This one is for Ashley. Thanks for being a fandom friend!

This is non-canon after 2x13. I do not own the characters or representations of Arrow or Batman. All rights are reserved by their respective creators. No monetary or promotional gain is sought from this work.

Sequins and jewels (real and simulated) reflected bright lights from every angle. Men in dark suits or full formal wear glided around waiters in white jackets. Empty laughter and vacuous expressions dominated the room, although there were more than a few faces that hid cold calculations behind bland demeanors. Oliver leaned against the wall in the converted convention hall. His mother's campaign and their continued need to shore up Queen Consolidated, mandated his attendance. He had to plaster on the social billionaire's smile, shake all the right hands, and pretend that he had nowhere he'd rather be.

He'd danced with Isabel and with Thea. Walter was, thankfully, playing the role of dutiful ex-husband and shepherding Moira around the room. Oliver had entered the room behind his mother and then spent the rest of the evening contriving to be as far from her as physically possible.

At the moment he was watching Thea trying to teach Roy how to dance. The young man looked uncomfortable enough to induce a bit of pity from Oliver. Not enough to cross the floor and save him, but just enough to make his lips quirk. He'd only just managed to straighten his features before he felt a looming presence at his side.

"Poor bastard," John Diggle opined from beside Oliver.

"Let's hope he doesn't break her foot with a misstep." The QC CEO looked up at his bodyguard. "Where'd you disappear to?"

"I had to vouch for Felicity."

"What?" Oliver managed to hiss the question, but jerked to an alert pose, ready to act. "Did my mother actually try to have her thrown out?"

Diggle laid one massive hand on his friend's arm. "Relax. Nothing like that. Another security detail made a discreet enquiry. Just basic background stuff, making sure she's not a gold-digger. You know, the same thing I do for you a thousand times every night…" There was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he spoke.

Oliver grunted. "Women in general and gold-diggers in particular have been sparse since the quake." He relaxed a bit, but still scanned the crowd. He was looking for a specific blonde head. That ended the second that Diggle's word's finally sunk in. He snapped his head around. With narrowed eyes, he asked "What do you mean another security detail asked? Someone wanted a scouting report on Felicity?"

Digg affected nonchalance as he tugged his sleeves straight. "You know she'd use the "loud voice" if she heard you making such a sexist comment, right?"

"I'll do more than that if some player takes advantage of her. Digg I know how these guys operate. I did it myself, before the island. If they sent a security man to ask about her, then—" Oliver's words trailed off when a momentary break in the crowd gave him a better view of the dance floor. He cursed in Russian, before turning his head to glare at his smirking friend.

"I don't suppose it occurred to you to tell him she's not available?"

Diggle folded his tree-trunk sized arms across his chest and arched one eyebrow. "Last time I checked, which was this afternoon, Felicity's a grown damn woman without any romantic attachments."

Oliver was nearly sputtering, he was so agitated. "He," his arm snapped out like a bow-staff, "will eat her alive and you know it."

"Looks like she's doing just fine. Have some faith in her, Oliver."

"I have faith in her. I just know him too well."

Oliver started across the dance floor. Diggle remained leaning against the wall. Under his breath, he muttered "Idiot."

Felicity wore a dark blue, off the shoulder, silk dress. The floor-length skirt split in the front to show a lighter underskirt of pale blue organza. The seams of the top skirt and bodice sparkled from tiny rows of sequins. Her hair was pulled back from her face with small jeweled combs. Curls cascaded down her back.

Despite feeling beautiful in her new dress and shoes (she'd freely admit that she'd bought the dress to match the heels), Felicity had been tense since entering the ballroom. She was included on Oliver's invitation as an ancillary courtesy, the event organizers assuming that his assistant was a natural part of his entourage. That she was a natural member of his team didn't stop the blonde from feeling vaguely insulted by the condescension. That she had a formal invitation might not stop Moira Queen from tossing her out on the rainy curb, though.

She knew it was a touch dramatic, but Felicity could swear she felt Moira's eyes boring into her back. She tossed down most of a champagne flute before turning around, determined to have a good time even if it killed her. (Which it probably would, she admitted.) Instead of Moira staring her down, Felicity met a pair of dark blue eyes assessing her over the rim of a highball glass. His name flashed across her mind in an instant. Then, to her horror, she actually whispered it. He apparently read lips, because he raised his glass in a toast.

She very much wanted to bolt for the nearest exit, standing up to Moira be-damned. There was tempting fate with a member of the Queen family and then there was playing with the living fire that was Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne who was currently crossing the dance floor like some languid panther and who seemed intent on dancing with her.

"Miss Smoak, I believe?" He held out his hand.

Felicity juggled her bag and the champagne flute. Before she dropped something and embarrassed herself further, Mr. Wayne deftly plucked the glass from her hand and set it on a passing waiter's tray. He then took her hand is his and shook it. She managed to keep her mouth from gaping, but it was a close thing.

"It is Felicity Smoak?"

"Y..yes. That's me. Oliver Queen's assistant. If you're looking for him I'm sure he's here somewhere—"

Bruce kept hold of her hand, tugging it softly so that she stepped closer. "I know where to find Oliver if I want him. I came for you though."

She blinked, twice. "Oh. Uh, hi."

"Would you like to dance, Miss Smoak?"

"Would I like… yes! Yes that would be awesome. I mean lovely. Definitely not awesome. Of course it would be awesome, I just wouldn't say it was awesome, because I'm not 17 anymore."

"Oh that's reassuring," Bruce chuckled. He slid a hand to her waist and clasped one of her hands in his. She clutched her clutch ("So very aptly named", she thought.) in the hand resting on his shoulder. The whole encounter, from introduction to the moment Bruce Wayne started to glide with her across the floor, took less than two minutes.

