Whisper of a thrill
Starling City, Queen's Park, October 2012
Starling City air was thick with the promise of a premature autumn fog. It spoke in the dew on the grass, the chill that settled in your hands after so many weeks of warm weather. Starling could rarely boast hot summers anyway but it had been nice enough for the skinny denim shorts, spaghetti straps and sleeveless dresses to break free of their confinement.
It was 05:30am.
So much for sleeping in. Not like I ever do but - so not the point.
Feet beating a steady drum against the damp pavement, the only sound in the very still, early hour of the morning, Felicity allowed her mind to concentrate solely on each breath. Every measured inhale and exhale was in perfect alignment with each step. It had to be with the amount of time she spent running each week. Sometimes she felt that all she ever did was run.
As far as she could.
Rounding the bend in her path she came to her halfway point: an old tree that had been standing in this same park for almost 90 years. Cantankerous, she named it, for the way it stood so decidedly against the elements and refused to weather were all other trees and bushes died. The branches created a canopy against rain and wind.
The sight of it was a reminder to pause.
She didn't. She could keep going easily, she knew she could- you can do this Felicity. She'd jogged these steps before. Almost every single day. A routine adopted after waking bored, alone and antsy after too little sleep.
Too much adrenaline. Or at least, that's what her doctor told her. Tablets didn't help either for that matter, leaving her doctors perplexed. Felicity knew why they didn't work but it wasn't like she could tell them. Instead she found a good run seemed to be one of the few things that did the trick. It allowed her to regulate her breathing, a form of meditation, much like yoga (which she excelled in), that forced her body to calm way the hell down when it was beyond worked up.
After this she'd return to her apartment, shower, eat her cereal, and drink liberal amounts of coffee as she watched the news before heading off to work. 'Work' was at Queen Consolidated where she lived. The. Dream.
She was an IT Technician; the best in her department, if the way her own supervisor used her like lap dog was anything to go by. Though, if she were to deduce her collective status as a whole from that she'd say she was the best in the building since every office head had come down to her department, asking for her help with filing, with matrix's, virus's, security, even password discrepancies. On occasion she'd been volunteered (cough *forced* cough) to be a stand in for department heads, like a Court Stenographer, in board meetings. 'Bored Meetings' was more accurate.
Her shift differed daily but not by much: today was a 08:00 till 18:00 day. Long hours that she didn't really have to work at all but chose to because… because her mind never, ever stopped working. Because no matter how hard she tried not to, Felicity Smoak always seemed to have too much time on her hands.
Technically her shift ended at 15:00 today. Could have ended at 14:00. So for the extra few hours she did one of two things: she either a) worked on programmes and software that could and would benefit Queen Consolidated in the future or b) used the company's optimal operational grid to map out her own contingencies and interests.
It was a sort of side job: she played oracle to whoever needed it most… And other things. A freelance supplier.
It was a new day. Another chance for endless possibilities that would hopefully keep her active.
Felicity had moved to Starling over two and a half years ago. It had immediately felt like home. Like her, which was a first. There was a darkness to the City, not like Gotham. Less malevolent, more atmospheric. Clouds were ever-present and there was a type of behaviour that she'd had to learn quickly: mostly involving the Glades.
The Glades.
Like a swirling pool of crime, poverty, and depression, but characterised mostly by a loss of hope.
But the hope wasn't gone.
Shaking her head –not now brain- to rid herself of thoughts that wouldn't be helpful to her just yet, Felicity closed and locked her front door before hurrying towards the shower in her, ah, unusual abode, more on that later, wiping the trace of sweat off her forehead as she went. It wasn't like she was going to be late or anything: she never was. But she knew Walter Steele would need all hands on deck today, what with his plans for the Unidac Industries - Queen Consolidated merger. Not that she would be needed personally or anything, she wasn't anywhere near that level of importance.
The Unidac CEO had made it his business to increase project development in all their areas of scientific interest, for it was a scientific research corporation and probably would have succeeded in the production of all sorts of brilliant new technologies and ideas. However, excluding a rather brilliant peak service for PC operators, Unidac Industries had forgotten how to self-service. It was losing too much money to hold itself together, at least by its lonesome. Soon it would either declare bankruptcy or be sold.
Walter Steele, the CEO of Queen Consolidated, had looked ahead and, seeing the value in its developmental possibilities, had kept his eye on it for some time. The only reason why a lowly IT technician such as herself knew about it was because when her supervisor had been on sick leave she'd had to deal with the numbers regarding one of their many accounts and stock holdings… in front of the entire meeting of the board and after babbling insecurely and mortifyingly giving in to nervous giggling for a full five minutes she'd managed to deliver the required information by heart. Since then Mr Steel had, at random, asked small tasks of her.
It was a level of trust she hadn't expected.
Felicity nodded to herself as, with her hair dried, combed and tied into a ponytail, glasses fixed to her face, she breezed back into the living room, heading for the kitchen. Coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee… She pressed the button on her built-in kitchen monitor as she moved swiftly past, the TV immediately blaring bright the 06:25 news on WEBG. There were other news channels, but WEBG was the least bias of the lot. It opted for straight facts instead of gossip, stolen pictures paid for by less than reputable paparazzi or stories revealed in order of celeb status instead of humanitarian importance. Sometimes she went elsewhere for her news fix but so early in the morning, at the crack of whatever, she went to where it was safest.
A dark skinned newsman appeared in front of the camera. "After a savage six month manhunt Carlos Vuentes, one of the notorious 'Three' has been caught and incarcerated for his ten year stretch in human trafficking. Though the prosecution are hesitant to give a more precise answer to this, they have promised to push for life imprisonment regardless of plea."
As the coffee maker started to drip its beautiful, chocolate coloured elixir Felicity opened the cupboard above to her right, reaching on tiptoe for cereal bars and various oat mixes.
"Sources say he was hand delivered the day before yesterday and though SCPD refuse to comment, a camera recording taken off a passer-by reveal Mr Vuentes to have been bound and gagged - the police had to carry him inside the station."
Glancing carefully up from her mug Felicity caught the blurred snapshot of the Latin-American Trafficker unconscious, what looked like a ripped shirt was wrapped around half his face.
"We don't know the identity of this gift giver but we were able to garner from the words between two policemen, both present at the scene, that the trafficker had mumbled as he slept. He simply said: 'I didn't see him. I didn't see him; he was too fast. Dark like the night. I didn't see him'."
Watching the screen as the shot switched from the news reporter to the activity outside of the courthouse, Felicity absently munched on her cereal bar as dozens of people protested against the trafficker who'd incurred another level of fear amongst young boys in the Glades – his victims.
"He's finally where he belongs!" The shout of one of the civilians caught sound. "Now if the police could actually get their hands out of their asses like the Watchman, the Glades would be a much better place to live!" Blue eyes flickered away from the screen to her coffee maker, now ready to serve and poured herself a level cup of the steaming substance. Adding milk and sugar she took a sip, turning back to the news. The broadcasting studio was back. "It seems like once again evidence of the existence of this Watchman, this gift-giver, was provided. Now the question on everyone's lips: who is this lone avenger? Candice what do you think?"
The reporter turned to his partner, a newswoman with cropped, black hair and a sharp gaze. "Well Nick, over the past 12 months sightings of the Watchman's deeds are a whisper growing into a sound in the Glades, one loud enough to-"
Theatricality. Tuning the reporter out Felicity checked her phone for messages – shoot, she had an early order at Ma Jo's coffee shop to deliver - before moving to get her shoes from under the couch where she'd thrown them the night before. She slipped one on, forgetting about the clasp at the back so that she was inevitably hopping on one foot – Frack, genius level intellect my ass - as she attempted to reach for her toothbrush, which she left on the side of the kitchen sink.
"…Oliver Queen is alive."
Head shooting up, toothbrush lodged firmly inside her mouth she blinked at the TV where pictures of Oliver - 'Ollie the playboy legend'- Queen were being flashed one by one across the screen. A re-recording of the previous night's events, the timer on the bottom right of the screen flashing 10:33pm.
