Title: Crash and Burn (Masque)
Word Count: 6136

Notes: I'm so sorry this update is late—it's my fault and Twink had to wait on me to get my crap together. I had to drop two AU prompts before I finally got this one to work out. :/ Anyway, here it is, so thanks for your patience over the last few days. :D Thanks for reading, and I know we're looking forward to your reviews/comments! :D

Felicity sighs as she looks at the shoddy job the crew has done with the car, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, probably smearing more grease across her forehead. The carburetor is in horrible shape, and the timing belt is way off. Not to mention the sludge around the engine, or the way it's leaking oil like Niagara Falls leaks water. And that doesn't even begin to cover the issue of the transmission; she cringed when she heard the way it groaned when they drove it into the garage

She thought this was supposed to be a major operation and that, by joining a team like Queen Racing, she would see quality cars and racing operations. But apparently they, too, aren't immune to a slipshod operation and lazy employees. Still, she imagined something better when she signed on with them because Queen Racing has won in point total championships for the past three years, and, well, Felicity figured they would have facilities to go with it. Facilities, yes, but employees? Not so much.

She sighs again, this time diving into the car with enthusiasm, leaning over the low hood to see what she can do to fix the poor thing. "What did the bad driver do to you?" she murmurs at it as she works, pulling a tray of wrenches and sockets over to her, frowning when she notices that they're still using SAE wrenches. It's ridiculous, really; everyone knows that metric allows for less variance and tighter tolerances—any mechanic worth their salt should have converted the car years ago. Now she's starting to see that the Queens are winning on luck, not skill. And, well, Felicity Smoak is the one person in the world who would rather be good than lucky.

Something latches onto her ponytail, yanking it back, and she nearly hits her head on the hood of the car when she startles upright. She shouldn't be surprised to see those mischievous amber eyes staring back at her, his coveralls red instead of green as if he's just daring to be different. But, then again, Roy Harper seems to march to the beat of his own drum, and he's a good enough mechanic that they let him for fear he'll go over to the Merlyn team—the only real competition Queen Racing gets these days, even if it is friendly.

"Hey, Blondie," he says, the faintest hint of a smile on his face, "we need to get you out of this garage. The last guy through here that started talking to the car ended up being carted out in an ambulance and a straightjacket." He shrugs. "Guy just up and started screaming about being Count Dracula or something."

Felicity rolls her eyes, diving back into the car with a wrench, frustrated when the grease on the bolt keeps it from turning. "Yeah, well," she promises dryly, "I promise not to take whatever drugs he was on, okay? I talk to my machinery—it's good for their self-confidence." She bites back a smile. "And, besides, I'm okay as long as they don't start talking back." Felicity pulls her right hand out of the car to point to the where the rollerboards are stored. "He ran over a blown tire in Lap One-Ninety-Six, and it could have damaged the chassis—your turn to crawl under the car."

He groans, but she hears him stomping away. Roy seems to like pretending to give her grief, but so far he's done everything he's asked of her. "Did I mention the last boss was nicer?" he asks her in reply, from across the garage.

She doesn't hide the smile this time, especially because she's mostly inside the hood of the car now. "Your last boss wasn't as pretty," she counters. "There has to be a trade off somewhere. And don't think I can't tell when you're staring at my ass, by the way, because I can. If I wasn't so nice, I would file sexual harassment charges."

His voice is unapologetic when he answers, muffled under the car, "Not a lot else here to look at. And, besides, it's not like I want to. You're like a thousand years too old for me." At that comment, she pulls out of the car and grabs a tiny five-sixteenths wrench and throws it at his exposed legs, nailing him in the knee. "Ow, hey!" he yells, and they both laugh as Felicity goes back to work under the hood. "And I can think of five other people you could throw a sexual harassment suit at before me—starting with our fearless leader."

She swaps for a different wrench, frowning when she grabs the wrong one. "You know," she muses as she tightens the bolt, "I've never met Oliver Queen." Apparently he isn't one to visit the lowly mechanics because she hasn't seen him since she started three months ago.

