Title: Appraisal Value (Masque)
Word Count: 4918
Notes: Originally, I had no idea what to do with a Staring at the Same Painting AU, but then context happened, and I sort of figured it out as I went along. :P I don't know if it comes off more Leverage or Heist Society, but I've had a blast with it. ;) Anyway, enjoy!
Painting mentioned in this one is supposed to be Untitled VIII by Willem de Kooning, and I suggest you take a moment to look at it before reading.
It's a little-known secret that Felicity doesn't understand art. She's not a connoisseur, she's not a critic—hell, she doesn't usually even like it. She can understand appealing colors, she can judge proper lighting, but she doesn't understand it the way some people do. To her, it's just a picture, not a masterpiece hanging on the wall. It doesn't speak to her the way it does some people, and she's personally glad because paintings should not talk. But it frustrates her that she can't understand it.
Someone in her line of work should understand it.
The Starling Institute of Modern Art is quiet that night, but she expects it to be for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the day before the new exhibit opens, and everyone chooses to buy tickets on opening night because of the glitz and glamor. Secondly, it's the middle of the day, and most people have jobs that don't revolve around art, unlike hers. Lastly, the museum discourages people meandering about on the last day before security is fully in place; it understandably makes them a little nervous.
But none of that affects Felicity, so she chooses to stare at the waves of color, the corals, ceruleans, yellows, and jades that make up the newest acquisition. An art critic would have something wise to say about it, she's sure, but to her, it looks like someone threw paint on a canvas at random. But she supposes someone, somewhere understands it, or else it wouldn't have sold for thirty-two million dollars the previous year.
"See something you like?" asks a pleasant male voice from behind her, and she whirls on the spot. She knows those features immediately, as she's grown up seeing them on tabloid covers and in newspapers. Still, he looks different; he's not clean-shaven anymore, with stubble covering his jaw, and his hair cut shorter with none of its previous blond coloring. Still, only a fool wouldn't recognize those piercing blue eyes as belonging to one Oliver Queen.
She plays against his vanity, throwing him a flirty smile over her shoulder while pretending not to recognize him. "I'm an art student in a museum," she answers easily, letting her eyes fall over him in an appraisal similar to the one she was just giving the painting—and just as clinically detached. "I see a lot of things I like." Felicity hates the flirting, but her goal is to be unmemorable, and the best way to do that is to pretend to be as disposable as every other woman in his life. "The question is," she continues archly, "do you see anything you like?"
He's just as smooth as she's heard, moving to stand next to her, staring at the painting for a moment. His clasps his hands behind his back and stares at it a moment before turning back to her with a charming smile. "So far?" he counters, turning to her. Then he fixes those blue eyes on her, and she's struck by his sudden intensity. "Just one lovely piece of art. But I have a feeling that it's not for sale."
She turns back to the painting, if only to escape those eyes. "Everything is for sale," she answers with her best coy smile, even though the last thing she wants to do is flirt with Oliver Queen. "To the right bidder, of course."
"Of course," he echoes with a smug smile, as if the fool actually thinks he has her on the hook. As if he thinks she'd be interested in a flagrant womanizer like him. "I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Oliver Queen." He doesn't offer a hand to shake, and he only stares ahead at the painting, as though talking to it instead of her.
"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Queen," she answers honestly for the first time in their conversation. "You're a little unmistakable, since your family owns most of Starling City—and owns half the paintings here." The truth feels good after all the lies, but she knows it's only a momentary reprieve.
"To be honest," he answers, "I'd be surprised if you didn't." He leans closer, more whispering than saying, "But, typically, introducing oneself is a socially acceptable way of asking for someone else's name." His smile falters for a moment, but he plasters it back in place. "And Mr. Queen was my father."
His father who died when The Queen's Gambit went down five years ago, she remembers, but she decides it's not the best time to mention it. "I'm Felicity Smoak," she answers this time, and she wonders why she gave him that name, of all of her options. She could have lied, but apparently she doesn't quite understand the concept.