"…The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea 5 days ago, 5 years after he was missing and presumed dead following the accident at sea which claimed 'The Queen's Gambit'." Her jaw fell open, toothbrush and paste splattering onto her kitchen floor. It went unnoticed as she slowly straightened. "Queen was a regular tabloid presence and a fixture at the Starling City club scene. Shortly before his disappearance, he was acquitted of assault charges stemming from a highly publicized drunken altercation with paparazzi. Queen is the son of Starling City billionaire Robert Queen, who was also on board but now officially confirmed as deceased…"
A series of video footage followed this, detailing 'Ollie's' public rise to Prince of the Starling City's club scene but Felicity didn't see or hear any of it.
Her mouth opened and closed. "Whoa." The son of her boss had made it home.
Wasn't he… I mean wasn't he supposed to be dead?
Well it was definitely one way to wake up in the morning. It was insane. Chances are the guy was currently at Starling City General as she stood there rooted to the floor, blinking gormlessly with an arm lifted, finger poised as if about to make a mental point. Queen Consolidated would be in an absolute uproar about this, everyone in the building wondering about how the return of the prodigal son would shape the future of the company instead of what they should be wondering about. Their work? Hell yes, their work.
Oh she just knew she'd be an inevitable buffer today for the rumour mill. Closing her eyes with a long-suffering groan she reached down, fastening on her other shoe. If there was one thing the employees at QC were good at it was gossip. Sure they did their jobs very well, they paid manners with interest but all of them hid behind this venire of care and worship for their superiors when really, most just wanted a pay rise. And something to discuss on nights out.
Felicity wondered absently if Mr Steele would even be available today. How he must feel with the prospect of welcoming back his now step-son when the guy probably didn't even remember his face. And if Oliver Queen had been found, where was his father?
A quick glance down at her form reminded her of the fallen toothpaste. "Great start to the day Miss Smoak."
A new day. Endless possibilities.
Queen Consolidated
It was official: QC was a gossip fish bowl.
News of Mr Queen's return spread fast. In fact it spread so quickly that it had only taken the time it took for Felicity to leave her small office in search of coffee and come back again for it to reach her that 'didn't you know? Walter Steele was in fact coming into QC today'… and she had been the one to inform her supervisor in the first place.
How had she discovered this priceless nugget before her head of office? She was friends with the senior security head, an ageing man with an addiction to cream cakes who'd told her as she entered the building that morning to expect Mr Steele to arrive within the hour but that the man would only be staying for half the day. His wife, Moira Queen wanted him with her for some support. Felicity had blinked at the news, passing Rufus his bag of Ma Jo's delicacies and hefting her folder stack in her arms before stepping into the elevator, wondering at how the return of the Queen heir had already changed the shape of her day and that of the company's.
Men will do that to you I suppose.
The person to inform her of this new and exciting piece of gossip was Teresa Tanning, an office administrator. She worked around Felicity's supervisor Ned Stole and basically organised everything from his schedule to his diet. She was also in charge of maintaining order on their floor as she was so very slightly senior than Felicity and, therefore, thought she was the boss of her. A day rarely went by without Teresa sticking her bronze locks around Felicity's door to remind her about lunch times, break schedules etc. But head her off with a slip of office gossip and she'd leave you be for a day or a week depending on the scale of 'juiciness' the gossip could be measured upon.
"Feliccccity-", yep, that's how she said her name; long c's that sounded like s's as if her name was the appellation for snake language. Ugh. The woman was almost eight years older than her and she spoke to her like she was an errant child. "Ned's CPU crashed again."
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes she nodded her head –it just never stops around here- lips spread in an utterly fake smile of acknowledgement as Teresa faffed around the floor. She let out a loud, unladylike exhale when the woman was out of her range of vision. Ned's CPU did not crash again – unless he was downloading porn. For the third time. Memories never to be spoken of or thought of, though it may one day be of great use in regards to blackmail material, however Felicity had never blackmailed a work colleague in her life. But if she had to scrub clean his system one more time for malware he'd caught whilst transferring data without a licence…
Maybe she'd take another look to diagnose his hardware, see if anything popped up. She pursed her lips.
Last month he'd almost caused irreparable damage to a contract QC was hoping to settle simply because he'd tried to install a DBMS (Database Management System) incompatible with their already present security software.
When Felicity had first started working at QC she'd pondered, hard, on how such a man who'd boasted his intelligence regarding any OS in existence could have been made IT Supervisor. However she'd realised that he did indeed have a gift: Ned was proficient in delegating the work load. Asshole.
Seated now at her rounded desk in a room that was just out of sight of her work colleagues, but close enough that she'd be able to hear if any of them needed assistance Felicity loaded up her personal collection of monitors, towers and servers as she opened the lock to her desk cabinet. Inside sat her favourite coffee mug where Robin Hood was displayed in all his glory on one half as an arrow flew around the other. Smiling to herself she nipped over to the 21st floor's kitchen area, pilfering from the office's coffee supply, sighing and relaxing as the scent wafted up her nose.
"Okay, so maybe I'm a little addicted." She admitted to herself, though it came out more as a question than a statement. "It's not like I actually need coffee to survive or anything..."
Walking back with her full cup she was interrupted from her internal debate, which now included a long list of the pros and cons of caffeine, by – I think his name is Giles? Please god let it be Giles; a scruffy haired messenger who worked the floors from 07:30am till 12:00pm each morning.
His eyes were a little bewildered as he caught up to her and she made sure to cradle her cup. "Heads up Fee." She caught the eye twitch before it left her: Gods, how she hated that nickname. Yet everyone from 13th floor to the 30th seemed to know it- people she'd never met before knew it. Though she had spoken to Giles once or twice before. "Your Super's making his rounds. And it looks like he's got Mr Steele with him!"
Her eyebrows shot into her hairline as nerves and anxiety immediately started to throb through her. Oh boy. Since when did this ever happen? "Mr Steele is on this floor?" It sounded like a mothball had crawled into her mouth.
"Yeah!" Already stepping away from her Giles moved towards the elevators. If Giles excelled at one thing, it was that he took pride in his job meaning that he got all messages, memos, instructions, documents, packages and mail to the suitable places before time. "I think it's got something to do with Mr Queen making his return to Starling."
He was the first person to truly mention the taboo subject. Shaking herself out of her stupor she jittered on her modest heels towards him as he thumbed for the lift and hissed stupidly, as if there was anybody else around to hear her. "Do you know if anyone else has seen the news about that?" Unlike her and Giles, most of her fellow employees stayed in bed for as long as they could in the mornings.
Distracted, his leg kept bouncing on the spot, he answered. "No… but it won't be long. There's a TV in most kitchens." True, in HD too and it was always fixed on a channel that broke bulletins of celebrity gossip. Luck or no luck, the floor would be buzzing with the news before 11am. Darn it. "You shouldn't be worrying about that though; Mr Steele's got an order for delivery this morning, saw it on the way in."
This time she did wince. "Thanks for the heads up." She muttered before hurrying over to her seat, careful not to spill a drop.
An order for delivery usually meant an acquisition for computerised goods and services; each time she'd been forced to check up on her supervisor's work and each time she'd found some sort of inconsistency or that he'd fumbled on something. Sorting out his mess simply enabled her work to run more efficiently. It was something she told herself but in truth she honestly cared about the company she worked for. Its potential and fairness, its long reach… Its capability for growth. Its boss.
Walter Steele. A man who envisioned further greatness. A man who told her – pretty succinctly too – two minutes into her stomach churning interview, over two and a half years ago, that she was over qualified for the job. But he'd handed it to her anyway, stating that to let her go would be the equivalent to financial suicide. 'Stay ahead of our competitors' he'd said. And since then, on the few times they crossed each other's path he'd never endeavoured to look down his nose at her or tried to fob her work; he'd always displayed a calm pride in his staff. He'd taken her babbling in his stride too, with nods and small, short, if not awkward smiles.
