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AN: Dipping my toes into a new fandom with a wee bit of Oliver/Felicity fluff. This is just something a little light alleviating the dark that ended the season and because I adore their chemistry.

Standard disclaimer- I own nothing of ARROW; just playing in the sandbox.

Hopeless. Utterly, freakin' hopeless.

Felicity glared at her computer setup as if the mere action of glaring would somehow magically return it to its formerly pristine condition. Okay, to be fair, pristine by her standards. She was self-aware enough to understand she operated under a different set of standards than the Muggles. She was also reasonably certain that to the naked, untrained eye, nothing would appear out of the ordinary. And she was even more certain that to the Oliver Queen eye, and she wouldn't be thinking the word naked in any context with respect to Oliver Queen, because yeah, just… no, thinking that way lay badness, in the not bad bad way, because hello, a body would have to be dead to think that was bad, but badness for her own mental and emotional well-being and it was bad enough both were currently being strained to their limits with this nutty double life she led and anyway, none of that mattered worth a damn because, you know, he was Oliver Queen. Or rather, within these walls—The Hood or The Vigilante or Robin Hood or the Jolly Green Giant or whatever the hell else with which the media might see fit to deem him this week.

Honestly, he did need a name. A call sign. An alias. Something cool and catchy—preferably singular. The best heroes or even antiheroes only went by one name.

Jackass might work.

But she digressed—what he really needed was to Leave. Her. Stuff. Alone.

Okay, technically, his stuff, since he'd paid for it all, but it had all been purchased under her careful directive and set up under her careful directive and maintained under her careful directive so that meant it was what? Eighty-nine-point-three percent hers—at least—and possession was nine-tenths of the law and… and… dammit, what it boiled down to was he'd been messing with her stuff. How could he expect her to do her work to the best of her considerable ability if he was messing with her stuff?

"Felicity?"

She whirled, fixing Diggle with the full force of her glare, for all the good it would do. "Why do you let him mess with my stuff?"

John's eyebrows rose as he stared past her shoulder to the desk. "Okay, first, I don't let him do anything, you know that and second, he was messing with your… stuff?" His eyebrows momentarily rose further before lowering into a straight line as his narrow-eyed gaze took in the setup and clearly, didn't see anything amiss.

Of course he wouldn't. Substantiated by his doubtful, "You're certain of this?"

She snorted and crossed her arms. "Would Oliver know if anyone messed with his bow? Would you know if you someone messed with your sidearm?"

He hit her with a look that clearly said d'uh even though big, bad John Diggle had probably never actually articulated the word in his life. Out loud, at least.

No matter. She could tell he was thinking it.

"I'll see your 'd'uh' and raise you a 'my bow, my sidearm, let me show you it," she snapped with an impatient gesture back at the row of monitors and electronic equipment.

"What'd he do?" he asked, finally accepting that something was wrong, even if he couldn't tell.

"He switched the monitors and the towers have been moved over and that wound up necessitating shifting the secondary laptop which obliterated the space I keep reserved for the tablet and—"

"Whoa—" Diggle threw a hand up, clearly convinced. Or terrified. She couldn't quite tell. "Okay, he messed with your stuff." Releasing a slow breath, as if girding himself for battle, he added, "Can I… help?" with the clear air of a man condemned. It was tempting to say yes, if only to enjoy the momentary flare of panic sure to spark, but truth was, she could get the work done faster on her own.

"No, it's okay," she said, grinning at the barely audible "Thank God," that escaped before Diggle beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to the club where Oliver was putting in his obligatory nightly appearance.

Probably to warn him for all the good that would do. Oliver wasn't scared of her. Although he should be, she thought grimly as she set to work, righting her space. But no… Not him. Not Oliver Queen AKA The Hood AKA The Vigilante AKA Jackass. No, he'd probably just roll his eyes and shake his head with the resigned, ever-so-slightly condescending air with which he greeted everything from a request from Thea to borrow one of his limitless credit cards, to a lost liquor shipment—that she'd tracked down and had delivered post-haste, thankyouverymuch—to a death threat, regardless of whether it came from the latest Big Bad or Detective Lance. Or Thea, when he turned down her impassioned plea to borrow his limitless credit card.

So scared of Felicity Smoak? Wasn't even on his radar.

The temptation to teach him a lesson…

Right.

What sort of lesson could she teach him?

"Sure I could take him at bar trivia and if maybe if I had dram or two of good single malt in me might be able to give him a run for his money at Texas Hold 'Em—or gin rummy—but anything that could leave a lasting impression on Oliver-the-Hood-Vigilante-Jolly-Green-Giant Jackass Queen and teach him that Felicity Smoak, while reasonably mild-mannered, was not a woman to be trifled with?"

She paused to blow a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail from her face with an impatient breath.

"Yeah… not seeing it either. He's Oliver Queen and I'm just Felicity Smoak. Mild-mannered, computer geek, blends-into-the-wallpaper Felicity Smoak."

With a sigh, she dropped into her chair, staring critically at the restored arrangement before making a few minute adjustments. Another sigh, this one of relief, escaped as she pressed a button and the system instantly sprang to life with a comforting hum.

"That's right baby, Mama's fixed you right up. Now—" She pushed her glasses further up her nose and cracked her knuckles. "Let's see what the bad man did to you, hm?"

For several minutes she put the system through its paces, making certain it was responding precisely as she'd set it to. Satisfied, yet still irritated over the whole mess and knowing she needed to get out lest she start throwing things at Oliver if he happened to appear—and given her aim, she'd likely break something that wasn't his head—she started to shut down, then on impulse, decided to check one last thing.

"Silly, really," she muttered, as she opened an internet browser. "Oliver doesn't get on the internet, like ever. That's what he has me for. But who knows what the hell he was up to and God forbid he should leave a trail of electronic breadcrumbs that leads right back to the Arrow-cave-lair and then we'd all be screwed and if I have to completely wipe the system and rebuild it from scratch because he was looking at internet porn and God, what am I saying, Oliver Queen doesn't have to resort to the internet for porn—the man is porn and oh my God, I did not just say that and… and…"

Her voice drifted off as she pulled up the browser's history and quickly scanned the most recent addresses visited.

"Oh, Oliver… really?"

And in the next instant, a light bulb went off.