#I had fun with the lighting there's four goddamn light sources with different colors it's amazing

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Crispy Eclipse <3

[sylviainwriting]

a pointless recollection of 8/24/2019

It was a night that stood out from the typical fridaysaturdaysunday bullshit. An outlier worth remembering and worth dancing my fingers on the keyboard for. My memory fucking sucks and if I don’t write it down, it didn’t happen five years from now. 

Plank Road Tavern was the destination. Taylor, my typical sidekick for the night. A glass of red and a realization in the Uber that we were hardly tipsy enough for a Saturday night. We went to watch a friend perform and pretend to be a country singer. The bar was dusty and dark. The locals sitting on the stools looked like they may have planted themselves there since noon. The live music was bursting through the cracks on the walls, our legs taking us straight to the source. The patio was muggy, lined in romantic yellow lights, and as perfect a Summer night you could hope for. 

It was a goddamn high school and college reunion that I would have avoided had I known. When I saw a former best friend, she aggressively started diving into the latest drama in a way that you would not do if you were in the company of a genuine friend. The other former friend not even hiding her disinterest in seeing me. Her eyes darting from side to side as we say our hello’s and halfheartedly hug. Let’s all shake on a pact to stop hugging people we don’t like. All of us secretly sizing each other up. Does she look the same? Is she seeing anyone? Is she happy? Happier than me? Girls are fun. 

Then there were the college acquaintances. Years ago I may have smiled, maybe given a wave. Some sort of acknowledgment that we spent four years blacked out together. No, I don’t owe these people anything. There’s a reason we didn’t keep in touch and I don’t need to find out why that was. It doesn’t surprise me that you live in Lakewood at 27. I know I sound bitter but it’s coming more from a place of not caring and caring enough not to be fake. 

Taylor and I needed a body guard by the name of alcohol. A survival tactic in this highly dangerous environment of past friends, lovers, and enemies. Two tall doubles? Sure! $10 each? I got paid yesterday.  

The Tito’s was tasting better by the sip and I found myself giving the bartender my credit card for the third time. The night was looking like it just got a fresh coat of paint; the people less annoying, my mood softening, and inhibitions melting.  But I was in trouble because vodka was in control now.

A tall, dark, and bearded boy was suddenly to my left, asking me how my night was going. Finally a man striking up conversation in real time and not behind a gray bubble on your iPhone. Dressed head to toe in all black, a hat covering dark brown hair that was definitely cut in hipster fashion. There was something inviting about his demeanor. Was it his kind eyes? Lips that stayed turned up, as if in on a secret I didn’t know about? We kept the pleasantries short, as I hate being the girl who leaves her friends.

They all agreed he was handsome, the words suddenly waking me up to how handsome he really was. Something told me to go outside on the patio and seize the moment. Seize this man who was confident enough to approach a woman at the bar. 

I heard my name shouted from the corner, my strategy falling into place. He was seated at a picnic table with who I came to learn were coworkers of his, finishing their shift together at none other than Plank Road Tavern. He was a cook there. They welcomed me surprisingly well for a girl who looks like me and was drunk like me. They began recounting their night and telling me the best foods on the menu. Asking me what I liked to eat. It was nice to be a wallflower at the end of the table, hearing what it’s like working in the restaurant industry. A world I was never privy to. 

The boy followed me inside, which turned into following me into the Uber, and eventually onto a couch. I was happy to have a shadow as cute as him. The night was blurring ever so slightly, the details less sharp, but I wanted this. I don’t take strangers home, ever, but felt my old fashioned values slipping away. I think that’s why I’m writing this. It was so out of character that it needs to be documented in my life’s personnel file. 

We apparently had conversation in the car. It must have flowed well enough. I was starting to regret those tall doubles. Word to self: you’re too old to get that drunk. Stop it. 

I brought him back to Taylor’s house, where my car was. Thank god I didn’t drive and that Taylor also brought someone home. We crashed onto the couch and stripped our clothes in record time. He was on top and I moaning on the bottom. He said I was tight. He’s not wrong. I don’t let just any willing participant feel that part of me. Many girls look for validation in the number of men that desire them but I think your relationship with yourself is so much more meaningful. 