Though simple, she'd never forget that kindness. It was worth more to her than she could ever possibly express.
Strange though that he was making a personal visit to her floor: there wasn't any need. Normally a solitary email to Mr Stole's office was more than satisfactory to enable the process. But Walter Steele was like that, she considered. Sometimes he'd show up randomly to garner second and third opinions. Other times Moira Queen would be on his arm and on a good day, if she actually managed to come across the woman she'd barely managed to speak a stuttered word, never mind a babbling sentence without sounding like she'd just eaten a vibrator -ah, even my brain is against me. The woman was intimidating with a capitol 'I'. Remembering their one close encounter, where she hadn't really even talked or looked at her, Mrs Queen's –Mrs Steele-Queen, she sounds like a woman who hyphenates- eyes had surveyed with cool purpose. Steel was an adjective truly worthy of description for that woman instead of just a last name.
"Miss Smoak?"
A blink, a jolt and a palpitation later and Felicity's brain began to compute that Walter Steele was, this very moment, standing in her office.
…Annnnnd staring down at her from behind her desk like he'd already been speaking and she hadn't heard a single thing, all thanks to her overstimulated mentality. Repair!
"Mr Steele! I-I didn't notice you standing there sir." Smooth.
He cocked a brow. "Evidently."
Her stomach churned with embarrassment."I'm sorry sir, sometimes my brain just goes blurg-" Blurg? Really? "A-and I see and hear things that- not that I hallucinate or anything-" Oh god I'm talking: my mouth is moving and I'm saying things. "I'm just saying that sometimes my mind runs away with me." Abort! "Like my mouth." Shut up! "Not that you've noticed my mouth." Oh this ship is so going down… "W-what I mean to say is-"
She was saved by British manners when Mr Steele, bless him profusely, raised a hand in gesture of pause. "I know what you meant." Letting out a sigh of relief and what would have been deep mortification if she wasn't so used to this happening almost every single day of her life she watched Mr Steele lift up what looked like an order form. "I have last year's financial trends for requisitions; I want them lined up with this year's tally."
…So it had zero to do with Mr Queen's return from the big dirt nap. Mr Steele doesn't appear at all affected by it but maybe that's just British manners.
Mr Steele passed them over to Felicity who looked from him, to the sheet and back again.
"So soon? Even though we haven't finished with 2012?" Unusual. To say the least.
"Even though." He nodded. To say the very least. "The new directive for the updated OP's is in the back…" brown eyes looked dead set at her blue ones. "I trust you can handle it."
The order? Or something else? "Of course! You aren't giving them to Ned sir?"
He shook his head this time. "No." Looking truly unrumpled and every inch the British noble he could have been but wasn't Mr Steel turned to march from her office, his voice carrying over his shoulder. "If any irregularities show up I want the report on my desk in 48 hours Miss Smoak."
She actually shot up from her seat, as if she were about to salute the man already striding own the hall. "You'll have them Mr Steele!" She didn't expect answer so she sat again with a poof of breath. "Well… that was very brief. Like all the men in my life."
He wasn't handing them to Ned this time? It isn't really my job to do this sort of thing. And what was that about irregularities? But if there was one thing Felicity Smoak was proficient at, other than computers, it was her skill in getting to the root of a problem. To the fundamentals. Mr Steele was trusting her with something once again.
"Right!" Linking her fingers together she stretched them, cracking the knuckles and, apart from the sound making her feel gross, didn't make her look even remotely cool as she shook them loose. "Let's get to work!"
Timeless Hotel, Private Sweet, 10:16am
Ugh, God…
He swore he'd stop doing this to himself months ago, a year ago, after Laurel… but he still always ended up right back where he'd started. Between a girl's thighs.
I'm surprised I wasn't born this way.
Since he'd spent almost half of his life cradled by a woman's legs it was an understandable consideration. Though sometimes he'd wake up half to completion, hard as a rock as whatever lucky pick of the night – he never remembered their names - sucked him off.
He was glad this wasn't the case this time. She wasn't Laurel, so he didn't want her down there. It used to be his favourite past time. Getting off with whatever willing female was in reach. But more and more often, since… since Oliver… he'd begun to limit sexual opportunities and erect – pun intended – barriers during his various one night stands.
Of course at the beginning, after Ollie disappeared, all Tommy had done was fuck around, get high on whatever was being passed by him and generally drink himself into a coma. But it had lessened eventually, mostly. Sort of.
Not that he'd fully stopped now with his alcohol hazed nights; the ones he never remembered the start of but, with a stupid smile on his face, always felt the aftershocks of the finish. It was just that they'd started to lose their 'touch', so to speak.
They weren't doing their job.
In the past, a night of wild sex prepared him for the cool countenance of his father, the absence of his mother, and set him up for the ride a full day of bromance (he fully admitted the term) with his best friend and partner in crime, Ollie, would be.
He missed Ollie.
Missed the jokes and the laughter, missed them trailing after skirts, missed Oliver's jokes on how much Tommy liked getting 'head' and how much Ollie liked to give head. He missed having him on his personal speed dial, the first person he'd make a call to in the morning. But more than anything he missed having someone who was just like him: a little lost, with a near unlimited libido and an education that didn't quite match his inheritance. Like Oliver, Tommy hadn't graduated from Harvard.
Thoughts of past lost quickly melted away as the girl beneath him shifted, half asleep. He wasn't inside her, having managed to pull out before they both lost consciousness, but he was close. And she was warm. It would be easy to again bury himself in the girl whose name he knew not, and forget who he was too. However – oh right, I forgot; I'm limiting myself - he'd only brought three condoms and they were all used up.
He was really growing as a person.
His shoulders and arms groaned under his own weight as he rolled sideways, completely spent, and reached for the glass of water on the cabinet next to the bed. I've still got it.
The swanky hotel room was already light meaning he was probably late for whatever meeting his father wanted him to attend and he didn't care. It's not like I'm even interested. Squinting, he peered at the girl to his right who'd very simply said the previous night, that she was horny and wanted him to take care of it.
By how deeply she'd been snoring he guessed he'd done his job. He never failed. Don't ever let it be said that Tommy Merlyn wasn't Devil-smooth between the sheets.
The 'she' was still lying on her back and totally rocking the body she was born with.
Reaching for the remote he flicked a channel on the 42 inch screen in the room and immediately it flashed on TMZ: Celebrity Gossip and Entertainment News.
His eyes shot wide open when an old picture of Oliver appeared on screen next to the words: Oliver Queen is alive. He turned up the volume on whichever reporter was speaking. It was a woman.
"…Queen's return has everyone guessing. Where was he? And how did the billionaire even survive five years without vodka shots or room service?"
"You lucky son of a bitch…" Ollie! His excited whisper had him flying out of bed and grabbing the clothes he'd thrown everywhere. I don't believe it! "He's alive!"
The outburst had the second girl he'd brought back with him, stumbling from the bathroom.
Well… he hadn't gown that much.
Almost totally wasted she hadn't lasted more than a single orgasm before sliding onto the floor asleep. With smudged make up and a puffy face he didn't understand how he'd thought she'd been sexy the night before.
Whatever. But he didn't let it bother him. Couldn't. Because Oliver was back. His wing man. He shrugged on his shirt haphazardly, grinning like a fool and hopped into his boxers.
"What's going on?" Girl 2 managed to mumble as girl 1 rolled over, already asleep once more. He gave a quick mental note to pay the desk clerks to have them kicked out by noon.
"He's alive!" He didn't care if she understood, she was nobody, and he just skipped past her, pants still in his hands as he bolted out the door, yelling joyfully down the hall. "Ollie's alive!"
Queen Consolidated, 23rd Floor, 10:50 am
"I wonder what he looks like now."
"If he looks anything like how he used to…yum."
"Mmm, I know right."