He grins at that, as though he's won something by earning her name. "So, Felicity," he starts casually, bypassing any attempt at formality, "I'll let you in on a secret." That's all he says for a long moment, and, when he turns to look at her, she realizes he wants her to ask for it.
Refraining from rolling her eyes, she practically purrs, "Don't worry, I'm very good at keeping secrets." His eyes widen for a moment, and she thinks she might have laid it on too thick, but then he throws her another of those cheesy smiles.
He leans over to whisper in her ear, "I don't understand art. The only reason I'm here at all is because I need to find my sister a birthday present." He motions to the painting. "This seems to be one of her favorites, so I thought I might see if the owner would be willing to part with it." He tilts his head to the side. "But since you've been staring at it all night, perhaps I'll buy it for you instead."
She scoffs. "I'm staring at it because I want to understand it," she corrects, "not because I'm in love with it." She throws him another flirty smile, this time with a hint of a challenge. "But, if you're interested in buying, there's a sculpture of a really cute, pink balloon dog over there that I'd love to have." She looks down at her fingernails for show. "Of course, it doesn't come cheap."
She should stop being surprised by how suave he manages to be, all the while pulling off that devilish charm, but she doesn't expect it when he replies, "The best things never do." He looks at her far too intensely as he says it, and she thinks she might have bitten off more than she can chew when she decided to flirt with Oliver Queen. He continues right into, "The museum is closing soon. We should continue this conversation over dinner."
She's tempted to walk out of the museum on his arm with that sentence, but then she wonders when she became such an easy mark. "Not tonight, Oliver," she answers, surprising herself with the playful way she says his name. "I already have other obligations."
He winces, mostly for show. "Not with a boyfriend, I hope," he replies, testing the waters. "Of course, if you were mine," he continues, "I don't think I'd ever let you out of my sight." His eyes are too intense as he finishes the second sentence, and thinks he might actually be sincere when he says it. "I'd be afraid someone would steal you away."
She smiles over her shoulder as she turns. "It's not a date," she answers playfully, "unless you consider a nice evening at home with a canvas romantic." She shrugs. "I have an art project due tomorrow." She flashes him another false smile, this time reaching up to put her hand on his jaw. "It was nice meeting you, Oliver." With that, she walks away, leaving him to watch her exit the museum.
"You haven't given me a way to contact you," he calls behind her, and she thinks that maybe she laid it on a little thick because he actually seems to think she's into him.
She waves a hand, never looking back. "Be here tomorrow night for the opening of the new exhibit." She stops to flash him another coy smile. "And we can discuss art again." This time he lets her leave, and, as she walks away, she thinks of what she's going to need for tonight's work. She doesn't even have to feel sorry for lying to Oliver; she does have a date with a canvas. After all, a man in Buenos Aires has offered her sixty million for that ridiculous painting, and Felicity has never been one to quibble over cash value.
And, if the owner isn't exactly willing to sell, that's no problem for her, either.
Oliver pauses to study the museum's exterior again, ensuring that nothing has changed since the last set of blueprints. It's clear they haven't fixed the broken façade over one of the barred windows, giving him the handhold he needs to reach the roof. He takes a running start before jumping to grab the ledge of the window, then manages to reach up far enough to take the makeshift handhold. Surprisingly, it doesn't break under his grasp, so he uses it to pull himself up to the next window, even with the second floor
The guttering provides him with the next handhold, and he uses it to cross to a storm drain that he uses to pull himself up to the roof. There's a close call toward the top where a bolt is loose and it tilts, but he already has one hand on the roof by that point. With a reckless jump and a second handhold, he's able to pull himself up over the top of the roof, and he takes a moment to catch his breath before continuing on. After all, Oliver does have all night, since a certain blonde decided to play hard to get.