He gave me his black shirt to sleep in because my clothes were hastily thrown across the room. I woke up at sunrise, sweating and with an inevitable pounding headache. I crept into Taylor’s bed, one eye open and one eye closed on the walk there. I woke up again hours later to Taylor saying there was a strange man reading a book on her couch. Fuck. I shouldn’t have left him alone on the couch. Someone once told me that’s bad manners. 

Reality hit me like a wave. I looked down to find myself wearing a shirt that just barely covered my ass. “I couldn’t leave without my shirt”, he said, shirtless and sporting a dad bod that I appreciate. I noticed one of his front teeth was stained a different color than the rest and wondered why that was. Something that wouldn’t have caught my attention at night but of course in the day is one of the first features I notice on a person. 

He asked if I could drive him to his car. I made sure to put on my favorite playlist, hoping he’d hear something that would peak his interest. I found out his name. 32. Studied at the Cleveland Institute of Art. From Rochester, NY. Nothing that came as a surprise to me based on the person sitting next to me. Apparently it was a repeat of our conversation from the night before. But I felt myself putting walls back up and being prickly towards him. With each mile, I was battling thoughts of “do I speak to him again or is this not for me?” Maybe he is slimy and does this at the end of every shift— finds a girl who had a few Tito’s too many. I began asking questions but tuning out his answers and then welcomed more silence into the conversation altogether. Let him ask some questions for a change (not a strength of men BTW). To my surprise, he asked what my plans were for the day. His shift didn’t start until 1 pm. Did I want to get breakfast? Words started coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. I told him I had a family thing, which was a lie. Before he left, he gave me a hug and reminded me that I have his phone number. 

It was a Sunday x10. The kind that you want to sleep all day but you’re awful at taking naps / your body still hates you / interacting with humans feels like a mistake. I caved at 7 pm, sending him a “nice to meet you” text. I don’t know what it was that ultimately changed my mind. Maybe it’s the way he folded my shirt and jeans neatly in the morning. Or offering to make us breakfast but there were no eggs. Or asking if I wanted gas money for driving him to his car. It could’ve been him telling me he plays drums in a band since I’m a sucker for musicians. But I think every person you meet was planted there by the universe. The universe watches with a glass of wine and makes bets like your life is a poker game. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes you even get to orgasm (not this time).

“Yeah I was worried I wouldn’t hear from you again”, he texted back.

[regrettablewritings]

Dios Meme-o! (Rafael Barba Mini-Series, Pt. 6)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7 Part 8

Frankly, it had to have been when Lucia got involved that Rafael knew things were going too far. Even Carmen of all people was beginning to join in on the fun! (While Rafael really did appreciate the cup of coffee waiting for him when he came into work that morning, but did she really have to include the receipt bearing the name “Abo-guapo”?) And all at once, it appeared that the dam keeping his cohorts in SVU at bay had buckled under pressure – and the typhoon of fresh, new memes.

The initial, unspoken agreement had been to not bring up memes around Rafael or to laugh about them in his presence. But it didn’t take long for Sonny to throw caution straight into the garbage and use the technical loophole of sending him his latest finds (though, always making sure to precede them with at least one contribution to the case). It didn’t take long for the likes of Fin, Rollins, and even Liv every once in a while, to follow suit in some way shape or form.

By the end of the third week of this madness, Rafael swore he’d seen it all: Gifs of him from the press conference, pastel edits (causing him to wonder what the significance of flower crowns even was), more crude comments about his hand veins and midsection pudge, photo compilations of himself in his attire from previous acclaimed cases. Every once in a while, he’d even receive a screenshot wherein somebody had clearly photoshopped themselves into a picture with him. These were interestingly enough some of the images that caused Rafael the most concern, seeing as they weren’t even using decent photos for their apparent intentions: Were they really supposed to look like a power couple, with him so clearly focused on the press and not by their clumsily Photoshopped-in figure standing behind him? They looked more like prosecutor and client than anything.