"If I see him I'm going to ask for a selfie!"
She really shouldn't be surprised by any of this but… are you kidding me right now?
She'd known. Of course she had.
Rule number 1 in employment in a new city: get to know its local celebrities, its favourite news-lines and events that make the Starling City Journal. Of the many things of her list of new do's and don'ts in Starling, of taboos and scandals, Oliver Queen stood almost atop of the list in his sheer audacity to neglect his inheritance and remain a playboy. A role figure you wouldn't want your kids to look up to.
Mr Queen wasn't exactly the catch of the day; I mean, if you're looking for a good time, an easy lay so to say then, yes, he was the PERFECT catch. And he really wasn't the type you could honestly bring home to introduce to your parents. Before his disappearance she'd discovered that he ran with a bad crowd – it wasn't always Tommy Merlyn. And many a time it involved drugs – Because the Glades honestly couldn't get any worse, way to go helping it get that much fatter off its local commerce in cocaine, LSD and heroin boys. He stayed out at all hours, neglected his studies, refused the rank his name naturally provided, he lied, he cheated, he stole – hearts and virtue but from what I heard, it was freely given – and he was definitely the type to never remember a girl's birthday.
He wasn't exactly a decent guy…
Good.
Yes, it was an odd answer and she wasn't exactly impressed by his profile but she was all for a little rebelliousness against capitalism and the bourgeoisie… even though she worked for a 500 fortune company (QC happened to be in the top ten 500-large U.S. corporations as ranked by their gross revenue), but it was the principle of the thing.
So Ollie Queen hadn't wanted his title? Big deal. There were worst things.
But if you went off tabloid print offs from five, six, seven years previous Ollie Queen, or at least one of the Queens, and sometimes a Merlyn, filled pages 3 and 4 of almost every edition. It was ridiculous. And wearisome. Though at the time, considering some of the photos taken, the two billionaire joyriders seemed to breathe in the attention for breakfast, dinner and lunch. And if you were talking headliners you also just had to make reference to the many, many, fan pages online.
And when I say fan sites, I totally mean fan-girls.
There were dozens of them and each college in North America had one, all of them detailing the sexual exploits, rogue details and basic party mania both Queen and Merlyn cooked up. In sordid detail. Books could be made, shows run – and some were - even at MIT, which had come as a shock, though she shouldn't really be at all surprised.
Ollie Queen had left behind many a broken heart.
And it showed, exactly where it shouldn't… On QC's 23rd floor.
21st floor's coffee machine was on the fritz once again and Felicity hadn't the time to fix the thing. Instead she'd traversed upstairs in search of coffee and had found, in the square kitchen with two small round tables, 8 chairs, that half the females employed at QC had either met Mr Ollie Queen previously or had heard of him via friend, colleague, roommate etc. And er, a good chunk of the men working there too had commented more than once that Ollie Queen's personal tastes had been open to interpretation. He'd really gotten around.
It was information she neither needed nor required so early in the work day.
What truly stunned her though was the focus of the gossip.
No one, not a soul, had mentioned that this guy had spent five years, FIVE, alone. On an island near China. That he was probably so far removed from social propriety and performance that he was more likely to run and hide than party the night away once again. Ollie Queen, regardless of his previous status, never mind that he was a playboy, that he is a billionaire, that he was super cute – yes, I said it, thought it, think it, know it – probably looked and acted like a cave man right about now. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. The hospital staff must be having a whale of a time right now.
She'd been standing there, baffled by the three women sitting in their huddled group by the TV as she drank her coffee, listening to their diatribe.
The one closest to the screen let out a forlorn sigh that Felicity snorted at. "It's a pity there aren't any new pictures of him." 20 dollars bet that the woman hasn't even seen him before in her life and she's already picking out baby names and birthday cards.
"Yeah… you know he posted a pic of his abs once."
"Oh yeah! He was a swimmer in college right?"
"Want to bet where Tommy Merlyn's new party will be now that Mr Queen's back?"
Please. Rolling her eyes Felicity decided now was the time to vacate the floor, literally, before she caught their neurosis.
CNRI, Legal Aid Office
She didn't care.
Ollie Queen had returned. So what?
Him being alive didn't bring Sara back. Didn't rewind time and fix her parent's marriage. Didn't heal her inability to trust men. Didn't mend the hopes and dreams for the future they'd shared and he'd shattered. Didn't change how difficult life had been for her after the fact. Didn't take away the knowledge that he'd spent, what she'd believed his last moments on earth to be, screwing her sister. It didn't matter. Because it was his fault. All of it.
He could rot in hell for all she cared.
And if part of her had been affected at the news, if her heart had raced for just a moment before she snapped the TV off, if it shook her then it didn't matter. Because he didn't matter. Her job did. The people she helped did. She hated that everyone at CNRI, the place she knew and was at home in, the job she owned and could control had seen the newsflash. And had looked at her afterwards. With pity. With curiosity. With judgement. They had no right to judge her. She'd done nothing wrong. Nothing.
She arbitrated. She past judgement on the guilty. On those who deserved it.
And Ollie definitely deserved it.
But what was worse was that he was still 'Ollie' to her and always would be.
No. Shaking her head, she absolved herself for her lapse and focused on the insect in her current case: Adam Hunt: CEO of Hunt Multinational. A ruthless business man who'd embezzled money from his clients. The man had an army of lawyers and they'd already made a charge of venue, forcing her and Joanna; her friend, to face Judge Grell. A man whose re-election campaign Adam Hunt had funded, which basically meant that he had the judge in his back pocket.
This too, didn't matter. She'd win this. Justice would prevail.
Little bird Supermarket, 17:59pm
Permissions, permissions…
Okay, so she cut work half an hour before schedule.
Gleaming through reams of data concerning monthly takes, cuts and spends at QC hadn't exactly put Felicity in the mind for her own personal interests. And she'd gotten a decent run with her other priorities the previous night. Anyway, it wasn't like she had to stay after 16:00. But staying those extra hours worked up a lot of money in overtime, which she was so incredibly grateful for. Paying off student debts wasn't fun; sure she'd scored a scholarship but the student-maintenance loan she took out each year she'd been based at MIT had only just been paid off. Like, last month.
You could say my social life is non-existent.
But… that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
Really, in terms of friendship, if all she got to choose from were the sycophants, sheep, lecturers, gossip mongers and scoundrels who worked at QC then she'd just rather not go out.
Or date.
God, she'd had some truly horrific dates; if she didn't embarrass herself first she'd managed to, after a solid hour in, discover that the men sitting across from her were easily intimidated by higher intelligence. And if they weren't it was because they were too busy trying to slip their hands up her skirt… or they were making eyes at the buxom brunette tending bar. Her last date had been with a medical student who owned an incredibly creepy array of surgical instruments and dental tools, which he named and shelved in a shrine… in his bedroom.
Inevitably her work was her life. So unbelievably sad.
Of course, she also hadn't eaten much of anything that day – Ooh mint chip, mine! As the hours had passed her findings had grown more and complex and more distracting, until eventually she'd discovered a pattern to the 'discrepancies' that Mr Steele had hinted she may come across. Someone had been stealing – embezzling – money from QC each and every time an order for delivery had been sent between 2009 and 2012. And the sums of money were so small and split amongst each requisition that no one had noticed a thing. Except perhaps her boss. A couple of hundred dollars on top of this bill, a thousand extra on that order…built up over time the culprit had a sure $30, 000 hidden away somewhere. Finally he could go to that dream holiday in the Caribbean!
And since each order came out from Ned Stole's office it was a pretty benign guess who was responsible. Sloppy Ned, very sloppy. Never use your own system.
I'm going to have to wait until morning to tell Mr Steele; the report was written and ready for delivery but he'd left QC just after noon and she didn't relish the idea of disturbing his time with his wife just so that she could deliver the news. Like getting between a rock and a hard place, Mrs Queen being the rock and Mr Steel the… never mind.