"It is?"

Bruce looked down at her. He was taller than she'd expected, maybe an inch or more taller than Oliver. "Pardon?"

"You said it was reassuring?"

"Oh, yes," he murmured. "That you're not 17. I'm afraid I owe you an apology, Miss Smoak. There will undoubtably be pictures of us in tomorrow's papers. That you are not an underage girl falling prey to my wicked ways will be a relief to my lawyers."

"And your shareholders."

His smile expanded. "I'd heard you were quick."

Her natural curiosity overcame her natural clumsiness. Felicity forgot where she was and the reputation of the man she was dancing with. She tossed her head slightly, leaving a few curls to trail over her shoulder. "Heard from where, Mr. Wayne? I know it wasn't from Isabel Rochev."

"Please, call me Bruce. And, no, it wasn't from Miss Rochev. I try not to put stock in any of her character assessments."

Felicity's nose wrinkled, showing her opinion quite clearly. "I know. She's good with numbers and business plans, but horrible at people."

"Exactly." Bruce released her waist momentarily in order to brush her curls off her shoulder. When he resumed his previous hold, the Gotham billionaire took the opportunity to pull her slightly closer.

Felicity smiled. "I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Way—Bruce. I didn't think you left Gotham all that often."

"I don't. But as Oliver hasn't been in Gotham since his miraculous return from the dead, I decided to track him down in his lair." Holding her as he was, Bruce felt her tense. He kept smiling and dancing, manner lightly flirtatious. "But I did specifically wish to meet you tonight. Talents like yours are a rare and valuable commodity, and talk travels quickly."

She surprised him by looking disgruntled. "I'm a horrible secretary, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," he chided her. Another song had started, but he kept moving her effortlessly around the crowded floor. "If you're so awful, why does Oliver keep you around?"

"He's a glutton for punishment."

Bruce laughed, drawing stares from people nearby. "I wasn't discussing your secretarial arts, Miss Smoak."

Before she could reply to that odd statement, Felicity noticed Bruce's eyes tracking something over her shoulder. When his artificial sneer made a reappearance, she had a sinking suspicion just who was approaching.

"Miss Smoak would you have dinner with me tomorrow evening?"

"Uh, sorry? Dinner?"

"I fear our dance time is rapidly drawing to a close, but I would like to continue our conversation. Can I arrange for a car to pick you up at , say, 7pm?"

"I need to check with Oliv—I mean Mr. Queen. I need to check his schedule."

Bruce Wayne leaned in very close. She could smell his sandalwood aftershave and feel the muscles in his arms. Odd, she suddenly realized, his hands were lightly callused, as if he'd abraded them with ropes. The intimate closeness of their position short-circuited her perceptions. "A good secretary would already know her boss's schedule, Miss Smoak." He pulled back just enough to smile down at her.

Someone cleared his throat behind her. Felicity was staring up at Bruce Wayne, trying to decide if he was a puzzle that needed solving or just too damned attractive to be around. She knew it was Oliver behind her, but she stood there on the dance floor, not moving, thoughts whirling a lightspeed.

"Oliver."

"Bruce. May I cut in?"

"Of course." Bruce Wayne stepped away but didn't release Felicity's hand until he'd said, "I look forward to dinner tomorrow night, Miss Smoak." He squeezed her fingers, nodded brusquely to Oliver, and disappeared into the crowd.

Felicity found herself in an identical pose to the one she'd had moments earlier—held in the arms of a billionaire as he moved across the floor. Oliver wasn't trying to charm her, though. She looked at his face and sighed.

"Hi Oliver."

"You ok?"

"We've got to work on your go-to responses to women, Oliver." When he pulled his head back to look down his nose at her, she sighed again. "Never mind. Yes I'm ok. Yes I'm having a lovely evening. Why, yes this is a new dress, thank you for remarking on it. New shoes too. Oh, this color looks nice on me? Why thank you, again."

"Fe-li-ci-ty," he emphasized the final syllable of her name to indicate his frustration.

"I didn't need to be rescued from the big bad Bruce Wayne, Oliver."

He didn't respond to that. The danced quietly for a bit before he said, "You do look very nice. I don't tell you that enough. I guess it just feels awkward."

"Mm, yeah, the boss commenting on his secretary's shoes could be perceived as slightly pervy. But since half the company thinks I slept my way to the top… Not that I consider myself on top."

He coughed to cover his chuckle while she blushed.

"You didn't have to come."

"If you didn't want me here, Oliver, you should have said so."

"That's not what I meant. I'm allowed to be worried, ok?"

"No. You have enough on your plate without worrying about me, Oliver. If we're truly partners then we..." She trailed off, too frustrated by the turn of events. Also, the song had ended. "I don't want to fight."

"Are we fighting?" Oliver moved to her side, gently cupping her elbow as they moved toward the bar. "I thought we were dancing."

"I thought you didn't dance."

He shrugged one shoulder while handing her a champagne flute. "I made an exception."

Before she could respond to that playful comment, both their phones buzzed. Felicity looked at hers and mouthed, "Sara." Oliver nodded once before he started scanning the crowd for Diggle.

"I'll get my car and meet you there," Felicity said.

Oliver steered her toward the door by placing his hand in the small of her back. "Ride with us, it's faster."

"Plus you can interrogate me during the car ride."

Oliver frowned. "That too."

Ok, this was supposed to be a one shot about Oliver cutting in to dance with Felicity. The muse has sunk her teeth into this storyline, though, so there will be more. More drama, more Bruce Wayne, and more of Oliver dancing along the line between protectiveness and jealousy. Oh, and more Diggle, because life needs more Diggle.