What, more gifs of him before the press? Wait, these ones had captions edited into them. Oh, hell, what do they say?

           Rafael Barba: I am here to address the rumors that have been circling about. I’ll be  upfront: Yes, (Y/N) and I have been seeing each other. No, we are not dating – we’ve             recently become engaged. I’ve loved her for many years in secrecy, and it shouldn’t be         a crime to want something beautiful in this harsh life –

“Ugh.” Rafael all but retched as he x-ed out of the newest link from Rollins. He glared once more at the message she’d written in the email:

           When were you gonna tell us that you were betrothed, Barba? I’m sure we would’ve  understood the harshness of your life ;).

The lawyer sighed heavily through his nose as he pressed against his forehead. Rollins had given him some crucial information yesterday, so he couldn’t completely hound on her for slacking off. Yet. But god, was his already thin patience eroding at a rapid rate.

By noon, just as he’d calmed down from the eerie feeling of being shipped with other real-life people, another message came through. This time, to his surprise, from Liv.

He rose a brow. No words; just a link. This could’ve gone one of two ways: Bad, or very bad. He knew better than to do anything about the message, and honestly should have just deleted it on site. But alas, curiosity was such a destructive trait of man, enough so as to overwhelm his sense of self-preservation out of grotesque intrigue. With the click of his laptop mouse, Rafael at least had an answer as to which direction this would go down in: It was a Buzzfeed article, so that meant very bad.

“ ‘Check Out the Attorney Everyone Wants to Call’ ” it read. Before he could stop his eyes from searching the page for more info, he found himself reading the embarrassing excuse for an article:

           The NYPD’s specialized squad, the Special Victims Unit, has had more than its fair share of rough roads. But luckily, they have a secret weapon:

Below lay a gif of Rafael stepping up to the podium on that fateful day where his looks would break the Internet. Inside of his own mind, Rafael screamed for gif-Rafael to retreat and run away before it was too late. Obviously, gif-Rafael persisted, over and over in an endless loop that would reset itself the moment he settled himself at the pedestal.

           Meet ADA Rafael Barba. He’s been with the 16th precinct for four years, and he’s   managed to make quite a splash for all of them. But let’s be real, it’s not just his smarts and courtroom prowess that the Internet has been talking about these last couple of days . . .

The next image was a photograph of Rafael mid-speech and even he had to admit: The angling was just right. The lighting and shadows worked together to properly define his profile in such an appealing way. It was a photo capable of damning a man.

           It turns out that ADA Barba is actually one Harvard-educated hottie!

The accompanying picture came from one of Rafael’s previous cases. One wherein his stance atop the courthouse steps looked artistically posed. With one foot still planted on a step higher than the other, briefcase clutched in one hand, suit tailored to fit, eyes looking elsewhere. Amateur modeling photographers would’ve been proud. To anyone else, he would have looked like those grand oil paintings depicting a conquering hero, the gleaming sunlight only serving to further this victorious suggestion. Even the tweet that the image came attached with went as far as to say, “LOOK AT THIS MAJESTIC MF.”

While visually this might have been the case (especially assuming he’d just exited the courthouse after a victorious trial), the reality was more likely that he had been contemplating getting pho for dinner and was trying to remember the name of that one noodle house a couple of blocks away. The article went on:

           No, seriously, if sexiness was a crime, this man would be guilty as charged!

Rafael couldn’t help but lift a brow at this. A law pun? Really? Hadn’t there been enough of those? He scrolled down further, his eyes first catching the image of him being surrounded by the press.

           Because of the nature of his job (and hopefully single personal life), there aren’t too  many photos of him for us to draw on. But don’t worry: The press has given the Internet just enough fodder to work with.

The image of him at arraignment court prior to the prolific AJ Martin case was posted, courtesy of the blue hellhole that was Tumblr. It was taken predominately from behind, given the position of the press at the time but from the way his head was turned, Rafael’s profile was made just noticeable enough for the original poster to freak out: “He could peck my eye out with that nose and I would thank him for it so long as he left me the other eye to still see him with.” The hashtags visible, aside from his name and title, included #dat profile doe, #LAWD, #such a noble nose, and #seriously tho that profile is perf i need to use it as reference for my art project.