So instead she'd gone in search of fruit; because take out each and every night couldn't possibly be healthy. Even if it was delicious and wanted. Dim Sum. Yum
Loading her basket with the deep ginger of permissions – her massive tub of mint chip tucked towards the side - she counted three pears and three large Fuji apples, adding them to the plastic carrier amongst some clementine oranges. Little Bird supermarket wasn't the priciest of places to shop for food but, food was supposed to be eaten, not paid for with a full months earnings. The name came from a kind of joke about the city; a little bird like the Starling, even though the City itself was anything but small. And the reason she liked it so much was that their fresh fruit and vegetables were the sweetest, crispest selections that she'd managed to find.
Absent-mindedly swaying to the half assed music coming out of the intercom as she waited at the checkout, she thought about what the next five hours or so would hold for her; home, a bath, Game of Thrones reruns or a Robin Hood marathon during which she'd augment the parameters of her latest search.
She'd written a program, one releasing Trojans into unsuspected and unfortunately undeveloped systems, so painful to see. This program allowed Felicity to detect patterns.
And the latest pattern had left her with the need to do something about it.
Like most of the previous patterns.
There had been a steady rise of fire outbreaks in low income housing within the Glades. Houses and fires were an unfortunate occurrence that happened however frequently or infrequently that they do. But there were three threads to this development that, when she tweaked, suggested suspicious cause. The first was that the only houses affected were situated primarily in the East Glades. The second was that each outbreak had happened within weeks, sometimes days of each other. The third was that each house claimed to own a fire alarm unit.
A repeated excuse kept cropping up on statements made by the victims: the batteries are dead, it's broken, there's something wrong with it – but it's brand new!
If you're wondering why Felicity Smoak, IT Technician at QC felt the need to investigate this… well, like she stated: Felicity doesn't sleep much. And is a computer genius. Filled with boundless curiosity. Gets bored easily and honest to god, she cannot help but lend a hand. Even if that hand held within it secrets that could get her shot on a good day. She had a clandestine side job that sometimes paid, sometimes didn't. It was set up online with a transferable bank account that couldn't be traced back to her. As a hacker, she was in the top five percentile in cyber security and all things computer related and there were many people who could make use of her skills. Through an anonymous site and user ID she'd set up a link that would allow people to discover her and ask for help.
Some of the people asking for help had been the CIA. That had been a truly scary day.
Her peculiar kind of wanderlust however was what had also started the current Court war involving the CEO of Hunt's Multinational, Adam Hunt's, long term embezzlement. Bottom line? He shouldn't have funnelled so much money as swiftly and as sneakily as he had, going through a secondary account of a more than disreputable bank account; one she'd discovered held ties to the mob. Her programme had picked it up with a ping faster than you could say 'felony'. Hundreds of thousands of dollars that Felicity had discovered via infiltrated protocols and the er, ahem, illicit purchase of a set of documents hidden on a hard drive within the heart of the millionaire's commercial building had started the process that would, hopefully, lead the man to giving back his client's and his subsidiaries homes and livelihoods. The man was in trouble with some bad people – she'd accidentally discovered and found she couldn't care less - but thieving from those who already can barely afford to support themselves? Bad move.
She'd slipped the police the information and, like most days/nights was now leaving it in their… sort of capable hands. Well… they'd passed such a massive case to CNRI HQ. Not the best idea. Unless they persuaded a truly ballsy and extremely competent lawyer to step forward, who wouldn't bend at the absolutely genuine threat of death, Adam Hunt's own merry band of disreputable masterminds were going to pull the prosecution stand to pieces.
This time however – back to the fires - as much as she tried to focus on her QC job her brain had managed to, peripherally, detect a design to her latest results. Results that she'd gathered data for after hearing about the rising fatalities resulting from the fires. After a weekend of searching she'd exposed a possible, plausible cause:
Holder Corporation, led by CEO James Holder, had installed ALL of the defective fire alarms. It was too big a coincidence to dismiss. And it really didn't matter how large of a target this company was; for justice it was worth it. As long as she remained anonymous.
But why? What reason could he possibly have for giving faulty fire alarms? To make that very specific area even more disreputable than it already is?
Something else she'd found out since moving to Starling: there was a secret current, a subliminal communications network liaising information back and forth from the Glades to the rest of Starling City. To an undiscovered network like Felicity, who absorbed information like a sponge, it was candy land to try to fathom.
The Glades was like a circular hub, filled with nefarious activities and surrounded by the rest of Starling City, which made up the majority. If you could look it up on a map the basic design to the metropolis made her feel as if someone had planned the growth in such a way, as if a god-sized pair of hands had swept the more visible types of illegal activity into the south-west area of the centre of the city and labelled it: the Glades. Even more eerie than that was the invisible crime wave– those crimes that cause the most grief that are committed by the powerful, the environmental crimes, political crimes and crimes which often take place within the domain of work, the marked men and women, the death warrants, the money laundering and embezzlement, the Mafia/Triad/Bratva movements- they were all officiated with or in the 'safe' areas of Starling.
The evidence for this had been… unexpected. A bit of a shock to discover that Starling was another Gotham City, another Bludhaven.
She had some Intel to prompt a possible lawsuit against James Holder - this she pondered as she drifted from the tills to the automated doors of the supermarket - maybe even an arrest but she needed to be sure that the evidence was sufficient enough to stick. Which meant taking the morning off work tomorrow to go take a look at the Western area of the Glades. She built more than enough flexi-time too so there shouldn't be a problem there. Afterwards she could deliver, anonymously of course, the full enchilada to a decent Detective: maybe Lance or Hilton who, she found whilst monitoring 'traffic', were two of the more honest detectives on the force.
Like a generous tip.
I feel a little antsy though, she thought as she chewed on her lip, the keys to her car in her grasp, Mr Steele has a meeting in the morning. Ned's been appointed assistant to the officiator in the-
Ned.
The meeting. Tomorrow morning.
The meeting that Mr Stole had been working on all afternoon – hey, he might be a thief but he's a committed haggler too - and had left his paperwork in his office. Before leaving. Knowing that Mr Steele would need to see them at least 30 minutes before the meeting so that he wouldn't look like a fool in front of the investors. Not that he'd get those 30 minutes considering the meeting is at 08:30am!
Oh shit!
It was none of her business. She shook her head. None at all.
And then slumped, head resting on the steering wheel when she realised she'd already opened her car door, put the groceries on the seat next to her and placed the car into ignition as she mentally plotted the fastest route to QC.
"…I am much too committed to my job. I must be. Or something." Maybe.
She stepped on the gas.
Queen Estate, Queen Mansion, 19:00pm
The Estate felt haunted. By the past, by memories or by ghosts, which she truly believed did exist, Felicity wasn't sure.
But it was a little sinister.
Ducking her head so that she could peek up –the mansion was that tall- at the house Felicity let out a breath, whispering to herself. "What am I doing here?" The heavens had opened up on her way back to QC and now the rain was resembling more of a pour than a patter. So she couldn't be certain that the gloomy atmosphere was a result of said weather or simply… the dominance factor. Because this was her boss.
She was visiting Walter Steele's house, in the evening, in the rain so she was sure to look hideous since there was a pretty huge walking space between her car and the massive front doors – doors, there's more than one front door – and she didn't have an umbrella, to hand him papers her supervisor should have presented him with hours ago… and he's probably sitting at dinner right about now. Which means I've got to interrupt him with work and the words 'never take your work home' sounds like brilliant advice suddenly- no! I will not interrupt his eating- his eating? Who says that? Apparently I do- I'm just going to pass it to whoever opens the doors and if it is Mr Steele then he's going to forever have the mental picture of me standing on his porch looking like a sewer rat and handing him tomorrow's notes, because I just can't get enough of my job it seems. God, I'm like the cautionary tale to hard workers everywhere…
"He's Mr Steele! Why couldn't he just remember he had papers he needed to see?"
