Felicity was stumbling, tired and exhausted, long-unused muscles aching. This had not been part of the plan. This was not something MIT graduates did. Not something genius 19-year-olds who had obtained their Masters did.

Look, she would just like it on record, that this was not something Felicity normally did.

But Cooper had been taken in by the FBI. Had killed himself in prison. And their – the FBI's – watchful eyes were on her. On Felicity Smoak from Las Vegas, with the cocktail waitress mom; a girl who graduated at 19 years old from MIT because there was doubt that Cooper Seldon had written the code he'd been put in prison for. That he'd managed the hack into the Department of Education.

Because he hadn't. It was Felicity's code. But he'd abused and he'd taken the blame for it, left her out of it. Didn't mean the FBI wasn't watching her.

So, instead of heading for job interviews, instead of applying herself, Felicity Smoak returned to Las Vegas, burying herself in her mother's arm and trying to hide away from the world. Just for a weekend. Just for one, long weekend, before she'd have to reinvent herself, change her hair colour and remove the goth aesthetic before figuring out a job in the corporate world she'd talked about dismantling for the past year or so in their hacktivist group.

Which is how she ended up here, somehow. Two of her old friends at MIT – friends pre-Cooper, pre-hacking – had come with her to celebrate her early graduation. A smokescreen – nothing to see here, FBI. Just a few girly girls. Nothing to do with Cooper. No hacking here, no, sirree. But her friend, Julia, had loved it first year when a young Felicity had shown her Las Vegas showgirl dancing routines – and had loved the thrill of being able to do this for a weekend, having auditioned while Felicity was bawling into her mum's welcoming arms. Only one of the dancers dropped out and Julia, either because she'd thought it was funny or in revenge for dropping her when Cooper came along and ignoring her for the better part of the past year – had told them Felicity would jump in.

And, somehow, she had. Little Goth-girl Felicity Smoak, MIT graduate, early Masters graduate, certified genius, had danced her little heart out. On Stage. In the flimsiest of little costumes, garnering lewd comments and too-many leers from disgusting men.

She'd hated it.

But Felicity was sure that genius hackers who wrote code which infiltrated the Government and did illegal things wouldn't be spending a weekend dancing. Right? Just part of the ruse. And for her friend.

It was all under control.

Until it wasn't, so much, anymore. She came out, back in her darker attire which actually covered her skin and found her friend, Julia, together with two pretty boys near the bar, twirling her hair and clearly flirting. Felicity sighed and rolled her eyes, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag, hesitating and wondering if she should pull her friend away or let her have fun.

But then reason prevailed. Because Julia liked the fun, the thrill. She didn't know about the mobs and gangs, didn't know whom to stay away from and who might put drugs in her drink. Felicity knew better than to leave a friend alone in bars like this. Especially in bars which belonged to the Bratva. The Italian mob was a different scene; most of them had watched over Felicity a few times, growing up. That particular branch in Vegas held a lot of respect for women – a lot of them growing up with little or older sisters and her mother had never hesitated to leave her with them if her shift ran long. Because they made sure that little Felicity never heard or saw anything, not even as she grey older. That she had fun – was entertained, distracted and engaged. Made sure there was always at least three people watching over her. Over the other kids that sometimes came.

The Bratva was different. Colder. Rumours of people trafficking. Of women being seen as nothing more than an accessory, not a person in their own right.

Donna only took jobs in the Bratva-run casinos when things were dire. When they had gone to the local soup kitchen more than twice a week. When there were no other options. The boss of this chapter was a real creep, apparently.

Not the place to leave a friend behind or alone. Unwatched. Especially one as oblivious as Julia, who had grown up middle class in a boring small town and didn't know how Vegas was run, didn't believe the mob was more than a rumour, one she would laugh at. Didn't think you could accidentally become involved in such a thing, even if it did truly exist. Naïve.

But she was kind. Generous to a fault. Loved to have fun, to party, to dance.

"Hey," there was a large hand, heavy on her shoulder – sweaty and damp and just ick – but the owner didn't seem too concerned, continuing with his slurred speech, unaware of Felicity palming her pepper spray. "you were the pretty doll dancing on stage. What do you say to a private dance, huh? Take off some more. Come on."

The man was pulling and her balance shifted, stumbling sideways, unwittingly towards the man.