"Let's hope your luck holds, then," Roy answers dryly. "The guy's a dick, but I guess women seem to like that about him." He pauses a moment, and Felicity can see him tilting his head to the side, thinking about the statement before correcting it. "Well, maybe not—there's a different one on his arm every time."

Before she can respond, voices echo through the garage, and she can make out the words, "...just one-point-five seconds, Oliver. He beat your qualifying time, sure, but your car hasn't been taken care of properly in five years—since Wilson quit. They just hired a new chief mechanic three months ago, and you're already three seconds faster than we anticipated today."

"Either way," a new, cheery, masculine voice says, "the qualifier doesn't mean anything. We both know that. Your qualifying times have sucked the last three years, Ollie, but you've still pulled most of the races out from under me every year."

"I don't like relying on luck," a third male voice says, and Roy groans. Felicity supposes this is Oliver Queen, based on that reaction; Roy typically works very well. "And that's what the last three years have been. You took some bad hits out there, and, let's face it, you're the only competition we have."

"See what you did, Blondie?" he asks her loudly, as though he doesn't give a damn if their boss hears him or not. "You said the devil's name, and now he shows up in our garage."

"Nice to see you, too, Harper," the last voice replies sarcastically, and Felicity rolls her eyes. Louder, he calls, "Can someone tell me where I can find the new chief mechanic?"

Felicity sighs before pulling herself out of the car, then takes the handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her hands on, then pushes her glasses up further on her nose. "I'm Felicity Smoak," she answers, leaning against the bumper of the car. She doesn't offer a hand because hers are covered in grease, so she crosses them. "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

It's only then that she takes time to study him, and she realizes that the press photos that all the (female) fans wave around don't do him justice. He really is just as handsome, even without the digital touch-ups for the pictures. Still, even if he is pretty to look at, so far he's seemed like a bear, and she's not interested in more assholes in her life.

The two men behind him are polar opposites; the one on the left is thin and wiry with a charming smile, the other broad-shouldered and serious, arms crossed over his chest. Felicity knows the first face as Tommy Merlyn, even without the black racing suit proclaiming the Merlyn Global label over his chest. The other, however, is a mystery to her, though she guesses he's a co-worker, judging by the green coveralls.

Oliver turns back to the second of them, rounding on him. "I thought you told me we hired an experienced chief mechanic," he snaps. "She looks fresh from Stanford, for God's sake!" She notes that he's perfectly okay with his chief mechanic being a woman (which she thought might be an issue), just so long as she's experienced. Well, that she can work with.

Merlyn smiles. "Well, she may be green," he answers, "but she's prettier than your last chief mechanic." He throws her a flirty smile that does not a damn thing for Felicity.

She ignores him, addressing her boss instead. "MIT, actually," she corrects, and he turns back to her. "Unlike Stanford and Mr. Merlyn here"—she gestures haphazardly toward him, as though he's not worth her time—"I don't settle for being second best. I'm here to win." She crosses her arms again. "And, for the record, I earned my Master's degree three years ago, so I have plenty of experience."

There's a long, awkward pause, and the third man steps forward, extending his hand even though hers are black with grease. "Miss Smoak, I'm John Diggle—I manage the pit crew." She shakes his hand. "We haven't had the opportunity to meet, since your job is in here and mine is out there."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Diggle," she answers cordially, then turning her eyes on Merlyn again. "No offense, Mr. Merlyn, but the competition in my operation makes me nervous. So kindly get the hell out of my garage."

He holds up his hands and turns to leave, but Oliver stops him, eyes narrowing at Felicity. "Your garage?" he repeats. "The last time I checked, you're just an employee. I decide who enters and leaves this place." He walks up to her, staring down as if trying to intimidate her. Too bad for him she's been around pissy drivers all her life, and she knows they're all talk and no action. "If you can't live with that, I'll be glad to let you go."

