a/n: title and inspiration for the story are from "the scarlet pimpernel", book by countess emmuska orczy and musical by frank wildhorn & nan knighton. percy blakeney (aka the scarlet pimpernel) was the first "superhero" to run around with two personalities, the normal/ridiculous english lord and the rescue-french-aristocrats-from-the-guillotine scarlet pimpernel. wonderful book and fantastic musical, highly recommend.
It was ridiculous that everyone just assumed that the Arrow was hot.
Felicity couldn't go three days without seeing a news article proclaiming that the author had seen a glimpse of the Arrow in a back alley (leaving, of course, room for assumption that they'd proceeded to make out in said alley) and…
"OMG his cheekbones!" she read out loud in her otherwise-silent apartment. "Perhaps not as chiseled as some, but still! But the most enthralling characteristic has to be his jawline. Oh. My. God. We've all seen the police drawings (shown below), but they just don't do it justice! " Felicity dropped the magazine, collapsed onto the couch, flung one hand over her forehead, and reached for her wine with the other.
The magazine was trash. She knew that. She'd known that when she bought it for a little over five dollars at the corner store. She'd just wanted to see what the latest reality family was up to in their expensive trashy life.
She hadn't planned on seeing an article that praised every characteristic of the Arrow even though the public was still divided on murderer and hero. This lady—age somewhere between 25 and 30, either incredibly single or in such a secure relationship that her significant other would laugh at the gushing—was clearly on the hero side. Hopefully.
She swallowed a lot of wine.
It was hilarious in the wow I could tell you so much about the Arrow kind of way. These women hadn't even seen him do the salmon ladder! She, Felicity Megan Smoak, had seen the Arrow do the salmon ladder. Not only that, she'd seen him do it shirtless. Shirtless.
It wasn't an experience that someone easily forgot, especially when aforementioned Arrow set up the salmon ladder like ten feet from her computers.
The wine glass was empty. She wondered how much money she'd get if she took a picture of Oliver's chest, edited the tattoos and scars off, and sent it in to this very magazine. Probably a lot. Probably enough to buy this apartment instead of renting. Probably enough to buy the building.
People loved the Arrow. She didn't blame them. She loved him too. But—like—actually loved. Like loved from the very first conversation with red pen and bullet-ridden computer.
The next day—along with the slight hangover—was not much better. It started with a criminal trying to blow up a few of the docks without regard for the civilians on them, and John barely avoided getting blown up with the last one. That led to a fight between Arrow and Spartan because they couldn't stand seeing each other almost getting hurt, which was adorable but not what they needed when the bomber was still loose.
"Guys! Pull it together! He's already three streets away." Felicity pushed her forehead into her hands and wished for sleep and extra-strength Tylenol. She followed the guy's progress with security cameras until he disappeared into the sewers.
"Overwatch, where did he go?" Oliver's voice bit through the comms. His tone was just annoyed enough to be absolutely grating on her nerves.
"Sewers. He's in the sewers. Unless you two are in the mood for a real bonding experience, I recommend we call it a day and start bright and early tomorrow." For the first time in her not-that-long life, John and Oliver agreed in unison to come back to the bunker and recover instead of chase a bad guy. "Great! I'm going to the store."
"What's wrong?" Oliver ventured.
"I have a headache." She then did the rudest thing she'd ever done to Oliver Queen and turned the comms off as he was replying and ran out of the bunker before the boys got back. If he was really concerned, he could text her. If something really bad happened on the way back to the base… John and Oliver would handle it. They were grown-ups.
The headache was worsened by the magazines at the checkout. The line was really (really) long and honestly she was too curious so she picked one up. This time, the cover article was about Oliver Queen.
"We all know that getting stranded on that island was the worst thing that could have happened to young Ollie Queen, but wow! There must not have been anything to do aside from work out on the island!" There were then pictures of Oliver in a button-up that was slightly too tight. "This hunk of a man is rivaling Chris Hemsworth these days in regards to biceps, and an unnamed source says that the rest isn't too far behind! We in Starling City have our very own Thor!"