Felicity was a unique twist from the other art students he's known (and sometimes dated) in the past. Unlike Thea, his aspiring-art-critic sister, she didn't try to explain the piece-of-crap painting in pretentious terms or convince him it was beautiful. She studied it, and, if she did understand it, she decided to let him decipher it for himself. He was a little disappointed she hadn't accepted his offer, as she was just playful enough to be interesting, even if he thought that the real Felicity Smoak wasn't the one standing in front of him.
Oliver's interest in art, however, is recently acquired and limited only to art theft. After returning from five years on a deserted island, he found himself a little bored and in need of excitement. On a whim, he used his skills he learned there to climb into a low-security apartment with a Cèzanne on the wall, and it was one of the biggest thrills he'd ever had. Now, he's caught the fever, and he steals, not for the money, but for the fun of it all.
He decides he's taken enough time to rest, and so he swings open the skylight and examines the space between ceiling and second floor. It's a longer drop than he anticipates, so he pulls a special arrow from the quiver at his back and fires it into the roof next to the skylight. He pulls on it then, making sure it's secure, before using the cable attached to drop to the floor without breaking anything.
At first, the arrows had been a result of one he learned how to hunt with on the island, with the help of Yao Fei, but the media took to it when one of the security cameras caught footage of him in the green leather and with the bow. They started calling him "the Arrow," and maybe Oliver is vain enough to enjoy the publicity.
Once he plants his feet on the marble floor, he immediately chooses to turn for the vault, where the bizarre painting he discussed with Felicity will be stored until unveiling tomorrow. The museum had, foolishly, decided to give the populace a sneak peek tonight, and it had given him plenty of opportunity to plan his little heist tonight.
He ignores the security cameras, other than to turn his face away, and he charges down the flight of stairs to the first floor, closer to the underground vault. It's behind one of the "Employee Only" areas, but the lock on that door is easy to break. It's a maze of hallways behind it, but he finally sees the impressive steel door, complete with a dial and everything. He thinks that his explosive arrows were a good choice; they'll be able to break through that door easily enough.
He's two steps away from being in position when a steel grate slams down in front of him.
It's odd because there's no alarm, and he checks to make sure he hasn't tripped a wire of some sort. When he realizes he hasn't, he decides it's probably a silent alarm and turns to leave before he can be caught by the police. An instant after he turns, another steel grate drops down, ten feet away, leaving him effectively trapped.
Oliver is starting to wonder if he should blow a hole in the museum to try and escape, if he should let the painting go and move on, when a woman rounds the opposite corner. She smiles like a predator would at its prey when she sees him, her fuchsia lips just visible under the black mask she wears over her eyes. Blonde hair falls past her shoulders, pulled away from her face. Her coat isn't subtle; with its dark purple coloring, it stands out, even with its black lapels and accents. It falls to her thigh, even though the zipper in the center only travels from breastbone to waistline. Everything else, however, is black, from the shirt under her coat, to the low-heeled boots, to the leather pants that hug her legs like a second skin.
She walks up to the grate separating him from her, her veiled eyes studying him carefully. "You're not exactly what I was expecting to catch," she says cordially enough, her voice oddly familiar. Her eyes wander over him, as though judging his worth as a thief. "But I can't say I'm displeased. You being here cuts down on my competition." She shrugs. "It's nothing personal—I hope you enjoy prison. When's the last time a competitor has said that to you?"
He decides to bypass half of that conversation because she's absolutely ridiculous. "What were you expecting?" he asks, after switching on his voice synthesizer. If she chooses to be so flagrant with her identity, that's her business, but he's giving nothing away.
She studies him a moment longer. "I don't know," she answers finally. "I guess I thought that, with a name like 'the Arrow,' I was expecting you to be taller. Or bigger." She smiles before adding, "Or a little more aware when a girl isn't into you. Hint: if she doesn't give you her number, she's probably not interested."