She steps closer, moving her arms to her sides, refusing to let him try to intimidate her based on a few inches in height. Well, maybe more than a few, judging by the way he towers over her. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, so she decides to prompt him. "If you're going to fire me," she snaps back, "do it now. Otherwise, I have two cars to get up to standards with three people, since the backup is a bigger piece of shit than this one." She jerks her thumb over her shoulder to point to his precious, emerald green stock car. "If you can't handle the way I run a garage, maybe Merlyn here can."

"Pretty, smart, and sassy?" Merlyn answers from behind him. "I'd fire my chief mechanic right now if you'd agree to join up." Oliver shoots his friend a dirty look, and Tommy shrugs. "Hey, I'd be an idiot to pass up an offer like that. I'd never steal her because we're friends, but if she's looking for a change in employers, she's free game."

She crosses her arms after pushes her glasses up on her nose again. "You're in check, Mr. Queen, and it's your move," she informs him, surprised when he seems to understand the chess metaphor.

He huffs a sigh, frowning. "Fine," he snaps after a long moment, as though he's conceding out of the goodness of his heart. They both know better, though. "But don't think you're going to get everything you want." They both know that's a lie, too; he needs her to win this year, and he knows that Merlyn will snatch her up in an instant. Really, she has him right where she wants him, creating a type of job security based on necessity.

He turns and storms out, and Mr. Diggle follows. Tommy, however, stays long enough to say, "See you later, Felicity," again in that flirty tone, and she points to the door, reminding him that she wants him out of her garage.

It might have Oliver's name on it, but, well, they both know it's hers now.

Roy walks up beside her, snorting. "So, now you've met the crew. Lucius is the smart one. I can't figure out if Merlyn is Cal or Frenchie—maybe both." He nudges her shoulder. "And clearly Ricky Bobby is more personable in the movie."

She rolls her eyes. "You're going to make me regret watching that movie with you, aren't you?"

It's a rhetorical question, but it doesn't stop him from grinning as he answers, "Yep."

Oliver takes a deep breath before walking into the garage, already knowing things aren't going to go well with Felicity for a very long time, now that he's been such an ass to her. His numbers are gradually dropping every year, and he has to hold onto this success if he wants to prevent his mother from nagging him about not being a part of Queen Consolidated. After his father died, she begged him to take over as CEO, but they both know that he doesn't know a damn thing about running about running a multi-national corporation.

This was more his style.

Racing isn't even a job for him. It's more like making an appearance, saddled with the same fame and ridiculousness that he's always faced because he's the Queen scion and heir. It's more like being that celebrity than a job, and it gives him the opportunity to have just as many wild nights as before. He used to like that, but now the nagging feeling that this is just a temporary phase in his life keeps him from enjoying it. He loves the racing, but the press is tiresome and the mechanics aren't as efficient as they used to be.

With, perhaps, the exception of Felicity Smoak. Even though he had attempted to put the little blonde in her place, it was nothing personal; it had to do with asserting dominance, something he's learned to do over the years of shoddy mechanics since Slade quit. But he liked what she said: I don't settle for being second best. Maybe she has something to prove, too, but he can't imagine what. He's done some checking now, and he knows she's one of the best in the business, possibly better even than Slade was. It gives him hope, even though he knows their relationship is going to be rocky at best now that he's screwed it up.

When he walks in, he sees a ragged, grease-stained pair of purple Converse sticking out from under his car, and he thinks it's probably Felicity, back at it already. Just out of curiosity, he walks over to the timecards on the wall and checks hers. She was here until midnight last night, and she was back in by six this morning. Clearly she isn't joking when she says there's a lot of work to do, and she's serious about it. Oliver thinks she might be a good addition to this team now, since she's clearly willing to do what it takes.

He walks over to her and crouches down beside her, not wanting to startle her since she's under the car and hasn't heard him come in. He watches her work, then watches as a grease-smeared, delicate hand with purple fingernails reaches out for a wrench that isn't there. "Damn it," she mutters.