Driving into the Queen Grounds was like visiting a member of the royal family in England. Because they were rich, grand, grandiose and important, you immediately felt as small and as unwelcome as humanely possible. "Like an ant under a microscope…"
'Queen' in every sense of the term.
Turning off the gas she desperately wanted to stare up at the main – because, wow, there was more than one building – house some more, or at least until she got her legs under her but when she'd stopped at the gate – of course there had been a gate – she'd had to explain via the intercom – babbling incoherently as usual, who she was here to see and why:
Even though no one was there to see it an incredibly nervous smile had flickered across her face, anxiety making it twitch every now and then. "Erm, I'm here to deliver some papers for Mr Steele?" It had come out like a question as she'd leaned out of her car window, because apparently proximity increased the unlikely chance that she'd be understood. "N-no please don't disturb Mr Steele from the dinner he's probably only just sat down to- no there was just a bit of a mess up at the office today. Mr Steele needs these papers for a meeting he has with QC's investors in the morning. You want me to drive up but only until the secondary gates? …O-okay."
The secondary gates. Seriously. They wanted her to park her car at what looked like 100 metres away from the house. Why, so that I can't make a quick getaway?
The pause as she sat in her car lengthened a little. She'd been here before, not outside the Queen Mansion, she mentally floundered, no I've never been here, here. But I've been in this place before. This position. Trying to help.
The place she ended up, her reward?
Black.
Dark.
Cold.
Unnatural.
Me.
She shook herself… so here we go.
Stuffing the file covered papers inside her coat Felicity opened the car door, cold water immediately spitting against her legs and shoes. She shivered in distaste and groaned, I'm going to get soaked, before making a mad dash out towards the sheltered stairs.
Panting already when she arrived she checked herself and an almost devastated noise sounded from her throat at her appearance: seconds or so of pouring rain and she was soaking wet. Her coat felt five pounds heavier, her hands and hair were dripping, water droplets were falling from her glasses and chin and the collar front of her pale pink shirt that she'd tucked into her modest skirt was a different colour altogether now. I am the very image of a serious employee. Ugh. Typical.
'Wet for my boss' took on a whole new meaning when Felicity Smoak was involved.
Sighing, there wasn't anything she could really do, she turned and swallowed. The front doors loomed before her, a brass knocker on each side. Okay do I tap it, slam those knockers down or rap with my knuckles until they bleed? In a house this big there was no way they'd hear. But she didn't actually want the whole house to know she was there. In and out. Quick and effective. Give it to him and leave just as fast….
She closed her eyes at her own insinuation. God why is everything in my head a minefield of sexual references?
The low light of the porch was soothing in its unnatural warmth as it seeped from the small translucent windows above each door. Carefully she lifted one heavy handle and lightly knocked it against the wood once, twice, three times, wincing at the thought of how it must sound from inside. Almost immediately the curved door handle was being pulled down by someone, please don't be Mr Steele, please don't be Mr Steele…
A petit woman, with beautifully kind, crystal blue eyes stood through the opening she'd created. She wore a nondescript pale blue maid's uniform and pinafore. So totally removed from what Felicity had expected to see she stared at the woman who was already prompting her with soft nudges from those lovely eyes of hers to speak. "Yes?"
"O-oh…" She sniffed, licking a water droplet from the skin between her top lip and nose. "I spoke to someone on the way in? I have-" Her hand shot inside her coat to pull out the file, presenting it to the kind faced woman. "I have Mr Steele's papers for his meeting in the morning." Seriously, why hadn't he remembered them?
The older woman with raven hair blinked at them. "He forgot them?" Apparently.
It was well and truly difficult for Felicity to prevent herself from being distracted by the woman's obvious Russian accent because, wow: who spoke Russian in Starling City? Shaking her head with big eyes that couldn't be seen behind her thoroughly doused glasses and said. "No, no he didn't." He so did. "It wasn't his fault! My supervisor, he's," a tool, "forgetful?" What, am I asking her that question? The woman looked a little nonplussed. "Mr Steele asked him for these and they're finished but he really does need to see them before tomorrow morning." Not accounting for the fact that Felicity's own report was studiously hidden amongst the pages.
The door opened further and the woman stepped back. "Of course; please come in."
Felicity hopped over the threshold and into the foyer. "Oh thank you, I-" Come in? As in drip all over everything, and 'everything' probably consisted of very expensive pieces of furniture and ornate adornments.
She whirled around to find the door was already being closed behind her. The same woman peered at her with some concern at the deer in the headlights look.
"I'm dripping."
"It will be fine; this rug has weathered more than rain water in the past." With another kind smile the woman moved away from her. "I will inform Ivan, our butler and he will collect those papers from you. I'm afraid I know very little about business at Queen Consolidated."
So I'll just stand here on this rug. Awesome. Pretty sure a Harvard education isn't required for passing on a few papers "I-I'm Felicity." It just tumbled out, those sympathetic eyes and that melodic voice calling for it. "That's me. Er, my name. Felicity Smoak." Self-consciously she nudged her spectacles up her nose. "Hi." Then she waved like a loon, her coat sleeve covering most of her hand so only her fingers were visible.
If she hadn't known better she might have misconstrued the look in the woman's face to be that of someone charmed by her persona. Unfortunately Felicity knew from past experience that at best the woman was surprised by this wet, babbling loser and as she offered her a hand to shake, the one not holding a file before remembering said hand was soaked, she saw the surprise grow into true bemusement. The hand offered dropped, an insecure head bob following as she pressed her lips together.
"My name is Raisa."
Trying to remain perfectly still so that as little water as possible fell onto a rug that was probably so far out of her price range she couldn't even glimpse the final zero had already begun to preoccupy her mind so by the time the maid, the housekeeper - now forever named Raisa – by the time Raisa's words had computed with Felicity's brain the woman was already walking down the long hallway to her left, leaving Felicity standing there with an open mouth and a curious disposition.
So… Raisa. Right. Wonder if I'll ever need to use her name again. And they were just going to leave her there without security? Maybe that was why they made her park her car so far away.
Blinking a little dementedly Felicity took a breath, brushing some of the wet hair plastered to her cheek aside – she didn't even want to think about what her ponytail looked like - and took a quick look about her person.
So this is the legendary Queen Mansion, she thought, heart racing in her chest like a teenager about to get caught stealing test answers, where many a party was held. This was true, at least according to scores of men and women online. Warm wooden panelling and flooring were the most obvious.
A streak of Lightning flashed behind her, coating her surroundings in a trick of platinum blue, making her think of phantoms and poltergeists. Then the sound of rain falling was all she could hear.
It's so quiet here.
Her eyes rolled. Of course it's quiet; they're at dinner. Somewhere I really should be too if I don't want to wake up cranky.
But, as her gaze fell on the table not five feet in front of her she realised that the silence was swallowed by the adornments to be held. The memories shown. And they were as loud as a scream.
All around and across the surface of the small, circular, antique table were pictures of Mr Robert Queen and his son, Mr Oliver Queen. In some of the pictures they were joined by Mrs Queen and, who she guessed to be, Miss Thea Queen. One or two held shots of the 'Queen's Gambit. How depressing. Lamentations; a creepy memorial to the dead. This way no one, not a family member, friend, relation or acquaintance could ever forget the past.
And for a sick second she had the urge to just move it. All of it. Move it far away from the foyer so that the first thing seen by Oliver Queen wouldn't be a constant, instant reminder of the horror he'd been forced to live through. Even though he was a stranger to her, even if all he did in the past five years was eat coconuts and sun bathe, the sheer knowledge that he may never see any of his love ones again would be enough to drive most insane. And if not insane, in need of severe therapy and a bottle or a 1000 of Mr Jack D.
Shifting ever so slightly in an attempt to ease the sharpness of her growing curiosity and ignore the fact that being in the Queen mansion was making her feel increasingly jittery, she froze to attention when the casual drip drop of trickling water increased before hearing a substantial amount of rain water plop off the edge of her coat to the floor. Her eyes shut hard in exasperation at herself. At the fact that she was an awkward nerd who couldn't be graceful if her life depended on it.