It dawns on him quickly, hits him like a ton of bricks. Her voice is a full octave higher than the one she used with him, but it's definitely her. "Your date with a canvas was the one we were staring at," he states quietly. But she's already walking away, looking at the vault door.
"And I'm not really an art student, either," she answers, looking at the safe door instead of him. "More of a… purveyor of art of, well… dubious acquisition." She frowns, twiddling with the lock. "Damn it, it's on a time-release." She shakes her head. "I can hack a lot of things, but not a manual vault on a time release." She makes a sour face, clearly frustrated. "I mean, they have one of the best security systems in the world here, and it took me maybe ten minutes to gain entry. But I can't hack an old school safe."
He seizes the opportunity, since he knows how to spin that to his advantage. "If you let me out of here," he says carefully, "I could blow the door."
She turns to him. "First of all, I know that trick and it doesn't work on me." She motions to the safe. "Second of all, this is a triple-insulated safe—three layers of eight inches of steel each. It would take three explosives, and they'd have us in handcuffs before we even saw the painting—if you didn't blow it up." She crosses her arms. "Finally, that's not how I operate. I slink in, grab what I want, and slink out before anyone knows I'm there." She smiles. "That's why they call me the Dutchman—I'm like a ghost ship, always disappearing as soon as anyone gets close. As far as press nicknames go, you, my friend, drew the short straw."
She studies him a moment, drawing up to the steel grate again. "How much did your fence promise you for this painting?" she asks. He only crosses his arms and looks at her, not giving her any information without some in return, and she seems to understand. She sighs before adding, "I have a guy South America willing to pay sixty million dollars for this painting. I don't understand why, exactly, but I'm not exactly an art connoisseur. Personally, I don't get why a painting that resembles a watercolor I made when I was five sells for thirty million. I mean, if it was Waterlillies or the Mona Lisa or The Starry Night, I'd get it. In fact, I'd steal them for myself, if they weren't all fakes on display. But this abstract, modern art crap isn't my thing. Except for the pink balloon dog statue—I wasn't kidding about that. I mean, how could you not love a statue of a—"
"Felicity," he snaps a little loudly, and she jumps slightly. She shakes her head, eyes wide, before she bites at her lip in embarrassment.
"My point is," she says firmly, as if daring him to interrupt her again, "is this guy is willing to pay double what the painting is worth. I've sold to him before, so I know his money is good." What she says next is the last thing he expects: "We could split the money, both get out with exactly what we're worth." She pauses before adding, "Not that you need the money, but you know what I mean."
Oliver hesitates. "If it's worth thirty million," he asks slowly, "why is he willing to pay sixty?"
She rolls her eyes, as if he's a barbarian for even asking that question. "Because it's an appraisal value," she answers. "That's how much some old guy with a Ph.D. in art history thinks it's worth." She leans closer. "But that excludes so many important things, like personal value and emotional value. I have a computer in my room right now—the first one I ever built myself. It's outdated and ancient—and maybe it's worth twenty bucks. But even you couldn't quote a figure high enough to convince me to sell it." She curls her hands around two of the iron bars, her face just above them. "And, while I don't get it, this guy clearly loves it enough to pay to have it stolen for him, whatever the cost."
There's some sort of passion in her voice that makes her particularly glorious, that intrigues him so much that he finds his hands on the bars above hers, his face only inches from her own "I don't steal for the money," he answers. "I steal for the thrill. You can keep the money if we can steal it together."
She gives him a disapproving look before turning away, pressing a button on what looks to be her phone. The grates ascend immediately. "You're just another W.W. Hale," she replies dryly. "Of course you are."
"Who?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.
She turns to look at him over her shoulder. "Read a book sometime," is her answer, and then she's walking back the way she came. "Meet me in the first floor lobby at seven tomorrow. The unveiling is at nine, so I think that will give us just enough time steal a masterpiece and have an alibi for it." She's around the corner, then, and, just when he's about to return the way he came, she pokes her head around it, leaning backwards as blonde hair accentuates her actions.