"What size do you need?" he asks quietly, and he hears something smack against the bottom of the car. She shouts a curse that he's only heard a handful of times in his life, and he can feel his eyes go wide. Concerned, he rolls her out from under it, finding her clutching at her forehead. He helps her sit up. "Let me see," he says quietly, already moving her hand away from her head. It's bleeding—no surprise—but he's learned enough about first aid from his time on the track to patch it. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He rises to his feet, holding his hand out to her. She takes it, wobbling as she gets to her feet, and he grips her elbow to lead her over to a table. "Nah, not your fault," she answers. "I should be paying more attention—especially when I'm here alone late at night and early in the morning."

Oliver guides toward the counter against one wall. Its surface is covered with grease smears, but somehow he doesn't think she'll mind. He pats it twice. "Hop up—I'll take a look at that cut."

She rolls her eyes. "It's fine, Mr. Queen," she says dryly, but he doesn't think it's smart for her to have an open, bleeding wound with so much here to infect it.

"Oliver," he corrects, and she looks at him as if he's spoken a foreign language. "Mr. Queen was my father. No one calls me that, and I don't want them to." He frowns. "And I'd feel better about that wound if you'd let me look at it—and I'm not above putting you on this counter myself."

She blushes a little at something he doesn't quite understand, but otherwise maintains a solid poker face. "Okay," she says slowly. "It's fine, Oliver." She crosses her arms, clearly in defiance. But this is one argument she isn't going to win.

With a set of swift movements, he grabs her by the waist, and she lets out a small squeak of surprise that makes the corner of his mouth lift of its own accord. He's careful as he sets her on the counter, then reaches for the first aid kit as she crosses her arms and huffs, "I told you I'd be fine."

He wets a paper towel and places it to her forehead. "Then consider it my apology for yesterday." He hesitates. "I was worked up on adrenalin from the qualifiers, and I didn't exactly put my best foot forward."

She raises an eyebrow, and he offers her a tentative smile. "It's fine." She waves a hand as he cleans the spot on her forehead. "I've worked with racecar drivers my entire life—I know how they are." She shrugs her left shoulder. "They're all a bunch of bitchy little girls." He raises and eyebrow and she winces, waving her hands as she takes backwater. "What I meant is that racers are a little whiny by definition. Not that you're whiny—I barely know you and I don't think it would be fair of me to render an opinion. I just mean, that, in my experience, you're a moody group of people." She pauses. "And I'm babbling."

"You are," he agrees. Truthfully, he thinks he prefers it to her standing inches from him, forcing him into a proverbial corner. "But I don't mind," he adds. The remnants of her blush have started to fade away, but that statement brings it back with full force. He wonders what is going on in her mind that he's embarrassing her; Oliver isn't even flirting with her.

Both thoughts startle him. Flirting is a natural occurrence, something that he does to ease the tedium and boredom of his life. It has nothing to do with attraction; it's just something he does for fun, and, if it comes to some sort of fruition, that's just a bonus. But he isn't even trying with her, feels no need to attempt to be someone other than who he is. At the same time, however, part of him wants to, but doesn't know how to flirt with her specifically. After all, the traditional route requires him to use a certain façade, and he's already laid bare for her.

Shaking his head to clear it, he focuses again on the cut on her forehead, using a dry piece of gauze to cover it before applying an adhesive bandage. "Thank you," she murmurs, not really looking at him.

His right hand moves from the sealed bandage on the left side of her head to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Somehow he ends up cupping her face, his thumb resting just below her cheekbone, and she closes her eyes for a moment.

"So," she says, positioning herself to hop off the counter, but she stops abruptly, and Oliver realizes that he's standing with her legs on either side of him, blocking her from moving. He slides out of the way, and she hops down. "Um," she continues, "if we're going to work together—I mean, actually work together to win this thing—we'll have to be able to communicate. Which means we'll both need to understand a little about each other's jobs." She picks up a wrench from the nearest stand, holding it out to him. "So, tell me, Oliver, how much do you know about what's under the hood?"

He frowns because cars aren't his specialty. He can drive one, he can tell when something is wrong with one, and he knows his brands. That's about it. He hesitates, pointing under the hood of the car. "I know that's the engine," he says slowly.

