He's so busy on his phone that when the barista asks his name for the order he actually gives her a business card as a response. It's a dick move and he knows it but he's been dealing with the QC Vice President of Regulation and Licensing back in New York for three hours now. It's only eight in the morning. He's just now finally managed to get a word in edgewise with the guy.
He feels like he more than makes up for his rudeness by leaving a really sizable tip, but he still ends up with a coffee for Orville.
One look back at the barista, a strikingly pretty blonde with glasses and a ponytail, tells him this was absolutely intentional. Her eyebrows are raised at him challengingly and, to his great surprise, he finds it's a challenge he really, really welcomes. In fact, he'd go so far as to call it the best part of his day. Not that there has been a lot of competition for that so far.
Still… when he stops for coffee the next morning, he makes sure to call the marketing team right before stepping foot inside the shop. His barista glowers. He grins. And he ends up with a coffee for Oscar with a quick sketch of a kicked over trash can.
This escalates. Quickly. Daily.
He's not actually even talking to anyone on the other end of the line by the third day but he really likes the way her brow furrows and she huffs in frustration - and, okay, so maybe that makes him a bit of an asshole - but it's adorable and he ends up with a coffee for Olaf and a drawing of a snowman melting on the sleeve of his cup
He keeps the sleeve.
Eventually, the names on the cups get even more ridiculous. It takes a while because he keeps this up far longer than it makes any sense to do so. He's annoying her. Obviously and intentionally. But it's entertaining and the easiest way to get her cheeks to flush and - okay so maybe he's a bit like a third-grader around her actually.
But two weeks into this (the day after he ends up with a coffee for Olivia which, as it turned out, was actually an extra hot soy latte with hazelnut meant for the woman next to him) his cup says 'Oh Lover' instead of his name, with little hearts on it and she winks at him from her till.
He grins back and raises his cup toward her like a toast. She blushes and looks away and he's done for. This thing between them is all fun and games, but the blush on her cheeks does interesting, twisty things to his insides that far surpass any expectations he might have had. Maybe, he thinks, this really shouldn't be just a game.
The next morning, he doesn't come through for coffee. He waits until just after midday instead, when the shop is all but empty but she's still standing alone at her till.
"Do you need medical attention?" she asks immediately as he walks up.
He looks around in confusion because surely she's talking to someone else, but there's no one around.
"Your phone," she clarifies pointing towards the side of his head. "I assumed it was surgically attached to your ear. It has to be painful for it to suddenly be removed like that, though I'm not sure if you need a doctor or tech support."
A few years ago he'd have made a quip about needing some immediate mouth-to-mouth, but he instinctively knows she's not going to fall for any lame pick-up lines and it makes him even more grateful than usual that he's not that guy anymore.
"It was a symptom, actually," he tells her instead with an earnest look as she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.
"A symptom?" she asks.
"Rudeitis," he says, enjoying the way her nose crinkles at his ridiculousness. "I had a terrible case of it. It lasted far too long."
"Rudeitis, huh? That's what you're going with?" she questions, but the amusement is clear on her face so - yes, yes that is what he's going with.
"Yup," he nods with a too-pleased dimpled grin.
"Well... is it contagious?" she probes, looking at him like she might be considering taking a step back.
"Not anymore, I hope," he tells her. "You'll have to tell me if you start feeling any sort of strange symptoms coming on."
"Strange symptoms?" she asks, biting her lip to keep in a laugh.
"If you have the sudden urge to tell someone your name by giving them your business card, for instance," he points out.
"That would be a strange symptom," she agrees. "And not just because I don't have business cards."
"Well it presents different on everyone," he ventures. "But if you… say… told me to stop talking to you and leave the shop, I think that would qualify, too. I wouldn't hold it against you, being a medical condition and all."
"Not likely," she snorts. "How many people tip $20 for their morning coffee? It's really just you and… no actually, it's just you."
"You don't have to talk to me just because I'm a good tipper," he tells her, suddenly alarmed. "You don't… I mean, you don't need to feel obligated to-"
"No," she interrupts before he can finish that train of thought. "That's not… that's not why I'm talking to you."
She adjusts her glasses and looks at him with some incredibly endearing combination of apprehension and interest. He stops breathing for a beat. Really he does. Because she's biting her lip to keep words in while she waits for him to talk but her eyes are speaking volumes all on their own and he's never in his life been so interested in someone else's nonverbal communication.
"No?" he asks, knowing he sounds more hopeful than he should.
"Nope," she replies, licking her lips nervously.
"Good," he says, a little softer than he'd intended but that's what happens when you're breathing kind of shallowly.
"So how do you clear up a case of rudeitis, anyhow?" she asks.
"Well…" he says, figuring it's pretty much now or never. "You have a pretty blonde get your name wrong daily and doodle increasingly violent messages on your coffee cup."
The grin that overtakes her face is all encompassing, contagious even, and he marvels a little at the idea that he wasn't entirely kidding. Rudeitis might be a silly inside joke between them at this point, but she definitely holds the cure for something ailing him. He hasn't felt this kind of lightness, this wisp of joy, in years.
"I see," she says, looking so very pleased that it makes his heart speed up. "Well… you haven't had your dose today then, have you?"
"No, but I think I'm ready to move on to the next phase of my treatment," he tells her.
"And what would that be?" she asks.
"Dinner, maybe? Say… six o'clock? At that new seafood place on Fifth and Elm?"
He's hopeful. He's so hopeful that if Tommy were here he'd be falling over laughing at him and making comments about how he used to be good at this kind of thing. He used to be smooth. But he doesn't need to be smooth. Not with her. Genuine, it seems, works a whole lot better.
"Okay then, Oliver Queen," she decides instantly, her blue eyes alight. "I'll meet you there at six."
"See! You can get my name right," he points out.
"Let's see how long that lasts," she counters as he heads out the door with a spring in his step and a grin on his face.
It lasts a very long time, in no small part because three or four years down the line she shares part of it.