"And Oliver? Don't be late."
Felicity enters the museum with her attention focused solely on her phone. She has to make sure the upload is running along smoothly, and she's pleased when it her phone chimes to alert her. She smiles at the print that reads "footage uploaded," and she knows the cameras in the building are no longer an issue. She looks up to find Oliver Queen staring off into the distance, and she wonders if he's as excited about this as she is.
Part of her is surprised to find him there, both on time and without an entire department of police officers to arrest her. It's why she typically works alone—because the saying is true; there isn't any honor among thieves—but she can't exactly do this without him because it's a two-man job.
Actually, it's a one-woman, one-man job, and that's what she's most nervous about.
Still, he's waiting on her in the lobby, and he's managed to pull himself away from his family engagements by the time she walks in. It takes him a moment before he sees her, first turning his head away before his eyes land on her again. He blinks several times, and she takes that as a good sign.
She was hoping she'd get that reaction from the one-shoulder number she picked, and she's pleased because he hasn't even seen the back yet. It's held in place only by a single strap that travels from under one arm to the opposite shoulder, leaving her back otherwise exposed from shoulder to opposite hip, wrapping around her side slightly. It forms an asymmetrical hem, too, making an opposite diagonal from a rather high spot on her thigh to the opposite ankle.
She walks up to him with a wide smile, self-consciously smoothing her curls down in the back, so that they fall to one shoulder the way she means them to. She means to adjust her glasses, too, before she remembers she wore contacts. As she does so, his eyes slide over her in a way that make her blush, and she decides that it's her turn to say, "See something you like?"
He straightens the black tie at his throat and adjusts his cufflinks. "The question is," he answers finally, an odd tone creeping into his voice, "do you see anything you like?" He follows it with a smile, and Felicity thinks it might just be sincere.
"Always," she answers Then she leans up to him to whisper, "I'm a thief in an art museum—I always see things I like."
"Let's go steal your painting," he answers back, his voice just as breathy as he says it into her ear, lips brushing against it.
He offers her his arm, and she takes it. He immediately starts toward the dark hallway that leads to the employee-only area, and she realizes that it's going to work just as well as she'd expected. He releases her to examine the door handle and the way it ties into the alarm system, looking up at her expectantly. "Can you hack this?"
"Of course I can," she answers immediately, following him to the door. She takes a moment to say goodbye to her dignity before she starts this mess. "But, unfortunately, I can't hack the silent alarm system." He looks a little wary, and she matches the expression as she adds finally, "So we'll have to use a classic."
"A classic?" he repeats, and she slides between him and the door, pressing her back against it.
She ignores him because she's already nervous enough. She's never done this in the line of duty, and she hopes it's a one-time occurrence. "Try to sell it," she instructs, using his lapels to pull him closer to her, "but don't oversell it." He towers over her, looking down on her with those crystal blue eyes she's come to know over the last day.
She takes a deep breath before muttering, "Now let's see if you're as good as they say you are." Before he can object, she snakes an arm around his neck, pulling his head down so that she can claim his lips with hers. At the same time, she turns the door handle, praying the security guards have a fast response time.
What she doesn't expect is Oliver. He sells the bit with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, one hand over her hip while the other roams over her back. He isn't exactly gentle while kissing her, but she didn't exactly ask him to be, either. In order to help sell the bit, she throws her leg over his hip, hiking the shortened skirt on her right side a little too high for her liking. She's just about to change to the other leg when his hand on her hip falls a little lower and touches skin, and she gasps into his mouth as he slowly slides it down her leg to just above the knee.
She's almost forgotten that it's supposed to be a ploy when the security guards turn the corner, and she immediately blushes even though she knew this was coming. Fortunately, Oliver takes over quickly, a lazy smile falling over his face as he says, "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"
"You bumped the door," he answers, as though he's not paid near enough to handle this crap. He immediately turns, and the three others follow him as they walk away. She can hear him call on his radio, "It's just a couple getting their rocks off in a dark hallway. Area secure."