Rafael could feel his teeth digging into his lips as they tucked themselves into his mouth. For a split second, he wondered if he was subconsciously trying to swallow himself.

            Some people are drawn to him for his eyes, the article read, offering an example in an enhanced photo of Rafael that managed to capture his eyes just enough to show that they weren’t an expected brown, but an enchanting green. Having been a tweet, the post’s source expressed that Rafael’s eyes “made them weak.”

           Some just can’t get over this guy’s designer duds, it went on. Beneath the text was a small photoset of four pictures: Each one of Rafael, of course, but each one also had him sporting vastly different color themes. In this one, springtime pink accessories stuck out against the darkness of his pinstriped suit. In that one, yet another dark suit . . . But orange was, in the grand scheme, quite the unusual color to be seen on most lawyers. Even in tie form. The third photo had been taken as he was leaving the courthouse, the billowing wind allowing for the yellow streak of his tie to flutter about, as well as to showcase that even his suspenders were brightly colored. And in the fourth one, purple. Everywhere. Maybe not in the charcoal grey of his suit jacket, but definitely in the primary color of his polka dotted tie, the lines running up and down his dress shirt, and the lightly-checkered pattern of his pocket square.

To say that these were mighty unusual colors to be found in the courtroom (and on an attorney for such horrific situations, no less) would be an understatement.

           And others? They’re finding completely different assets to be won over by! (All perfectly wonderful in their own right, of course.)

These “assets”, apparently, were his stomach and hands (surprise, surprise). Or, perhaps more specifically, the pudginess of his stomach and the veins that lined his hands, as suggested not only by Rafael’s own experience, but by the corresponding images for that particular line: Some of the very same posts he’d seen at the very beginning. The post about wanting to slurp up his hand veins, enthusiasm over his tummy-embellishing suspenders . . . It all came rushing back to Rafael with an internal shudder.

But apparently, not all of the images were of him: The next textual segment (But whichever physical attribute people have found themselves drawn to, one thing is for certain: They help make one clean-cut counselor) was followed by the image of a tan, cartoon fist popping out of a yellow sweater sleeve. The tweet it had come from included the words, “When you catch feelings for the perfect man but he’s a goddamn lawyer.” Rafael almost wanted to feel upset by the comment, but there was just too much about it to figure out what all to be peeved with.

Many are willing to risk it all for this Manhattan heartbreaker, the article proclaimed, their evidence coming in the form of a Twitter post stating exactly that. It was a photograph taken at a gala (God, it had to have been long ago, then), and Rafael just happened to be in just enough of the photo for the dapperness of his appearance to pop. In the background, however, was a man (whom Rafael recognized as a judge) with an expression that could easily be mistaken for subtle lusting. Of course, Judge Khachaturian was actually probably looking in Rafael’s general direction and likely at a woman off camera. But the Internet didn’t know that. Or rather, the Internet didn’t care to consider that.

The caption lining the top of the picture stated that “old man finna risk it all for Barba 😂😂😂.” This, of all things, caused Rafael’s mouth to hang open with shock. The idea of his superior (and much older superior at that) lusting after him left a bad taste in his mouth. But with one last line to go . . .

           But don’t worry: We’re sure he can use his smarts to get you out of it.

Simple, yes, but considering all that Rafael had to go through just to get to it, the cocktail of feelings within him was still quite present.

“Oh . . .” Rafael whispered shakily as he watched the gif version of himself raise a hand and retreat from the podium at the press conference. Despite the ridiculousness of the suggestion, his mind screamed at the gif, Now you leave!? His ever hungry but scowling eyes couldn’t help themselves from scanning the comments section below. Lot of Spanish terms being thrown around there by people who probably only knew them from the Latin Lover craze from the early 2000s. Like June Madoff’s comment on how he was such a “precinct papi”, or Barbra Cassahan, with her suburban mom-ness, having the creepy, middle-aged audacity to call him a “papi choulo.” (Which, Rafael thought in his tempered bitterness and attention to the misspell, was probably the most out of her comfort zone she was willing to travel.)

