gave up and let him help her. Oliver shook his head as he did up the last few buttons on her coat, his lips pressed together from hidden amusement. "You're the Vice-President of Palmer Technologies," he said, his hands coming to rest around her waist. "Work comes first."
She worked her ponytail out of her coat collar. "You did it back in QC," she said.
Even Oliver looked skeptical.
"Okay, fine," she said. "I know you had an indispensable executive assistant to cover for you, but you made being late look so easy."
"In the words of someone I once knew," Oliver said, pulling her close, "I was a lazy idiot."
Felicity smiled and patted his cheek. "You're my lazy idiot," she said, affectionately. "And now you've been upgraded to reckless. So promise me you'll be careful?"
Oliver nodded, and for a moment — a long, moment — they didn't say anything. In the silence, they were only aware of how close they were, their bodies pressed together — his hands were clasped behind her back, resting where they always did, in the dip and curve of her spine. Her eyes were closed, her lips just inches away from the pulse in his throat. Just one moment, one moment before real life swept in and pulled them apart again.
Felicity didn't regret spending the morning in bed, not anymore. But she was glad that Oliver was the one to initiate the kiss — because her kiss would have been needlessly distracting, filled with want instead of have. His kiss — the one they both needed — was lighter than the brush of a feather.
"I'll see you later," he murmured, his breath warm against her forehead.
She nodded, and slipped away. "See you later."
The bar looked like Verdant did during the day, innocuously unremarkable. And not unlike Verdant, the bar was just a front for the not-so-strictly legal activities that went on below-ground. In this case, it was a camouflage for the Bratva headquarters. At least, it was how Oliver remembered it.
"Just like old times," said Diggle.
The two of them, out in the field, Felicity just a phone call away.
Oliver gave him a long, measured glance. "You don't have to do this, John. I can handle it on my own."
Diggle shook his head, a faint smile flickering across his face, as if he'd decided something against his better judgment. "You know I'm not gonna let you go at it alone."
In the beginning, Oliver had always thought of bravery as Diggle's defining quality. Few people would have kept his secret the way Diggle had, the truth of who really lurked beneath the hood of the vigilante, the dark hand of justice casting its shadow across Starling City. That took bravery, and a good heart — a loyal heart. But Oliver had always assumed being brave meant that loyalty came easily, because having nothing to fear made it easy to link fortunes with an uncertain piece on the chessboard.
He was wrong.
With Diggle, loyalty was a thing of its own — the gun in his hand, his heart on his sleeve — and Oliver trusted it as much as he trusted Felicity with his soul.
"Then let's go," he said, finally. "Felicity, can you hear us?"
Felicity realized that VPs and polite guests weren't supposed to chew pens, but to hell with that, her friends were about to walk into a bar outnumbered twenty to one by members of the Russian mob.
And she was trying to work out how to phrase a highly awkward request, all while waiting for their tour of the Moscow office to start.
"Ray?" she said, tapping the pen against her hand. "You know how we have a list of favors we owe each other? You know, for all those times when emergencies of the Don't-Ask-Or-I-Have-To-Kill-You variety come up and I-slash-you have to make a quick unexcused absence, leaving me-slash-you to cover for you-slash-me?"
That sentence sounded a lot better in her head.
Ray looked up from his computer, frowning in confusion. "Interesting syntax — and that's the first I've heard of it."
"Oh good, because we need to start one. Now."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, hands in his pockets. Instead of annoyance, his expression was all concern. "What's going on?" he asked.
Felicity shook her head, vehemently. "Can't say. But I need to make a call — right now — and it means that I might be late for the office tour."
They were veering dangerously close to pretty-please territory. Felicity pressed her hands together in a silent plea. She knew it was asking a lot, but a part of her also knew that Ray was the only one outside the team who would understand.
And he did.
"Okay," Ray answered, reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll cover for you — and I won't ask. Because, let's just face it, I'm not stupid, and I technically still owe you for barging in last night."
"Thank you, thank you —" Felicity walked him all the way to the door. "The next emergency is on me. Seriously. Diarrhea — stomach cramps — bad back — I will make all of the excuses."
Ray grimaced in the middle of buttoning his jacket. "Maybe something that doesn't make me sound like I'm eighty," he suggested.
"You got it." She'd just pull out the disused trove of Oliver-excuses. Hangovers, nightclubs, and semi-fictional supermodels.
Felicity was about to close the door when Ray stuck his head back inside. "But we're still on for dinner?"
"Absolutely," she promised.
"Hope that bath last night was a good one," he said, before the door clicked shut behind him.
Thank God the walls in the Moscow office weren't glass, because Felicity practically sprinted over to the computer, one-handedly logging into an untraceable network and configuring her earpiece with the other.
"Guys? I'm in. Go show Knyazev you mean business," she said, already starting to type.
Oliver didn't recall there being as many people in the room the last time he'd met Anatoly. They were surrounded by unfriendly, appraising eyes, and Anatoly wasn't even in the room yet. He looked to his side. Diggle appeared deceptively relaxed, leaning back in his chair, and only Oliver could tell from the way his hands curled on the armrests that Diggle was tense and ready to fight back at a moment's notice.
"Someone's trying to make a statement," Diggle remarked, making a similar mental comparison with regards to the state of the room.
"We'll be fine," Oliver answered, partly for Diggle, partly for Felicity, who was — as always — on the other end of the line.
The door at their backs banged open, ushering with it the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, gunmetal, and cheap drinks. Oliver didn't turn in his chair, because he already knew who it was.
"Oliver Queen," Anatoly said, in his ringing voice. There was no laughter in it, none of the jovial humor Oliver knew. But he understood. Anatoly was a leader, and they all had to put on a show. "Eager for death, as always."
Oliver eschewed the formal greeting. "I have what I promised, Anatoly."
"Oh?" Anatoly took his seat, flanked by a pair of very large bodyguards, assault rifles resting prominently on their forearms. He opened his arms. "Where is it?"
Oliver carefully set his phone on Anatoly's desk. He was very careful not to say her name, not here.
"You're on," he said, knowing that she was listening.
Felicity's voice crackled on speaker. "Mr. Knyazev," she said, almost pleasantly. "How's your Wi-Fi signal?"
I have that evil storytelling feeling again (*rubs hands together*)
THOSE 3x17 PHOTOS. FELICITY'S RED DRESS AND EVERYONE LOOKS SO DAMN PERFECT (oh, hello, Ray, didn't see you there, WAIT-WHY ARE YOU OFFICIATING THE WEDDING? DID YOU CRASH YOUR SUIT INTO THE PRIEST?) Urgh. I want. All the episodes. But I also don't want them. Because they will hurt.
This is completely narcissistic and weird, but seeing the wedding photos makes me really happy because everyone looks like they do in the epilogue of "You're His Hope" (Except Ray wasn't there, but no complaints).
Anyways, if you want to, check out the AU-ish rom-com fake movie trailer for Arrow (which I made because I could, and it was fun). FF doesn't let me post links but it's under "What If (Arrow: International Trailer)" on Youtube, or on my Tumblr ChronicOlicity. Cheers! Just remember that 3x16 is one step closer to that Raylicity rough patch. (YAAAAS)