"No," she told him, finally gathering her wits, shifting under his grubby palm. "Let go. Now." Felicity's voice was firm, calm – she had no idea how. Everything inside of her was shaking.

Felicity was a Vegas girl, through and through. Her mom a cocktail waitress. She had spent more hours than she wished to recall helping her mother hide bruises and reddened skin under makeup. Making unwelcomed touches and roughened hands and slaps disappear, bit by bit. Felicity had been four when she first tried to – and was stopped from – joining the showgirls on stage, loving the dancing, the rhythm and beat. Teenage Felicity had still not been on stage, but she'd spent hours watching rehearsals, being tutored, for fun and jokes. And spent just as many hours helping them when they were crying behind the stage. Fixing make-up. Adjusting torn skirts and dresses. Hiding injuries.

She knew what lurked behind entitled men like this one, scanning him quickly to see if there were clear signs of the mob before she decided what the best course of action was.

But she didn't have to. One of the guys with Julia – young, fit, with floppy hair and clearly still half-drunk, grabbed the wrist firmly.

"My friend said no," he repeated, voice remarkably clear and lacking the normal slur most drunks had, their tongues rendered uncooperative by alcohol. The pepper spray remained palmed in her hand, but she didn't use it, watching, and the other guy complained – but he let go and stumbled away again without making any fuss. Luckily.

Shoulders still tense she turned back to pretty boy number two – with the serial killer haircut, even if he was kind of cute – eyeing him uncertainly.

"Thank you," she said cautiously – no need to incite further violence, although pretty boy didn't look like he knew how to throw a punch. The boy smiled at her, white teeth flashing, and head tilted as he eyed her up and down, hands firmly put into his pocket and out of reaching range.

Good.

"Your friend Julia sent me," he nodded back to her fellow MIT-friend. "Pretty girl like you-"

Felicity scoffed, rolled her eyes and shouldered past him. She'd had enough lines thrown at her, her entire life. Entitled college boys thinking that nonsense would ever work on something with a modicum of intelligence.

"Julia," she said instead as soon as she joined her friend at the bar, ignoring the boy following her. She'd thanked him – that was more than enough in her books. "Come on, let's go," she told her pretty friend – a classical beauty, really. High cheekbones, brunette, long-legged, slender with perfect breasts. That one friend that, no matter what you did, always made you look like the ugly duckling. The clumsy, bumbling fool next to the girl who had it all: brains, grace and beauty.

Julia laughed, pulling her closer.

"Here, meet Tommy," she introduced, waving at pretty boy number one, with dark and blue eyes, "and your prince charming to the rescue is Oliver," she gestured to the guy with the seriously awkward haircut, blonde and just as blue-eyed.

"Ollie," the boy corrected, and Felicity grimaced. Noted , she thought to herself – god-awful name to go with the god-awful haircut. He laughed at the face she must have pulled instead of being offended.

"Alright then, Oliver will do," he corrected again, this time with a wink at her.

"Joy," she said coldly in response, nodding at them both. "Now, Julia and I need to be going," she said, ignoring her friend's raised eyebrow at the name she'd given them without hesitating. The clearly fake name.

"Come on, join us for a bit. Drinks are on us," Tommy offered, grinning widely, and waving his hands around, trying to gesture at the bar.

"Yeah," number two chimed in. When she was clearly not convinced – and Julia torn between them – he added. "Look, our parents are billionaires. Got plenty of money to spend on you," he told them with a smirk and a wink.

For a moment, just a moment, Felicity considered it – she could make bets, take them for hundreds of thousands, probably.

Then she remembered the FBI. Cooper. And shook her head, heart in a vice grip. Draw no attention. Draw no more eyes to yourself, she reminded herself.

"Come on, Lis," Julia whispered into her ear. "They're pretty and rich, what could go wrong?"

Felicity eyes the bartender, the Bratva members spread throughout the bar, and grimaces. She had wanted to forget. Just for the weekend. Get rid of the guilt, the pain, the terror she was feeling. But for once, Felicity was without a plan on how to accomplish that – except… well, booze sounded pretty good.

"A different bar," she offered.

A safer one. Where she could be less watchful. Less careful. Where she could trust the men around not to take advantage and stop others from doing so. Where Felicity Smoak was still the tiny kind-of adopted sister who could help spot flaws in their casino within two minutes of being on the floor and helped them optimise their computers in turn.