There was also Celia Esposito calling him “Barbaro Barba”, but he really wasn’t sure how comfortable he was being called a badass under such circumstances by a high schooler, creativity behind the nickname be damned.

But then . . . there was Julia “JuJuBean” Parson: “My friend’s sister sat in the gallery during the Jocelyn Paley case where ADA Barba was defending Jocelyn against Adam Cain. Y’all, she said Barba won the case by letting Cain choke him with his motherfucking *belt*!”

And, for the first time since this entire escapade began, Rafael couldn’t help but feel true a hint of pride. After all, it was by letting Cain choke him at all that he was able to convince the jury to plead guilty and send that bastard to jail where he belonged. He was honestly quite pleased with that little daring stunt, considering how worth it it was to experience such a dangerous discomfort. But even more so, he was just glad that someone had looked past the more superficial traits that everyone else was adoring in order to focus on something more important: His job and the crazy things he did to perform it.

. . . But then he read the replies to it: “OMFG” and “choke me, daddy 😩😩😩!” And those were just the ones he could see without clicking “see more replies.”

At that, Rafael’s eyelids practically retreated back into his skull as his eyes popped more than he even knew themselves capable of doing. The loud clap of his laptop being shut closed resonated within the office, followed by huffy breaths of embarrassment. He could feel his face burning. Of all the implied fetishes and kinks he’d seen centering about him, the use of the belt to choke him was an entirely new one, and one that he could very easily proclaim he had no desire to try again.

ENOUGH!!!

A ragged sigh was released into the air as Rafael pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably harder than he even needed to, anyway. He regarded the time ticking by in the corner of his laptop screen. It was still too early to start sipping bourbon like tomorrow was a dream, but not too early to grab a bite and pop a tablet or two of ibuprofen. Not necessarily what he was in the mood for, but it was a start. Anything to get away from his laptop, which he now deep down felt had been completely sullied by now from all the meme trash he had to view upon it.

Grabbing his phone and wallet, he exited his office and made Carmen aware that he was going on his lunch break. As he headed for the elevator, he could’ve sworn that he’d caught a glimpse of the Buzzfeed article on her computer. He fought against the urge to shake his head in somberness: He’d officially lost her; she was too far gone into the rabbit hole to pull her out of it. Exiting the Hogan Place, Rafael felt alone amongst the crowded streets of Manhattan.

[jamaninja]

Olicity one-shot: The Rage Phase

Word count: 4,469 Rating: Teen Summary: Newsroom AU — Felicity might have been the face of Atlantic Cable News’ financial analysis, but when an ex-boyfriend takes revenge on her for breaking up with him, he tries to ruin it all for her. Oliver’s the only one she can turn to to help her get off the floor and fight back.

Author’s note: OK, so a while back I wrote this quick little one-shot, what a good guy would do, based on The Newsroom but using Arrow characters. Well I watched this episode again recently and it all came back like a flood.

Dedicated to the very amazing @blackcanarydinah as a late gift for graduating journalism school. You go, girl! Take over the world!

(Also, read her story The 2025 Hamentashen Debacle because she is an amazing writer and it will warm your cold dead heart.)

Lastly, you don’t HAVE to have seen The Newsroom to understand what’s going on in this story, but if you haven’t seen The Newsroom, then do yourselves the biggest favor and watch it immediately.

Felicity has a necklace that she never takes off. Not even in the shower.

It’s a necklace her mother gave her after she graduated with her Ph.D. When Donna handed over the box and Felicity opened it, they both burst into tears at the symbolism of the moment. It was the same necklace that Donna’s mother had given her for her bat mitzvah, and since Felicity didn’t want to have one, Donna wanted to wait for an equally significant event to pass it on.

The necklace means she’s a fully realized woman. It’s imbued with the strength of generations of Smoak women, and it’s always been a source of comfort and power for her.

