Title: If You Like It
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roy's stressed, Felicity is the root of his frustration, and Oliver is a convenient target for Roy to unleash all of his discontent upon. Digg's there, too, so it's a regular Team Arrow bonding session... only, yeah, not. In the process, Roy learns some valuable... and useful... information about Oliver, and Felicity, and their (non)relationship relationship.
Characters: Roy Harper, Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak, John Diggle
Genre: Humor, Romance, Flash Fic
Status: Complete (1/1)
A/N: Don't worry. I'll be back with more Strategic Withdraw soon, but this prompt just said something else to me besides that story. As for this piece itself, it's a slight departure for me. It's written in a voice I've never played with before (though he isn't a stranger to my fics), and it's definitely Olicity out of their bubble. But I really had fun with this, so I hope you will, too. :-) Enjoy!


FF#3: If You Like It

Flash Fic Prompt #3: Too Far, Too Fast

"Alright. That's it. I've had it."

He slammed the door, he stomped his feet, his threw his gear bag... somewhere. It was nice to be messy... or, at least, pretend that he was messy. The lair... No, not lair. She called it the lair. He called it... home base? Command central? Hell? Whatever. The point was that the place was too organized, too sterile to be considered messy, no matter how many bags he tossed around haphazardly. And Roy had no doubt that, as soon as she arrived... which would be soon, because she was always on time, she was always punctual, she was always perfectly perfect... she would right it. Would fix it. Would handle it.


He half shivered, half cringed at the thought. Thoughts. And then he groaned.

"Seriously," and his eyes found his... Well, she called him so many things in relation to Roy. His boss. His sensei. His kemosabe. His mentor. His Mr. Miyagi. That last one in particular really pissed him off, because he was no one's grasshopper. It made him sound too... peppy.

And he wasn't peppy.

Anyway, he glared at Oliver. "For the sake of my sanity... and for the good of this city, man, put a baby in it already."

Oliver's eyes went wide. If Roy read him correctly, the amazement was part in incredulousness... that Roy would actually talk to him like that, part in fear, and part in surprise. Digg chuckled. Like always. The man found way too many things way too amusing. Finally, Oliver responded, "excuse me?"

"Knock. Her. Up."


Roy met the ridiculous question with a pointed glower. Oh, they both knew exactly who he was talking about.


"Listen, I know you guys have this whole... we like to think that we have everyone fooled by our so not very platonic friendship act while in the lair... I mean, Arrow Cave... Shit." Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he went off on a tangent. "You definitely need to give this place a name already, dude, because I refuse to call it anything she calls it, and 'the place where we train, and eat, and yell at each other, and some of us pretend like we're not constantly flirting, and hash out schemes to take out the bad guys' is kind of a mouthful... which, yeah, is something she's known for, so that's doubly not going to work for me."

He internally winced after realizing how leading his final statement was, but then Roy immediately dismissed it, because who cares and, whether he's completely perplexed (and kind of impressed, because they're scary-good at sneaking away for private time together) or not, he has no doubt that she does have her mouth full of more than just words on occasion.

And that realization (and visual, because, sorry, he's a guy) made him want to gag.

"Anyway, my point is that, whether you think you're being discreet or not, you're not. Let's face it. I know it. Digg knows it."

"Hey man," the ex-soldier in question holds up his hands in mild protest. The stupid grin on his face, though, says otherwise. "Keep me out of this. This is your mess. I'm not cleaning it up for you."

Before continuing, Roy threw him a glance that clearly read 'chicken-shit.' Facing Oliver once more, he pressed, "everyone knows it. You two are as together as... as... You're practically married. I mean, you two are more together than Digg and Lyla, and they're divorced. There's nothing more married than being divorced."

So, growing up in The Glades gave him a skewed view of relationships? Sue him. Roy had bubkis.

And, Jesus Christ, he was now thinking like her. Using words like her.


Oh god, was yiddish contagious?

Shaking that terrifying idea aside, he watched as Oliver looked upwards as he took a deep breath, his hands clenching into fists at his side. Well, obviously, he was rattled, too, so yay. Bully for Roy. When the other man finally spoke, his words, and tone, and body language were held in check by a very tight leash, but he could see the leather fraying at the edges. And... yeah. That was unfortunately kinky. "First of all, you don't speak about Felicity in that way. She is our partner. We respect her."

"She's your partner... in every way that counts... which is sort of why we're having this discussion. And I wasn't trying to be rude; I'm just desperate. You don't live with her. But you should. Because you're the one that's..."

Interrupting him... which was probably a good thing, because Roy was about to cross into territory even he recognized as being inappropriate, Diggle suggested, "why don't you start at the beginning and tell us what's going on. You came in and went off half-cocked, and all we're doing here is talking in circles. Plus, I don't think this is a conversation any of us want to be having when Felicity gets here... which will be soon."

"Fine," he agreed. However, Roy could still feel his nostrils flair, his jaw clench. It wasn't in anger, however... or, at least, not really. It was more stress, and tension, and pressure.

And, yeah, that sounded really sexual, but it wasn't supposed to. Oh god, it really wasn't supposed to.

"Look, I like Felicity. She's... nice."

And she was. While Oliver hated him on principle – after all, while Roy had loved Thea, he had also slept with her. A lot. And that wasn't something an overly protective, big brother could forgive. Or forget. Or, apparently, move past... like ever. And then there was Digg who, while perfectly nice and helpful, wasn't overly welcoming either. But Felicity? She had immediately made him feel wanted and needed on the team. She didn't talk down to him. She didn't belittle him. And she even tried to be his friend. Which had been great. At first. But then she had gone all... motherly. Once the dust settled after Slade Wilson and they all started putting their lives back in order, it had quickly become apparent that Roy didn't really have a life without Thea, so Felicity had taken that as her cue to dress him up and send him off to college.