Biting on her lower lip, a quick glance to the floor showed her that her feet had left a very soggy imprint in the lush carpet. Frack!
Then she remembered. Tissues! She had some in her coat pocket. Anything to help her not look like a misshapen vegetable, a wet rat, or dishevelled and very unimpressive banshee. Shoving the file underneath an armpit, she turned away from the stairs, facing the front door so that she could wipe her nose with impunity. There wasn't any point cleaning her spectacles, not with tissues. Tissues plus too much water equals split tissue. Hand delving into her pocket she grabbed the first object in there, her red pen, trapped it between her teeth, before diving right back in there-
-There was a very low, very quiet shift in the air, like the slight rustle of fabric in the wind. Barely detectable. But Felicity's ears were incredibly sharp. Twitching, her head jerked around. Is it Ivan? She found herself squinting through the fog of on her lenses…
And almost dropped her file. Almost dropped… everything.
And stared.
At him.
Emerging from that shadowed place near the corner of the entrance hall, his slow, methodical footsteps didn't make a sound and he took four of them to clear the staircase. Her mouth opened slowly and somehow her pen stayed well and truly in there. Wow…
Did they even make humans like that?
And then the specimen of perfection spoke and she was lost.
"Who are you?"
A shiver of something shot through her. Okay, that is so not fair. Just three words but…
His voice was like liquid sex.
Not. A. Joke.
It was definitely that, but it was also soft. Soft in that deeply masculine tenor that made 'soft' sound 'strong', sound necessary. It was smooth too. And slightly rough. His whisper could be heard above a shout.
She was about to answer when lightning flashed once again, fully revealing the face of the beguiling voice-
-Her eyes met with a wolf's.
The storm alternating his eyes from obscure azure irises to ice blue only increasing the focus of them fixed on her face, pupils large and dark in the storm's natural light there was a lethality to the way he was simply looking at her. Because that's all he was doing, looking. But it was also in his stance, in the way he held himself: his posture would have made a Tibetan Monk cry. Straight backed, his broad – very broad – shoulders in alignment with his feet, fingers slightly furled into his palms, legs lean and taught…
She took a long breath and it rattled with nerves.
He was a predator.
And then just like that, because nerves and anxiety equalled talking/babbling Smoak, Felicity spoke - fast. "Felicity Queen." MAJOR FRACK! "Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is Felicity Smoak!" She blamed her surroundings utterly and completely.
But he didn't react. At all. Except to blink. Once. He was still, like a machine. "Do you… know my family? Are you a friend?"
There was a tiny note of wariness in his tone; a hesitance that came with unfamiliarity. As if he didn't know much about the Queen's, as if he…
Wait.
The memory of a photo on a desk shortly after she'd started working at QC. Foppish, dirty blonde hair falling over vain blue eyes, faultless skin and a jawline to match his slim build, the arrogant expression that spoke money, talent, and good looks making him a general shot of life.
Oh.
At first she hesitated, hand coming up in a series of jerks before she pulled off her glasses. Covered in water as they were, she never really needed them anyway. The moment they came down from her face she froze.
That kind of change should be impossible.
He stood there reeking masculinity and awareness, hair cut short, almost to the scalp, he wore that pale blue sweater over a buttoned up shirt and a pair of jeans that, if she stuck a penny in the back pocket of, she could tell which side it was up. They were tight. He wore them perfectly.
Her eyes briefly flickered back to them when he moved forwards another step, slowly once again like a skulking wolf, the fabric shifting very, um, well, with him. He had the audacity to look unfairly amazing when she was looking like she'd lost a fight with a rain cloud, so amazing that she was staring at him like some zoo attraction but, hadn't he just spent five years on an island?
He wasn't supposed to look like that. He was supposed to look like… like he'd spent five years being slowly malnourished, being weathered by the cold, by an alien sun and monsoons, being eaten by foreign insects, being alone and forgotten.
Physically he was an Adonis.
And it just came out, loudly. "You're Oliver Queen."
His brow moved slightly. "I know I am."
There was this undercurrent of complete control about his person. A control that should have unnerved her being in the presence of a complete stranger, someone that had every right to be insane and totally happy about it. But instead she just felt relief. His behaviour was a reaction. The way he moved was a development; the real sign that he'd been through his own personal hell. It was proof that he was scarred.
But realising all this did nothing to escape the fact that she was making an ass out of herself as she bumbled on. "I-I know who you are!" She smiled like the little frustrated nerd she was as a drop of water slipped down her cleavage. "You're Mr Queen." Of course he knows who he is! And in case he doesn't I just told him! He's probably wondering who the hell I am.
Lost in her own head she swallowed when she realised he was already closer. A hand in one jean pocket – girls would kill to be that hand – the other placed what looked like a pear on that circular table. He stood side on, completely dismissing her presence for a moment but this way she could watch the display of muscle underneath two layers, something in his frame making her think that he was incredibly well built - more so than others might expect. She could watch as those eyes of his took in the assortment of pictures and she remembered the feeling of wanting to remove them, realising they really had been the first thing he'd seen.
Blue eyes flashed back to hers. "'Mr Queen' was my father." He took a breath before facing her fully. "I'd prefer not to be called that."
She nodded quickly. "Of course, since he's dead."
And I'm fired.
God why? Why did you grant me a vocal cord, words to utter and a mouth to speak them with?
"I mean he drowned!" He wasn't moving, just staring at her. "But you didn't." His slightly widened eyes – oh smeg - taking in every inch of her face as she floundered about, hoping the ground beneath her would swallow her whole. "Which was why you could be here right now…" She took a shaky breath. "Listening to me babble." Then swallowed again, turning away at the sounds of steps coming from down the hall. "Which will end, like my dignity…" She closed her eyes. "In three, two, one."
She counted a breath, then two before bravely taking a peek at him.
There was this smile on his face. It was small, so small, barely there but it did something brilliant to his eyes that, apart from the incredulity quietly displayed there, made something deep down in there lighten. The rest of the muscles of his face weren't moving but it was still there. Thank god. She bit her lip and he observed it.
"Miss Smoak?"
And there's that. Striding into view a middle aged man with a long nose and an extremely unreceptive venire looked her over before stopping as he sighted on Oliver Queen. "Good evening sir."
"Hey Ivan." And something just happened to his face, a shift that boggled her brain cells. The unaffected expression he'd been sporting earlier and the smile that had almost transformed him slipped and a lighter look of complete friendliness entered. His lips pressed together.
Felicity stared. It was totally fake. His eyes were lifeless. Flat. Worse than before even. Maybe she could see it because he'd just given her a hint of what real life looked like in the eyes of a man such as himself but the transition was a shock.
But then 'Ivan' put his attention back on her again and she was forced to drop that train of thought. "Mr Steele is currently in the middle of dinner; you'll have to wait until he's finished."
The way he said it… it made her feel like her presence was utterly unacceptable.
Her head was already shaking –she would not look at Mr Queen- but a shot of indignation and embarrassment went through her regardless. It isn't like I'm doing this for myself. "No, I really don't want to interrupt Mr Steele." Didn't they already know this? I don't even want to be here right now. "I'd prefer it if I could just leave this for him to look over later." Her tone flat she almost forced the file into Mr Ivan's surprised hands. "That way I don't have to keep dripping on your very nice carpet."
The look Ivan gave her after seeing the state of said flooring made her want to curl up and die. Just a little. It made her talk. "Well if you hadn't made me park just outside the gate then maybe I wouldn't be offending you with my presence." She shrugged, ignoring the set of alarms blasting in her head at the fact that she was insulting the Queen family staff, directly in front of the Queen heir and continued. "But you did and I am and now there's nothing we can do about it." She pointed a soggy finger at the file, Mr Ivan's mouth was open in shock. "He needs to see that: it's important." She reiterated. "He has a meeting in the morning that make those notes essential." Oliver Queen's presence in the mansion may have explained why Walter had forgotten them in the first place.
