The Way We Talk

Charade (Little Talks #15)

Prompt:  "I can't see anything."

Oliver doesn't know how he keeps getting himself into these situations.  As they ascend the stairs together, Oliver can't quite stop the thought from going through his mind, for not the first time that night.  It's difficult for him to maintain that same level of denial when he's that close to her and she's that stunning.  She looks very much like she belongs here in that dress, and he wonders again if the color choice wasn't completely intentional.

The mission isn't as complicated as some they've carried out in the past, but that doesn't mean he particularly likes this one.  Any mission that involves Felicity in the line of fire is one that he doesn't like; ever since the event she calls the "Rowland thing," he's been afraid to let her out in the field again.  He didn't like that haunted look in her eyes, and he doesn't ever want to see that look on her face again.  But she's intent on stopping the criminal of the week, Alfred Sykes, from using his fortune to fund drug cartels and gun running.  It's Oliver's intention to sabotage a few drops, but he first has to figure out where those will be.  However, Sykes is a bit smarter about keeping his personal business personal, with off-grid computers and on-site security.

Which means that Oliver, much to his chagrin, needs Felicity in the field.

The entrance was easy enough; the Queen family receives an invitation to the Sykes gala every year (a charity event, which turns Oliver's stomach).  When his mother wanted to avoid the publicity after the trial, Oliver jumped at the opportunity, knowing it would be useful for intel.  And, naturally, Oliver Queen does not go to a public event without a model-worthy date.  Thankfully, Felicity fits that bill, and for not the first time he's grateful that his computer genius happens to be from the female minority.

He's always known she's attractive, but now that she's trying to meet the "Oliver Queen date standard" (her words, not his), she's absolutely breathtaking.  She left her hair down for a change, and replaced her glasses with contacts.  Her dress for the night (which he insisted on paying for, and only got her to agree if she could pick it out) is floor-length in a thirties-inspired look that she wears surprisingly well.  It has a neckline that Thea described as "sweetheart" (whatever that means), with off-the-shoulder straps, falling delicately into a skirt that isn't quite full, but it isn't form-fitting, either.

And, to top it off, it's emerald green—which he doesn't quite believe is coincidence.

Her arm is draped through his, and she's chosen white silk gloves that end just a few inches above her elbows.  Oliver can't help but think that they're a nice touch, since it's best for them not to leave any fingerprints in places they're not supposed to be.  He hasn't been able to say much to her, for fear of admitting things he can't quite admit to himself, but he finally finds his voice when he sees those blue eyes fixed upon his with a question.  "You look lovely tonight," he says quietly, but it doesn't quite disguise the rough tone in his voice.  Not even he expects the way it comes out, and he winces mentally at the way it sounds.

It apparently startles Felicity as well, judging by the way her eyes widen before she turns away, blushing.  "Thank you," is her response, though it's not as flattered as he expects.  "You don't have to be nice, you know.  There's no one up here to appreciate the act."

He wonders yet again how she can have such a low opinion of herself.  "It wasn't an act," he assures her.  Feeling she won't believe him anyway, he adds playfully, "Green is a good color on you."  Her blush darkens, as he expects, but he isn't quite prepared for the stutter in her step.

He releases her arm soon after to start checking doors for their target, and they're halfway down the hall when he finds the locked room.  He picks the the lock easily, then motions Felicity in with a hand at her shoulder.  She moves to the computer desk immediately, completely in her element as she hacks through security layers.  Oliver does what little he can to help, standing by the now unlocked door, listening for any security that might present a problem.

All actually seems to be going well, for a change, until it isn't.  Five minutes in, Felicity makes a noise of disgust, frantically searching the floor.  "Oh, this is so not good," she mutters to herself, probably hoping Oliver won't hear.

"What's wrong?" he answers instantly, trying not to sound as panicked as he feels.  It's funny how, when Felicity is involved, it always seems to send his emotions into overdrive.  He's not exactly sure why that is—or, more likely, he doesn't want to think about why that is.

"I can't see anything," she answers distractedly, not really paying attention to what she's saying.

He's by her side instantly, tilting her head up to stare into her eyes, to see what problem she seems to be having with them.  They look fine, in his opinion, but he always thinks she has lovely eyes.  "What?" he demands, and she flinches at the dark, Arrow-like turn his voice has taken.  He's not sure who did this to her or what happened, but so help him...

She swats his hand away as she rolls her eyes, her attention going back to the floor.  "Oliver, I'm fine," she assures him.  "I lost one of my contacts, and I just can't see."

He breathes a heavy sigh of relief, but masks it with the frustration he feels.  "We don't have time for that!" he snaps at her, wincing as he regrets it instantly.  She doesn't seem to mind, though.  Nicer, he adds, "We only have a few minutes before the security detail comes around again."

"Okay, okay," she says, sitting upright in the chair and holding her hands up in surrender.  She squints at the screen, even though her face is mere inches away from the monitor.  After a pause that feels like it lasts lifetimes, she says, "Got it.  Now I just need to..."  She pulls a flash drive out of a place he most certainly should not be looking if he wants to stay in denial and plugs it into the computer.  He notices that her hands are starting to shake with adrenalin.  "Ripping the files now."

The success is forgotten instantly when Oliver hears footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors outside.  Without thinking, Oliver crouches down, grabs Felicity about the waist, and slides them both under the solid-panel desk.  She opens her mouth in surprise, but he clamps a hand over his mouth.  The action is just in time, too, as the guards try the door and their footsteps sound quietly on the carpet.  One of the guards mutters something about Sykes leaving the door unlocked, then shuts the door behind them.

It's only then that Oliver realizes the situation he's gotten himself and Felicity into.  While his back is against the panel, Felicity is draped perpendicularly across his lap.  Her arms wrapped around his neck when he grabbed her, and because of the small space, her face is only inches from his.  His left arm is wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him, his right over her mouth to keep her quiet for a change.  Her eyes are practically bulging out of her head in surprise, and he does admit to feeling a little sheepish himself.

When he finally removes his hand from her mouth, it falls on something, and he instantly knows what it is.  Without a word, he presents Felicity with her contact lens she was looking for.  "Thank you," she says quietly, fanning her breath against his cheek.  She scrambles away with her contact lens as quickly as possible, as if distance will help her escape the awkwardness.  Her cheeks flush, and Oliver's pride wants him to believe it's something more than embarrassment—especially since their almost-kiss in the lair.

As he crawls out of the makeshift hiding place himself, she pulls the flash drive out, her contact lenses mercifully back in place.  She holds up the drive in triumph, calling, "Got it!"  Then, she covers her mouth as she realizes she should be quieter, handing him the drive at the same time.  He puts it into the breast pocket of his suit, offering Felicity his arm as though they hadn't been inches away from something with romantic connotations.

Despite the charade, the lingering flush on her cheekbones and his elevated heart rate remind him that it's not always an act.