The Way We Talk

Illegal (Little Talks #2)

Prompt:  "How did that happen?"

Oliver notices it as soon as he walks into the Arrow's base of operations, and he doesn't like it one bit.  Watching Felicity limp around to her computer desk is a special challenge for him, but it soon turns to confusion as he notices that she's barefoot.  Her shoes lay discarded under the desk, tossed smartly to one side, as if in disgust.  Instead of her dress from the office, she's in a tank top and a pair of sweatpants that look suspiciously like his, the cuffs rolled over multiple times.  He tries to ignore the feeling that rises from seeing her in his clothes—something primal that he'd rather not admit to feeling around Felicity.  It fades, though, as soon as he notices the purple color starting to appear around one of her ankles.

When she's involved, he has a tendency to overreact, so he first takes a moment to gather his thoughts and remind himself that it's nothing serious.  When he's able to, he finally asks her, "How did that happen?"  Despite his worry, the question comes out as light and teasing—possibly something that some would call flirting.  Not him, of course, because he wouldn't dare flirt with someone so out-of-his-league as Felicity Smoak.

Apparently, it's the wrong question to ask, as she looses a glare at him so intense he expects her computers to spontaneously combust around her.  She huffs loudly in irritation before launching into her explanation with wild hand gestures and too fast speech.  "If I figured that out, I'd be as rich as you now.  I was walking to my car in these"—she picks up the offending heels by the straps, glaring at them disdainfully—"and the heel decides to snap.  And, of course, I end up in the one puddle on the top floor of the parking garage, so I'm suddenly dripping wet.  Like, wild-sorority-girl-at-a-wet-t-shirt-contest wet."  The unexpected inappropriateness of her reference causes him to raise his eyebrows at her in surprise.

Color blossoms across her cheeks instantly.  "That didn't come out right," she follows up awkwardly, running a palm across her forehead.  "Just like everything in this day."  She sighs deeply.  "Anyway, I drove here and changed into the only clothes I could find down here—which reminds me:  I need to start keeping a change of clothes for emergencies."  She shakes her head to clear it before going back to the previous point.  "And, by the time I'm dressed again, I find out that my ankle is doing its best impersonation of a plum."  She holds her foot up in the air, toes pointed, so that he can see.  "A day this bad should be illegal," she grumbles under her breath, before leaning wearily against the desk.

It's then that Oliver knows what to do.  Without a word, he pulls a cold pack out of a medical supply drawer and grabs the old, rusted mechanic's stool on wheels that somehow survived Felicity's renovations.  He rolls the stool over just in front of her chair, then activates the cold pack and lays it across the top.

Felicity is instantly alerted by his close proximity.  "Oliver, wha—?" she starts, but she breaks off in a gasp as he gently takes her injured ankle in his hands, raising it onto the cold pack, his eyes on hers all the while.  He breaks eye contact just long enough to wrap the pack around the angry, purple bruise, and then his eyes are on hers again as he rises.

Her mouth moves, her jaw works, but—miraculously—no sound escapes.  All Oliver offers for an explanation is a wink and a half-smile before heading toward the bathroom for his training gear.  No words are exchanged between them, but it's only because no words are necessary; they've known each other far too long for things as trivial as words.

And, as a special bonus, when his eyes meet hers for the rest of the night, he's rewarded with a smile so blinding it should be illegal.