The boys shrugged, agreeably, and Julia looked confused but was just as easily convinced. Drinks for free sounded pretty good at the moment. It wasn't far, no more than fifteen minutes further down the stretch, and Oliver tried at least ten more pick-up lines on her, laughing and looking amused each time she turned him down or gave him biting retorts, instead of upset or, worse, enraged. The members of the Italian mafia within the bar were good enough that although their eyes landed on her, no one talked to her, said her name, or made it obvious she knew them. Felicity would, hopefully, never be known as a member of the Italians and never be pulled into the crosshair if there was any fighting going on. But she knew they were watching her, carefully, making sure she wasn't upset – wasn't in danger. They knew, just as much as she did, that this was a safe haven for her.

"Joy," she told the bartender under her breath, just before pretty boy came into earshot and the bartender tapped his finger on the table once in quiet acknowledgement, before turning to look at the rich pretty white boys for the order. They paid hundreds for a bottle of red wine and even more for some gold-speckled champagne. When the bartender turned to her and Julia, asking for their drinks and confirmation, instead of accepting the boys' order as Julia had, Felicity asked for shots.

Forgetting was part of the order for this weekend, part of the plan.

She saw the tiniest of furrows on the bartender's brow, but he didn't make a fuss, didn't ask questions, just did as he was asked before stepping further down the bar and, undoubtedly, alerting Antonio to her current 'name' and her order.

They ended up in a booth with champagne and wine glasses as well as her shots, as ordered. Oliver had left his credit card with the bartender – a black card, one he made a show of handing over to ensure Felicity and Julia noticed. It would be annoying if it wasn't quite so handy at this point. While her scholarship had carried her through MIT, it was not anywhere near enough for something like spending a weekend getting drunk enough her brain would finally, hopefully, slow down.

Julia cozied up to Tommy, leaning against him, smiling widely, flirting and laughing softly. Even her giggles sounded musical rather than the snorting noise Felicity was sometimes prone to making. It was rather unfair. She felt for pretty boy two for being stuck with her broody, non-musical, non-conforming self, rejecting all his one-liners with uncharacteristic venom.

"I'm sure Julia wouldn't mind attention from two billionaires," she told the boy, Ollie, under her breath, in a gesture of goodwill.

"I think Tommy's got that covered," he told her, looking amused. "Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? I did mention the vast amounts of wealth, right?"

Felicity snorted.

"Yes, you did. Made that very clear." She shrugged, unconcerned, downing her third shot. "But unfortunately for you, I'm just trying to get drunk and forget," Felicity told him in a rare moment of honesty.

The playboy-smile fell off his face and he winced.

"Yeah, forgetting sounds pretty good right about now," he conceded, eyeing her drink selection with new eyes.

"What are you trying to forget?" Felicity asked, dubiously and Oliver chuckled.

"Girlfriend wants to move in together," he admitted after a moment.

Unwillingly halting mid-drink, she gave him her full attention for the first time that night.

"You're willingly admitting to having a girlfriend?"

He grinned.

"I didn't think anything was going to happen with us, either way. Unless I was wrong about that?"

Felicity shook her head firmly and he just nodded casually, like it was normal to drop nearly a thousand dollars on drinks for a stranger who told you outright they had no intention of sleeping with you.

"So, you don't want to move in with her?" Felicity found herself asking, for the first time interested in the pretty boy who had read her so well – and was still sitting there with her, ignoring gorgeous Julia and his friend Tommy, to spend time drinking himself into oblivion with her instead. It made no sense, but it seemed that maybe she'd misjudged the boy with the terrible haircut. There seemed to be a kind person underneath the frat boy exterior.

"Nope," he admitted quietly, checking across the table to make sure his friend didn't overhear his confession.

"Not yet or not ever?" She asked curiously and he shrugged.

"Dunno," he said after a moment, before ordering another round of shots, red wine and champagne forgotten to the side. "What do you want to forget?" he asked a moment later, looking curious.

Felicity hesitated for a moment.

"A friend… did something. Got taken to prison. And killed himself. I feel…" she paused for a moment, but decided to continue a moment later, "guilty," she admitted.

"Fuck," he swore, heartfelt, eyes wide as he stared at her, before shaking his head. "Yeah, okay, I get it now."

It was nice to admit to someone who didn't know the sordid details, who didn't have their own suspicions, who looked genuinely horrified and taken aback but was sympathetic without understanding or knowing anything beyond what she told them. When the shot glasses came, Oliver stopped her from taking them, placing an order for high-class whiskey, scotch and some more drinks she'd not heard off.