Clearing her throat she nodded to herself, her nerves getting to her again now that she'd spoken her mind. Licking her lips she glanced anxiously at said individual to find him watching her like before but there was no derision there. No judgement. Honestly, it was like he was trying to make her out.
She made an attempt to say a goodbye towards the puzzling stranger that was Mr Queen, offering him a hand before snatching it back like a fool: she'd forgotten that she was still very much wet.
"I-I'll just be…" Her hands did something that was supposed to be a point towards the front doors but ended up making her look like she was juggling an invisible set of balls, oh God. "…Going now."
She turned and walked fast, hands reaching the brass handles in moments. In less than an hour she'd be curled up on her sofa with her mint chip, ready to forget all about this. Until tomorrow anyway.
She stepped outside gazing into the thunder storm beyond the canopy. The weather had gotten worse, great puddles of water already filling the slight nooks on the pavement.
Oh good. Just what she needed. Great. Joyous. Her good deed was done for night and she was rewarded with this. She'd say it couldn't get any worse but, speaking from experience, she knew that it really could. Looking morosely up at the black sky she muttered to herself. "I should have worn different shoes…"
"Are you going home?"
"Whoa!"
Quiet. So quiet.
Twisting around she staggered back, stumbling right into the rain and wind. He'd been so silent. Eyes flying up the stone steps she saw him, leaning with one foot in and one foot out of the doorway, watching her wobble. "Mr Queen!"
"Miss Smoak." He turned from her, closing the doors, the sound of them clicking shut louder than she remembered. Then he proceeded to saunter towards her down the stairs.
Buh… what? She took a breath, belatedly noticing that he was wearing his coat. What's going on? "Is everything alright?"
Planting himself on the last step he replied. "I was wondering if you were going home." Straight-backed, looking so much taller than he had in doors, his blue eyes flickered over her – from her hair to her heeled shoes that were now completely freezing – her hunched shoulders from the downpour and squinty eyes probably making her look more than a little comical. For some reason it had him moving out from under the cover of a brick archway as he finished. "Or if you were open to alternatives." He stilled about two feet away from her.
She blinked at him.
"Would you mind stopping somewhere along the way?" He asked again, totally unruffled and getting wetter by the second.
401 error. Brain does not compute. "What-" Felicity shook her head to clear it. "Are you asking me for a lift? You do realise you're getting soaked?" She gestured behind him. "You should get out of the rain."
He stood there as if it didn't even bother him; his eyes didn't even squint. "I'm fine and only If you've got time." Ignoring her brilliant open mouthed fish impersonation he glanced away towards the end of the path. "Is your car down there? I don't know why Ivan told you to keep it there."
"Probably because I don't come with a title attached." Trying to catch up she'd brashly spoken the truth, her mouth snapping shut when his eyes caught hers once again. "Not that I mind getting soaked. I like to get wet." She flinched. "I mean wetter than usual." Not again. "Not that I'm always wet; I'm usually pretty dry- because of the weather! Contrary to the meteorological conditions shown on the news it does not rain 24/7 in Starling City." Mostly.
His lips pressed together with the muscles in his jaw flexing, an inclination, once again that he was unperturbed and possibly amused by her verbal incontinence. "I know what you meant. And I'm sorry. For the way Ivan spoke to you just now."
Wow. "I-it's fine." Oliver Queen: completely overwhelming. She smiled, trying to show him he had nothing to worry about. The fact that he had, even a little, floored her. "Really."
He didn't say anything except to nod. Then he just looked at her, waiting. Eyes taking him in a breathless laugh escaped her. It was ridiculous. They were just talking, standing there, getting drenched but not moving regardless. Oh come on, how bad could it be?
Making her mind up she hopped on one leg slipping off, slipping off a shoe and then the other, grimacing when her feet sank back down into a couple of centimetres of water.
She caught his frown, peering up at him as he spoke. "What are you-"
Shoes in hand she shook them at him. "I can't run in these." She edged away from him before turning, making the same mad dash towards her car as she did earlier; this time with her feet unencumbered. "Come on!"
Water splashed at her legs but it didn't matter; they were already wet. Her feet were freezing but she felt, just for a moment, so very free. Like a child skipping merrily down the lane. Smiling, she didn't look back to see if he'd followed. He might have decided to not go with the crazy lady making a footless sprint towards her car. The gate opened for her automatically, which was great really, I mean making a jump over that metal trap in this skirt? Sighing in relief at the sight of her red Toyota she ran around it, reaching for the handle and only then looking up.
He wasn't there.
He hadn't followed.
Oh… Staring into the darkness it confused her to find that she actually felt a little disappointed. But maybe he was just lagging behind. Maybe malnutrition really had gotten to him, though those impressive thighs would tell otherwise. She yelled out. "Mr Queen?"
"Side door or back door?"
Geez! Behind her once again, his head was tilted sideways as he looked from the car to her when she whipped round to face him.
"Passenger side!" She shouted back reactively, wide eyed, and then bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to muffle the laugh that threatened to spill.
There was an appreciative light in his eyes again, his voice louder to be heard over the thunder. "Do you normally run without shoes in the rain?"
"Why yes I do! Do you normally scare unsuspecting girls during the night hours as she's attempting to get into her car?"
"Depends on what day it is." He replied with an indolent shoulder roll she assumed was a shrug. They were both cheerfully ignoring the fact that he hadn't been near civilisation for the past five years.
Exasperated, but still smiling, she shook her head, rainwater flying everywhere. "Get into the car Mr Queen."
"Thought I told you not to call me that!" He shouted back over the din as he moved to the other side of the vehicle.
She pulled at the handle to her side, eyes shooting to him, to the car, the ground, the mansion and back again. "So… Oliver, then?"
He paused mid-entry to his seat and met her eyes; his were the most serious she'd seen them so far. "Yes. Oliver." Said so quietly she barely heard it over the water hitting the car he continued. "Call me Oliver."
Right. Oliver. Oliver Queen. Okay then. Slipping inside the vehicle she slammed the door shut, sighing in appreciation of its cover. "Oliver."
Said person turned her way, a bit perplexed and the bag of fruit he must have lifted before sitting in his grip making a bustle noise as he moved. His eyes asked the question.
She shrugged. "Just trying it out again." Because I just can't help what comes out of my mouth. And because it's a far better alternative to 'Ollie'. Reaching behind her she grasped a throw from the back seat and passed it to him. "You're soaked."
He took it. "So are you."
"Ah, but I'm driving." She put the car in reverse and they, finally, pulled out of the Queen Drive.
What was so very strange however was that, as the looming mansion turned small in the rear view mirror (she tried to avoid looking at herself there because really her appearance was hideous right now), Oliver Queen seemed to lose some of the tension in his shoulders that she hadn't even known had been present. She heard him take a slow, deep breath but he still sat straight-backed, almost militaristic, in the seat to her right, his cool gaze aimed at the surroundings in which he found himself. The very empty surroundings; the inside of her car was pristine, hiding its old age (6 years and she hadn't bought it new) and without any adornments one might normally expect in the car of a woman who traditionally wore bright colours and lipstick. Hiding from his calculative eyes her gaze finally caught her own reflection: I look like something the cat dragged in.
The thought was more ironic than she cared to admit.
She focused on something else. This was a man she'd only just met, a man who'd only yesterday returned from a five year stretch in the China seas, a man she wouldn't have met if a moment of altruism and loyalty hadn't forced her to confront the Queen Mansion in all its pretty scary glory.
And she was just going to drive away with him? When did that ever happen in real life?
Then again, since when is my life a normal one?
Something felt different tonight. She knew: it was in that whisper of a thrill where things previously normal and known changed to the 'new'. The 'unknown'. The 'right'. And the 'wanted'.