(A/N: I know this is short, like all of my chapters, but I really wanted to get this one posted. Thanks for all the reads and reviews! I look forward to them, and I respond to every review. Some of them have even changed how I view this story and opened up some storytelling avenues that might not have occurred to me otherwise, so thank you! One last thing: if you squint really hard, there is a Smallville easter egg in this chapter. :D)
Felicity woke at 7:30 the next morning to the rustling sounds of Jpeg, her cat, walking across the sea of paper spread over the coffee table. After showering and getting dressed, she only had time to measure out some food for Jpeg and then shove all her work stuff into a giant tote bag.
Her wardrobe choices still reflected her punishment status, she realized as she drove to work. She'd paired a peach button-down with a striped pencil skirt and low heels because she'd fully expected to sit at her desk all day. She'd probably be stuck there for a while anyway, finishing the work she'd fallen asleep in the middle of the night before.
After only five days in Major Crimes, Felicity had already established a routine. She locked her purse in a desk drawer, shoved the file-laden tote under the desk, and headed for the break room, carrying her TARDIS mug. The coffee was strong enough to peel paint and so bitter it could make a snowman cry, but it was coffee and it was free.
Carrying a steaming mug with Splenda and plenty of creamer, Felicity made her way back to her desk. Detective Lance wasn't in yet, she noticed as she pulled files from the tote bag. The papers were a jumbled mess. She'd have to sort it all out before she'd be able to tell how much work was left.
By lunchtime, Lance still hadn't shown up. Felicity finished her work and headed for the deli across the street. She was starving, and it seemed to take forever before she was setting her tray on the only empty table. She'd almost finished her French dip sandwich when a throat cleared in front of her.
"Felicity Smoak?"
She looked up. Oh God. It was—
"Hi. I'm Oliver Queen."
"Of course!" she said in a high-pitched tone that startled both of them. "I know who you are. You're Mr. Queen."
"No, Mr. Queen was my father."
"Right, but he's dead. I mean he drowned. But you didn't, which means you could come in here and listen to me babble. Which will end in three, two, one." She took a deep breath and let it out.
This wasn't the blond brat from the newspaper photos. For one thing, he wasn't blond anymore. His hair was darker and shorter. Stubble peppered his chin and upper lip, a five o'clock shadow on a sharp jaw line. And that little smile on his face—where had that come from? Wait. Had she put it there, with her tactless ramble? He didn't call attention to it, either. He just smiled and continued the conversation. She definitely wasn't used to that.
"I'm having some trouble with my computer," he said, "and Detective Hilton told me that you were the person to come see."
Felicity glanced around, looking for Hilton, but she was distracted from her efforts when Oliver Queen—Oliver Queen!—set a laptop on the table in front of her lunch tray.
"I was at my coffee shop surfing the web," he explained, "and I spilled a latté on it."
She'd just taken a swig of Diet Coke, and she narrowly avoided spitting it everywhere. Any idiot could tell just by looking that a spilled latté wasn't the problem.
"Really," she said.
"Yeah."
She risked eye contact. His face was open, his blue eyes wide, giving the impression of innocence. Something about him made her want to believe him, even though evidence to the contrary was right in front of her.
She poked at the laptop. "'Cause . . . these look like bullet holes."
"My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," he replied.
Felicity tilted her head and half-rolled her eyes. He smiled at her. That smile. It wasn't blinding or anything, but it brought fire to her cheeks, and she felt her toes curl inside her shoes.
"If there is anything you can salvage from it," he continued, "I would really appreciate it."
She hummed in agreement. She couldn't actually speak, which was just fine with her. One ramble was more than enough.
He smiled again and walked away. Felicity watched him go, her mouth hanging open. It took her brain a few moments to resume normal functions. When he disappeared from view, she said under her breath, "Wow. In person, he is really . . . Wow."
Detective Hilton approached her table, and she managed to toss a folder over the bullet-ridden laptop just in time.
"I hope you don't mind," Hilton said, nodding his head in the direction Queen had gone. "When he said he had a computer problem and your name came up . . ."
"It's fine," she said. "But just this once. I already have a job, and it isn't tech support for tabloid stars." Nice comeback. It was exactly what she wished she could have said to Oliver Queen himself.
Hilton grinned. "The look on your face as he walked away would suggest otherwise." He tapped on the computer. "I'll owe you for this. I want to stay on the kid's good side in case he remembers anything more about the other night."
"What about Detective Lance?" she asked.
"Quentin doesn't think he has a good side."
"Everyone has a good side." She tried to change the subject. "Any developments with the guy in the hood?"
There weren't. Unless Detective Lance's new obsession with the case counted as a development.
"That's just the way he is. He latches onto things, can't let them go," Hilton said. "But most of those cases get solved because of it."
Felicity could relate to that. The laptop full of bullet holes—it was a puzzle, a contest. She should pick up the laptop with the edges of her sleeves and turn it over to Detective Lance, but she knew she wouldn't. Curiosity was rising up from within her, and she wouldn't be able to rest until she learned what was on that computer and why it was in Oliver Queen's possession.