She frowns, too. "So, basically," she clarifies, "not a damn thing?" He nods, and she pats his shoulder. "It's okay. You're about to learn. You need to know where things are located, how they sound when they go wrong, how to work around some of these problems. It will make you a better driver if you're a better mechanic." She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. "Just like learning how to drive a stock-racing car makes me a better mechanic."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "You drive?" he asks. Felicity doesn't seem like the kind of girl to take the kind of risk that comes with circling a track at two hundred miles per hour. He likes the rush, but he'd thought Felicity prefers to keep her feet firmly planted in the garage

"I could drive circles around you," she answers with a surprising amount of cockiness. "But more on that later. For right now, I'm going to teach you some basic mechanics, and you're going to learn how to turn a wrench with the best of us." She points to the wall behind him. "Grab a set of coveralls, and we'll get started."

He does, and he slides into them, watching her point to various parts of the car. "Now, you're right—this is the engine," she starts, "but not all engines are created equal."

He frowns. "But I thought—" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Oliver Queen is not a thinker," she says with a chuckle. "Oliver Queen is a driver." She stares at him expectantly for a moment, then groans. "Okay, how have you never seen that movie? You're a driver—you should be able to get any jokes related to racing movies." She rolls her eyes. "And I just made myself into Susan, which is weird but pretty accurate. Except I am never going to crawl on a table in a bar."

His only reaction is to say, "What?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, we're all watching that movie before the season begins. You're a gearhead now—you have to be initiated into our clique." She claps her hands before pulling out another rollerboard. "Come on, Ricky, let's go meet your version of Karen."

Oliver looks up from the grease-stained fingers he can't seem to get clean, expecting Felicity to be in similar shape. Clearly she's had more experience with removing them because she looks like she's never been in a garage in her life. She's in one of the fire-retardant suits that drivers are required to wear, and somehow she's found one her size, even though she's smaller than anyone else that races for QC's team.

She looks good—surprisingly good. She's cleaned up, traded her glasses for contacts, and let her hair down, falling in blonde waves down her back. He didn't realize it was so long before. He doesn't even recognize her at first, but then he sees that fuchsia lipstick, and he knows. (Because, seriously, who else wears lipstick that garish?)

She's only suited up from the waist down, letting the top half hang about her hips, and maybe Oliver's eyes linger on them a little longer than necessary. Her shirt is sky blue and short-sleeved, with a sharp slit at the neckline that's maybe a little more flirty than he expects. (He might stare at that a little long, too.) She carries her helmet under her arm, and, for a minute, he thinks she looks like a pro—maybe they should change positions on the team.

"Hey," she says, walking up to him, tossing him the helmet, "hold this." She slides her arms into the top half of the suit, shrugging it over her shoulders. The legs must be a little long because she has to reach very low for the zipper, pulling it up to the collar and folding the velcro piece over. She pulls a ponytail holder from her wrist, using it to put her hair back in a mass of curls that resemble a bun at the nape of her neck, just above where the helmet will land. Then she pulls her gloves from her pockets, pulling them on and flexing her hands inside them.

She takes the helmet back from him. "So, Oliver," she says with a teasing smile, "are you ready to see your record blown to hell?"

"Don't taunt him, Blondie," Harper says from her other side, and he reaches around her to hand Oliver a headset. "He's going to be damaged by your run as it is."

She shrugs. "I don't know," she answers, doubt coloring her tone. "It's been a while. After dad died, my mother didn't like me driving anymore." Oliver can feel his eyes widen in surprise, and Felicity shrugs with a partial smile on her face. "What, you think you're the only one from racing royalty?" She bites her lip. "My dad died in a crash on the track you're racing on next week. That's why I've put in so many hours on your green arrow."

He frowns. "Green arrow?" he can't help but repeat, wondering where she gets these things.

She shrugs. "With the nose as sharp as it is"—she pats the hood of the car beside her—"your girl's hood looks like the tip of an arrow. And it's a pretty green, so green arrow."

