Laconic

Fairytale

Prompts:  myth, spark

"Remind me why I agreed to this again," Felicity complains as she sits down behind her desk at Queen Consolidated.  It's the destination that bothers her more than the formal dress.  It's pure white with abstract designs in bold colors.  A pair of strappy emerald heels are next to her desk, and they perfectly match the color in the dress.  While she'd normally be thrilled for an opportunity to go to an event with Oliver, she's not sure this one applies.

"Because I needed a plus-one for my mother's campaign fundraiser," Oliver replies with an almost smile he seems to reserve for her alone, "and I asked you."  She dares to look over at him, and she regrets it instantly; she's not going to get the sight of him in suspenders out of her mind anytime soon, especially with that open collar on his dress shirt because he hasn't put on his tie yet.

She huffs as she does some last, final computing operations before they have to leave.  "Couldn't you find someone else to go with you?" she huffs.  Things haven't been going so well with Moira since Felicity ratted out the result of Thea's paternity tests to Oliver, and she's not exactly sure of being on her son's arm all night is the best way to mend fences.  But she had felt sorry for him; the breakup with Sara had hit him hard, and Felicity has always been a sucker for a sad face—especially one as pretty as Oliver's.

Oliver waits until he has her full attention before he finally dares to say, his eyes boring into hers, "I probably could have, but I wanted you with me."  He's so serious as he says it, and Felicity has to blink twice before she can finally manage coherent thought again.  Something about their friendship has solidified and changed since Sara called it quits, but Felicity doesn't dare define it.  Whatever it is, though, he's been more apt to say things like that—things that could be misconstrued as something more than Felicity knows them to be.

She huffs, her nerves already frayed for the night.  "You seriously need to stop saying things like that," she warns him.  The speed at which he's decided to switch from conversation to idle flattery catches her off-guard, and it's only after the words leave her mouth that she realizes what she's said.

He frowns, but not really; there's a hint of that smug half-smile still scattered across his features.  "Things like what?" he asks innocently, perhaps a little too much.  

"Like what you just said," she retorts.  "You know, that thing where you say nice things, but you're so intense when you say them.  It makes me feel like agreeing to anything."  She thinks about how he gave her that version of the it's-not-you-it's-me speech after Russia—a very long time ago, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.  "Talk about giving a girl mixed signals," she mutters, but then she realizes by that smile on his face that he probably heard her.  So, louder, she adds, "You know, mixed signals?  Sometimes guys talk about girls being the ones to give them, but you probably don't know what I'm talking about.  Like any girl would be stupid enough to give you mixed signals."  She shakes her head before she goes too far into her rant.  "My point being that mixed signals are not as mythical as you've been led to believe, and you need to stop doing it."

He smirks at her for a moment as he processes her rant, but he leans against the glass wall as he pulls his black silk tie under his collar, pulling it into a proper knot.  "For the record," he starts in that playful tone that promises absolutely nothing good, "I think that unicorns, goblins, and those whale... things with the horns are mythical.  Not mixed signals."

He looks rather stunned when a green, strappy heel pops against his chest and he catches it before it falls, staring at it as if it just fell out of the sky.  "It's called a narwhal," Felicity corrects angrily, pointing her finger at him, "and they are not mythical.  Narwhals are real, because nothing that awesome can be mythical.  Don't you ever say that again."

Her rant elicits something she's never heard from him before:  a laugh.  She decides she likes the sound, and that she'll probably talk about (the most certainly real) narwhals more often in the future just to hear that sound.  "Did you just throw a shoe at me?" he asks, incredulously, holding it up with a finger under the strap, as though touching them will cause his fingers to melt off or something.

Felicity's face flames uncomfortably.  "Maybe," she admits sheepishly, "but it was only because the monitor is hooked up to the CPU."  His eyes widen in response.  "Narwhals are a sensitive subject around here, okay?  Just let it go, Oliver."

He holds his hands up in defeat, before bringing her the shoe.  In a moment of surprising boldness, he kneels in front of her and slips her foot into the shoe and fastens it.  For a moment, it reminds her of that scene in Cinderella, and of fairytale moments that supposedly don't exist—but that she's secretly always believed in, just like narwhals.

Once he finishes, he looks up at her with that intensity she equally loathes and can't get enough of, the kind that always makes her feel like he's staring into her soul.  "And I'm not sending mixed signals," he assures her.  "You're just not interpreting them right."

He rises and turns to go back to his office, probably to grab his suit coat, but Felicity rises to her feet and pulls his arm to turn him around.  As he's looking at her, that brave feeling she had turns into false bravado, and she chickens out.  Her eyes drop to his tie and the poor knot he's fastened.  With hesitant hands and eyes that won't look at his, she re-fastens the tie so that it falls better, slowly pulling the knot up toward his throat.  "You know," she starts, but has to clear her throat to get that hoarse quality out of it, "for a billionaire, you always do a really horrible job with your tie."

He seems to allow that criticism, smiling that half-smile again, tilting her chin up so that he can meet her eyes.  It's only then that she realizes how close they are, his face inches away hers.  Before she can scurry away from the awkward situation, his mouth falls on hers, and she has only enough time to think that he's going to totally ruin the lipstick she just finished putting on before her brain short-circuits altogether.  It's a fairytale moment to her, and she's pretty sure she can see sparks under her closed eyelids and hear an angelic choir in her ears.

Felicity isn't quite sure how long the moment lasts, but when he finally pulls away, he turns and glares at the tapping sound coming from the glass wall—when did that start?  She feels every inch of her skin heat in a way that has nothing to do with that kiss as she sees Diggle pointing to his watch on the other side, reminding Felicity that she has something to do besides .  It's then that she realizes that she and Oliver have somehow intertwined, one hand at her waist, the other sweeping her cheek, and her arms around his neck.  She wonders vaguely when that happened, but then decides it doesn't matter.

Oliver's smug smile is a little ridiculous as she pulls away to redo her lipstick, but he takes a moment to say, "I hope that clarifies all of those mixed signals."  She does her best to ignore him, but it's ridiculously difficult when he takes her hand and pulls her up beside him, her arm through his.

She scoffs.  "I don't know if that was clear enough," she replies sarcastically, still trying to keep her flushing under control.  Kissing Oliver is one thing, but getting caught is another matter entirely.

She expects comment from Diggle, but she's disappointed; he doesn't say anything as he collects Felicity and Oliver.  She tries to studiously ignore him, too, but it's impossible to ignore someone with as much presence as Diggle.  "Aren't you going to say something?" she asks finally, exasperated.

He just shakes his head, his expression impassive.  "It's about damn time."