While she had absolutely no problem with him fighting crime at night, she didn't think that he should resort to it during the day in order to eat and keep a roof over his head. And she probably had a point. But that didn't mean that Roy agreed with her about going to college. Or moving out of his place. Or living with her. Only... Oliver did, and the man had an infuriating habit of getting everything he wanted... which usually just consisted of doing everything that Felicity wanted. So, a FAFSA (talk about a scary-ass thing), an application, and an orientation later, he was holed up in Felicity Smoak's guest bedroom, a newly minted college freshman, business major – because, apparently, snatching purses to get by meant that he had a real entrepreneurial spirit... or so she said.

"She's like the over-protective, know-it-all, smothering, affectionate, pain-in-my-ass older sister that I never realized that I never wanted, because it was never an option before. And, while I realize that she's just trying to be helpful, and that she wants the best for me, and that I should be grateful... I am grateful, that doesn't mean that I'm just going to stand by while she folds my underwear. My underwear," Roy emphasized, shuddering.

Again, John laughed, and Oliver glowered, and Roy just rushed on, because he didn't think they really grasped just how horrifying and awful things were for him. "And it's not just that. She packs my lunches for me. I have a lunch box, because, apparently, it's unconscionably insulting towards the environment to carry a paper bag. And it's not just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips. God, I would kill for a bag of chips. No, she's all... aware of my diet and shit. She packs like... balanced and healthy meals. There's lean protein, and vegetables, and fruit, and whole grains. It's all natural, and organic, and I'm pretty sure kosher, too, and I don't even know what that means. We have separate Tupperware containers. Hers are pink; mine are blue." Throwing his hands up in the air, Roy exclaimed, "for crying out loud, I was lucky growing up if I managed to get the free school lunches... you know, the ones the poor kids get." Rolling his eyes, he complained, "oh, who the hell am I kidding? You," and he sneered at Oliver, "wouldn't have recognized a poor kid if he beat you up and stole your lunch money."

Shaking his head, he refocused, emphasized his words. "She even writes me notes. It'd be one thing if she just discreetly put them inside of my lunchbox, but oh no. Not her. She writes them on sticky notes and tapes them to the outside. In marker. Permanent marker. Pink permanent marker. I have to hide in the men's room – in the handicapped stall – to eat my lunch, because I don't want anyone to see that my pseudo-mom dots her I's with arrows. With freaking pink arrows." With hands on his hips, Roy realized that he was slightly leaning forward... like an old man with poor posture and even worse gas, but he couldn't help it. He was that frustrated. (And, let's be real, his body wasn't used to all the spinach, and kale, and broccoli, so... yeah.) "I'm pretty sure everyone in my Freshman Humanities seminar thinks that I have dysentery... and I resent the fact that I am now capable of referring to it as dysentery, because she signed me up for a History of War course, too."

Almost forlornly – and really, when did this turn into something about him?, Oliver mumbled, "she won't even get me a coffee."

Roy couldn't handle it anymore. "Just... give her a baby already!"

Oliver gaped, obviously taken aback by Roy's... enthusiasm?

Yeah. Enthusiasm.

On the other hand, an obviously still delighted and entertained Digg seemed to take pity on the both of them. Standing up from where he had been sitting on the edge of a desk, the ex-soldier strolled forward so that he was standing between Roy and Oliver. Glancing from side-to-side at both of them, he calmly spoke, "Roy, Oliver and Felicity are not dating. They're not even sleeping together."

Roy snorted. "Yeah, try selling that to someone who doesn't have a front row seat to their little mating ritual dance every single night." Diggle just stared at him, not blinking, not reacting, just knowing. "Holy shit," Roy swore in realization. "You're kidding me?"

John slid his hands into his front dress pants' pockets. "I'm afraid not."

Oliver started to sputter, but Roy cut him off. "Seriously? Like... not even once?"

"Not even a kiss."

"Oh." And, suddenly, he kind of felt bad for all those snide she's and her's, and he could get used to having clean laundry and eating so many vegetables, and college wasn't... as bad as high school. "Well, no wonder she's so high strung and... huggy." If he wasn't mistaken, Oliver growled at that.


Maybe he could even have a little fun with this new revelation.

But first... "Really, though... like not even a little 'Mr. Queen? Yes, Miss Smoak?' action while she was his secretary?"

"Executive Assistant, Roy," the very 'Yes, Miss Smoak' that he had been referring to corrected him. Roy braced himself for the backlash of her anger. Loud voice wasn't pleasant. As she made her way into the lair... and, yeah, okay, it was dark, and dreary, and underground, so he'd consent to calling it a lair... at least until Oliver finally relented, did what they, evidently, all wanted him to do, and slept with the woman already, Felicity picked up his gear bag. She placed it along with her purse onto her desk before taking her seat behind her wall of computers. Already typing away as she logged onto to all of her... stuff, Felicity asked, "so, what did I miss? Why were you guys talking about me?"

Oliver literally turned his back and walked away – a giant 'f-you, you started this mess, Roy, now you get to clean it up' clear from his actions, while Digg did nothing but smile pretty. What Roy wouldn't give to just... "Coffee!" He yelled out the first thing he thought of. "We were talking about coffee. And you. And Oliver. And how you never... get him coffee?" If he wasn't mistaken, John shot him an impressed nod.

"Yeah. No," Felicity agreed emphatically. "Speaking of which, Oliver...," she prompted into the shadows.

Oliver didn't respond, and Felicity never glanced up from her work, but, five minutes later, there was a steaming mug placed softly several feet away from her beloved computer equipment on her desk.

Oh, yeah. Roy smirked.

He was going to enjoy this.