"Track's yours," Harper reminds her. "Just try to get a feel for her before you open her up—if you crash this thing, I'm not working my ass off until midnight while you walk around with a cast." He holds up his fist, asking a silent question.

Felicity rolls her eyes, but the smile takes the bite out of it. "Shake and bake," she says dryly, and Harper actually cackles at that.

Both he and Oliver move out of the way so that she can take the car for a spin, and Oliver pulls the headset over his ears. "Check, boys," Felicity's voice echoes in Oliver's headset. Harper lets her know that they can hear her, and then she's given free reign.

She does as Harper suggested, barely crawling at twenty miles per hour for a while before giving it a little more gas. She makes a few circles around the track at relatively low speed before pulling up to the starting line and to a complete halt.

It's only then that he realizes just how good Felicity Smoak is. Even over the roar of the car on the track, Oliver can hear it shift out—four times, and fast. She accelerates into the first turn instead of holding steady, and pulls it tight around the curve before picking up more speed. It's clear she's taking it easy, trying to learn the way the car handles, but he figures she's pulling one-twenty.

Once more, she pulls to a halt in front of the checkered line, and Oliver notices Tommy walking onto the track with Laurel several yards away. He can't focus on that, since Laurel used to walk onto the track with him, so he prays instead that Felicity can make them look good.

He shouldn't be concerned, because she does—maybe even makes them look a little too good. She's through all six gears faster than Oliver typically run through them, even though he can tell she waits for a higher level of RPMs before shifting. Oliver chooses to focus on what she's doing instead of what Tommy is doing, and damn, the girl can drive. She's just a green blur wrapping around the track, but she's still managing to hang rather tight through all the turns.

"Hey, Red," she calls through the headsets, and Oliver assumes she's talking to Harper, "there's a shimmy at one-sixty-five—we're gonna need to fix that. And I think the transmission slips a little when going into sixth, but I could have just shifted a little too early. I'm gonna retry it and see how it feels." She slows the car down more toward ninety, and then runs it back up to the two hundred range, double-clutching through the shifts for show. "Yeah, definitely slipping," she adds. "And the timing belt is still off—it idled funny out of the gate. I want those fixed before the first race."

"You got it, boss," Harper answers, making notes on his clipboard in a scrawl that Oliver is almost certain is in a different language because it looks nothing like English. They're going to be lucky to read that later.

"Felicity," Oliver says, "why don't you open her up and really make a go of it? We'll set up the timers and everything." Feeling a little daring, he teases, "You haven't showed me anything I can't do yet—except double-clutch. But I already knew that."

She lets out a whoop of excitement, and Oliver takes that as a yes. "Why, Oliver," she answers in a voice that's almost flirty, "I thought you'd never ask. Of course, I'll have to warn you—Karen may never go back to you once I'm through with her."

Oliver doesn't understand it, but Roy cackles. "You named the car after the cougar," he comments, shaking his head. "Of course you did. You know I love you, right?"

She chuckles. "Get in line," she retorts, slowing the car down and crawling up on the checkered line again.

Roy gives her the mark, and she darts across the line right after he tells her to go. She runs it straight, without any showmanship or double-clutching, but it's even better than the last go. She flies around the curves, hugging as tight as she can at two hundred miles per hour, keeping the car tight to the inside of the track to cut down on time. When she crosses the line and the timer stops, Oliver can hardly believe the digits across the screen. She's five seconds better than Tommy's record-breaking time, in a subpar vehicle.

"Jesus," Oliver hears Laurel say from her place, the two clearly yet to notice Oliver standing off in the corner. "You better watch yourself on the track—he's on this season."

Tommy chuckles. "No kidding—he just beat my best time." There's a pride in it, even though the he lost, and Oliver is reminded yet again why the two stay friends; they both celebrate each other's victories together.

"It wasn't me," Oliver calls to them with a hand over his mic, and both heads swivel around to him. He walks over to them, unable to keep the smile from his face as he stares at the car. "I wish it was, but we all know I'm not good enough to drive like that."