"At least you can try the high-class, expensive stuff and find out if you like it while also getting drunk," he explained to her at her inquisitive look.

"You realise I would have been happy to buy dollar-store stuff, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah but it sure sounds like you could use some higher quality stuff to, you know. Say goodbye. And stuff."

For the first time all night, Felicity felt her lip twitching.

"Stuff?" she repeated, amused, and he shrugged, embarrassed but not caring.

"Trust fund kids," he told her, gesturing between himself and Tommy, "your real-life concerns seem a little… real. Stuff is the best I can do, when I was only worried about moving in with my girlfriend of two years." He hesitated for a moment, tilting his head, before adding, "and sleeping with her sister for the last week or so."

Felicity laughed, then whistled slightly at the admission.

"Lis," Julia intervened, before Felicity could say anything further, and she turned to her friend only to see Tommy and her had stood up, jackets ready. She frowned, watching as the waiter with their latest drink order hesitated at the table. At least, Oliver seemed just as surprised to find them both standing.

"We're going out to his hotel," Julia told her. "He's got a penthouse suite," she added in an undertone, eyes wide as she looked at Felicity. High Rollers were common growing up in Vegas, so the thought bothered Felicity little. Instead, she couldn't explain why, but she turned to Oliver, brows furrowed, silently asking if she could entrust Tommy with her friend. If he was a good guy. If he'd stop if she asked. All playfulness dropped from Oliver's expression and his blue eyes were fixed on hers as he nodded firmly.

And for reasons she could not explain, not even to herself, Felicity trusted him. She checked Julia over, queried the hotel and made Tommy show her his keycard to ensure he hadn't lied. Then she made sure Julia's phone had enough charge for a phone call and then let them go. Then, still baffled, she waved them out the door and dropped right back down next to him, confused beyond words.

"I trust you," she tells him as she tries the whiskey he held out to her and grimaces at the taste. "You told me you're cheating on your girlfriend with her sister and yet… I trust you. I just let my friend go off with yours, because you told me I could trust him with her."

Felicity stared him, eyebrows furrowed, wondering what he'd done, or said, to make her trust him. He was a fairly clear-cut playboy; a self-proclaimed trust fund kid, a boy who's never had to face real life consequences. And yet… and yet… Felicity could see the kindness in him, too. The one where instead of a sure thing – a gorgeous woman, like Julia – he'd rather spend it with her goth friend who told him up-front nothing was going to happen. Just because she was sad.

"I wouldn't lie about that," he tells her. "Tommy likes to play the field, but he's good," unspoken but clearly heard goes the unlike me.

Felicity frowns. He just shrugs the sentiment and momentary self-deprecation off, the expression gone in a moment as if she'd just imagined it, and the playboy façade is right back up, his self-confidence front and center and undentable. Huh.

"Why are you sticking with me?" She asks, after a pause, because she can't just let this go. She passes the whiskey back to him and he doesn't hesitate to drink from her glass as she tries the scotch. He tries to just shrug off her question but when Felicity keeps looking at him, unrelenting, he yields easily.

"Never had someone who's just a friend before." He tilts his head for a moment, then corrects. "A female friend."

Felicity grins. "So what? You and Tommy never…" She waggles her eyebrows comically – making him laugh enough half the whiskey he drank spurts right back out his mouth in a move that should be disgusting but just makes her join his laughter. He doesn't show an ounce of embarrassment as he wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand.

"No," he tells her forbiddingly, but the effect is very much ruined – not just by his hairstyle which just couldn't make him look threatening if he tried (which he appears to be), but also by the fact that he is still grinning widely at her amusement, shaking his head.

"Well, neither have Julia and I," she adds, still giggling, alcohol finally affecting her.

"Shame," he comments with a playful wink in her direction, and she snorts.

"To female friends we don't sleep with," she offers, holding out her glass and motions for him to join her on her toast. He rolls his eyes, but his lips are curved up and he clinks glasses with her without hesitating.


Notes: So... that happened. I got about 16k pre-written and trying to practice patience.
... Yeah. I know. I'm no good at it - but! I wrote the 16k yesterday and only uploading chapter 1 now, so kind of progressing in a positive way?

Anyway, please review and comment.

Hope Goth-Felicity bonding with Ollie seems realistic. And cute.