Felicity almost threw up in the checkout line. They weren't wrong, but also. They did miss the obvious Hawkeye references. Jeremy Renner wasn't too bad either. She glanced at the other magazines when she shoved that one back into its box and then she grinned. This was the first time she'd ever seen more magazines objectifying men than women. It was impressive, anyway.
She still ended up on the couch with wine again. It was far easier to drink away her problems and… oh, wow, she'd accidentally bought the one on Oliver. The reporter who had gushed over the Arrow the day before was the same one marveling over Oliver's collarbones.
"The magazines they sell in the grocery store are not porn, woman! Have some self-respect!"
The reporter did not listen. After all, the article was already in print, and even if she'd been there to hear the ramblings of a woman desperately in love with and usually slightly annoyed by the aforementioned business man and vigilante, she wouldn't have done anything about it.
A knock sounded at the door and Felicity fell off the couch. "Felicity?"
She set the wine glass down and tried not to panic. The wine glass was tipping and the idea of having to get a carpet-cleaning service was enough to cause panic, not just because Oliver was at the door.
"Can I come in?"
She made sure the glass wasn't going to fall and ran to the door. "Hey Oliver!"
His eyes were really, really blue. He stepped into her apartment and grabbed her elbows when she tried to step backwards out of his way. "Are you okay?"
There was a possibility she had a problem. A very serious problem. "Do you ever get sick of paparazzi?"
Oliver tilted his head as he steered her toward the couch, deftly avoiding the wine glass and the pizza box—how long had that been there? "I'm used to it, always have been. But that was one of the only good things about the island, that no one cared who I was aside from a stupid kid who got shipwrecked and was willing to learn how to kill people to survive. I'm going to get you some water."
She motioned vaguely toward the kitchen. She was sobering up really fast, but water was probably the best idea she'd had all day. Or that Oliver had had. "They're just really on top of you lately, the magazines."
"I guess so." He pressed a glass into her hand and sat down next to her. The dip in the couch sent her leaning in his direction, and she decided to let her head land on his shoulder. It definitely wasn't a comfortable landing, but you know what? Oliver was her friend and it was okay. Probably. She took a sip of water. Delicious water. "Is that why you're upset?"
He must have noticed the magazines under the coffee table. "It's just—they all think you're the greatest and they don't even know you. And they're completely obsessed with you."
Oliver leaned down to pick up one of the magazines, her head moving with his shoulder. She changed her mind—he was really comfy. "Eyewitness reports claim that the Arrow has—wow. I need to get better about security cameras." He tossed the magazine back down, the fuzzy picture of the Arrow with bow raised staring up at Felicity. "I don't care what any of them think, Felicity."
She lifted her head off his shoulder to actually see his face. "Obviously not, but—"
"The only person whose opinion I care about is yours."
She searched his face for anything other than truth and she couldn't find it. A smile escaped without her express permission and he grinned back. They sat in an awkward what-do-we-do-now for a few minutes until she stood up and wobbled and reached for the magazines. "I wasted so much money."
"Wait, what else did they say about me?" Oliver grabbed for one of them but she tugged it back.
She kept it out of his reach even with his massive arms that one of the reporters so loved. "They were complimentary and that's all you need to know!"
"But—" he whined, eyes happy and blue and playful and wow, she loved him.
"Your ego is fine as it is, Mr. I'm-So-Used-to-Paparazzi!"
"That's true but—"
They were interrupted by Oliver's phone ringing. Wow, he actually kept the phone volume on, she thought as she threw the magazines and blurry pictures of Oliver into the recycling. She didn't need those after all—she had the real one on her couch.
"John says the dock bomber's come back out," Oliver said. The playfulness was gone from his face just as quickly as it had appeared. "Do you feel okay enough to come watch over us?"
It wasn't going to feel good, but she reached for her water bottle as answer. "I'm sorry I turned the comms off on you earlier, by the way."
Oliver nodded, then stepped over to the sink next to her. "I'm sorry for snapping at you." He reached for her hand and led her out of the apartment and toward the world that so few knew. The annoyance and the pain and the hangover were all worth it, since it meant she got to watch him save the city and do the salmon ladder.
She decided to send in the picture of his edited chest the next time he was really annoying, though. The glass of red wine had spilled after all, staining the carpet forever, and superhero sidekick didn't really pay that well.