"Sorry," Oliver calls behind them, then he turns to Felicity and adds quietly, "that they interrupted us."
She slaps his shoulder while rolling her eyes, and he reluctantly lets her go. "Let's go before they come back." Without thinking, she takes his hand, pulling him along to the safe area.
"So, am I?" he asks suddenly, and she turns to look at him, eyebrows knitted together. With a smile, he clarifies, "Am I as good as they say I am?"
She has a battle with the truth for a moment, but then decides that maybe honesty is the best policy. "Better," she admits without looking, her face heating. Oliver chuckles, and she's never so glad to see a vault in her life when they come up on the one housing her painting.
"Hello, beautiful," she says quietly to it, and she turns the latch out of curiosity. Surprisingly, it's open, and no one is preparing to move the painting yet. It sits against the back wall in all its glory, hanging in an over-priced frame.
"You know it's probably on a pressure plate, right?" he asks from behind her, probably watching her study the painting.
She forgets Oliver for a moment because now it's only her and the painting. She slides a hand into the dress and pulls out her switchblade, popping it open with the flick of the latch. "The frame is on a pressure plate," she corrects quietly, not really focusing on her words, either. "The painting itself is not." She slices the knife under the edge of the frame, separating the painting from it. "Did you know that removing the canvas from a pressure plate typically doesn't remove enough weight that it will set off an alarm?" She releases the last edge from the frame, and pulls the painting out, shoving it off to the side while she folds the knife up.
She turns to find Oliver studying her and the knife with an odd expression. "Where did you keep that," he asks, "in that dress?"
She smiles as she rolls the painting up, handing it to him to hide under his suit coat. With a burst of daring and an adrenalin high from the act of theft, she answers, "Better question: would you like to find out?" She gets her answer when he drops the painting, his head snapping up to her. She bites her lip to hide a smile before sliding the knife back into place. She makes sure the painting is safely hidden before patting him on the shoulder. "Let's go before they come to get it for the unveiling."
He lets her lead them back to the dark hallway before stopping her with a hand on her arm. "Wait," he calls quietly, then reaches behind her to remove the pin in her hair, letting her curls spill over her shoulders and down her back. By way of explanation, he adds, "You've spent the last half-hour in a dark hallway with me." He flashes her a charming smile. "And I have a reputation to uphold."
Another burst of daring shoots through her. "You're right," she answers with a sly smile. She pulls his tie a little loose and reaches down to leave her lipstick on his collar before pressing her lips behind his ear. "After all," she murmurs against his neck, "a fake reputation seems to be all you have."
With that, she whirls and starts to walk away. "You can drop that by my place after you smuggle it out. Corner of Fifth and Oak, tonight at midnight."
He lets her go, but he does call behind her, "I'll look forward to it."
She smiles before replying without looking back, "You should, Oliver."
Just a quick note: I have no idea if any of the museum robbery stuff is true, but, if it's wrong, good. I made it up on the spot, and I don't exactly want this to turn into some sort of handbook for crime. :P
Also, the painting sold at auction for $32.1 million. And the pink balloon dog statue actually exists; it was sculpted by Jeff Koons, and an orange one sold for about $56 million last year. Just in case you're interested in modern art. ;)
Playlist:
"Sparks Fly" - Taylor Swift
"Break Your Little Heart" - All Time Low
"(I Just) Died in Your Arms" - Cutting Crew
"Monster" - Lady Gaga
"If We Ever Meet Again" - Timbaland feat. Katy Perry
"Fire" - Orianthi
"More Than Alive" - The Ready Set
"A Love Like War" - All Time Low feat. Vic Fuentes
"Outta My Head" - Daughtry
"I Gotta Feeling" - The Black Eyed Peas