Tommy's eyebrows raise, rightly showing surprise. "You let someone else drive your car around the track?" he asks, eyes wide, and Oliver chuckles. He doesn't share his car with anyone, and so it's a highly unusual scenario. "Who's the lucky bastard?"

The car pulls up to them then, and Oliver only winks. He feels ridiculously proud of Felicity, getting a high from it he doesn't get from winning. There's just something uplifting about Tommy learning that a girl can smoke his ass on the track.

She removes the netting, sliding out of the window like an old pro, pulling off her helmet and letting her hair fly free for a moment. Tommy's jaw drops, and Oliver can't bite back a chuckle.

"Sweet Mother of God," she exclaims with a dazed expression, a little breathlessly, "I forgot how much of a high you get from this. It's kind of like sticking a fork in an electrical socket, isn't it?" Oliver's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't notice. "I love adrenalin, I love this car," she says a little loudly as she pats the hood, walking up to Oliver before continuing with a poke to his shoulder, "and I love you." She waves a hand, a wide smile lighting up her face. "Platonically, of course."

"Of course," he echoes with a smile of his own. She's absolutely giddy, and it makes her beautiful in a way he's never seen before. It has nothing to do with aesthetics or natural beauty; it's more to do with the light dusting of blush across her face, the way her eyes sparkle. She just has a special sort of radiance about her caused by the excitement, and Oliver thinks it might just be contagious.

With one swift movement he doesn't expect, she places her hand against the back of his head tilting it down as she stands on her toes. Felicity's lips brush against his for the briefest of moments. Then she releases him, the blush on her face going wild as she says, "Thank you, Oliver." She hands him her helmet, not looking at him now.

"Anytime, Felicity," he answers as she unzips the suit and shrugs out of the top half. His answer only makes her blush deepen, and he surprises himself because he kind of wants to kiss her again, but perhaps this time not so chastely. Still, he knows it's better for both of them if he doesn't.

After all, if there's one lesson he's learned on the track, it's that pushing it too much, too fast will only cause him to crash and burn.

Still, he can't resist. "What the hell," he mutters to himself, and it causes Felicity to look up. He places his hand just above her elbow, using a crooked finger under her chin to tilt her head up. Her eyes widen in realization just seconds before his mouth meets hers.

She stiffens under him for a moment, but then something clatters to the ground—her helmet, he presumes—and both of her arms are around his neck as she returns the kiss with more enthusiasm than he expected. Somehow one of his hands ends up dipping down under the suit to grab her hip. The other one cups the back of her head and part of her neck.

When they finally break apart, they're both gasping for air, but Felicity manages to bite her lip, flushing again as she realizes that she and Oliver have an audience for the exchange. "You should take her around the track a few times," she says finally, breathless. "See if you can hear and feel those problems I mentioned. The timing belt isn't so much an issue for you, but you need to know a shimmy and a slipping transmission when you feel them—they could cost you a race."

She picks up the helmet. "I'm gonna get the garage ready so that we can pop the hood and see how well you can handle a wrench." He raises an eyebrow, and she flushes again. "Not like that." She points to the car. "She handles a little hard around the curves, so you might want to take them a little slower for right now—I can change out the steering later."

He can't resist because the opportunity is right there. He leans down, and, in her ear, he murmurs, "I know how to handle a few curves, Felicity."

"Right," she answers, her voice a little higher than normal, "of course you do—you're the driver." She motions to the garage. "Yeah, I'm just gonna—yeah." She walks away then, a little too quick and a little too wobbly on her feet, and Oliver smiles so wide it hurts as he watches her go.

Beside him, Tommy quips, "I guess I know who the lucky bastard is now."

Playlist:

"Just a Girl" - No Doubt
"I Just Wanna Run" - The Downtown Fiction
"Liberty" - Buckcherry
"Sick" - Adelitas Way
"Moving in the Dark" - Neon Trees
"Get Thru This" - Art of Dying
"Party Poison" - My Chemical Romance
"Beg for Mercy" - Adam Lambert
"Oh Yeah" - Aerosmith
"Urgent" - Foreigner