But today...today it’s the starring feature of the most humiliating moment of her life.

She sits there, in Walter’s office with Isabel Rochev. Walter’s looking at her with nothing but kindness, but Isabel leans against the credenza with a stack of photos in her hand, looking at her with nothing but cruel amusement.

Felicity would have figured that Isabel, a fellow woman, would at least be a little sympathetic. But then again, she should have known better — robots aren’t really capable of sympathy.

“I’m not going to fire you,” Isabel announces, as if she were being benevolent.

Walter’s mouth twists in indignation. “I just told you, that’s not her.”

“I just told you that I’m not going to fire her,” Isabel shoots back.

“She’s got a contract,” Walter reminds her. “What are you talking about?”

Isabel smirks. “I’m glad you brought that up.”

Felicity closes her eyes as Isabel starts reading the clauses from her contract. Walter sets down his glass of bourbon and continues his full-throated defense.

“It was photoshopped,” he says over Isabel’s recitation. “It’s her head on another woman’s body.”

But it’s not, Felicity thinks. The minute she saw the pictures, she knew they were real. She can see the tiny little mole on her shoulder, and the scar from when they took out her appendix. It’s her in the pictures.

She struggles to hold onto her tears as fiercely as she can. She refuses to cry in front of Isabel, of all people.

“ — contempt, scandal or ridicule, which might tend to reflect unfavorably — “ the woman continues.

Walter bristles. “She doesn’t need to hear her morals clause!”

He’s right about that. She doesn’t need Isabel rubbing it in her face that she trusted the wrong guy. Again.

“ — on the program or any sponsor or any station that broadcasts the program,” Isabel finishes with a flourish. “Congratulations, you checked all the boxes.”

“Are you deaf?” Walter demands. “She just told you it’s not her body, Isabel!”

Isabel must have reached the end of her patience, because she raises her voice to match Walter’s. “Then she needs to stop wearing that fucking necklace, Walter!”

Felicity flinches. She can feel the gold resting against her chest, and she thinks that at any moment it will take on a life of its own and contract around her neck to choke her.

She wishes it would.

“It’s the same one she’s wearing in the pictures,” Isabel continues. “The images have been scrutinized by not one but three graphic experts who have reached identical conclusions. Skin coloring is a match, the shadows are a match. Is there a blending issue? No.”

Isabel goes through her list and Walter looks up at Felicity. She can feel the kindly man’s eyes on her and she burns with shame anew. The man is like her own father, and she feels like she’s disappointed him as well.

“The hue is a match, the pixelation is consistent throughout, resolution is consistent throughout.”

Felicity’s had enough. She can’t take it anymore.

“Stop.”

Her voice is hoarse because she hasn’t said anything in hours. She hasn’t been able to get a word in edgewise at this meeting, but even if she could, what could she really say? She’d been robbed of her speech, which was a first for her, probably in her whole life. She’d been robbed of everything.

“It’s me. I lied. I’m sorry.” Her voice gives out in the last sentence.

Isabel smirks again and goddamn it if this woman doesn’t have the ability to make her worst nightmare feel like hell on earth.

“Felicity, this wasn’t a stalker pointing a camera through a peephole. You posed for these.”

The sentence itself is a declaration. But the way they leave Isabel’s mouth, it’s pointed at her like an accusation.

“So what?” Walter shoots back.

But she can’t let him keep standing up for her like this. She knew he’d stand by her until he died, but she didn’t want to bring him down with her.

“I understand,” she murmured.

“I didn’t hear you,” Isabel prompts.

Yes she did. She did hear her. She just wants Felicity humiliated even more.

“I understand,” Felicity repeats. Then she takes a deep breath.

“I was seeing a man over Christmas — ”

“You don’t have to explain,” Walter interrupts kindly.

“I can’t tell you how much I wish that were true,” Isabel counters. “But she has to explain enough for me to be satisfied there aren’t more of these out there!”

Well she’s fucked then.

“There are more,” Felicity says quietly.

Isabel lets out a breath. Then she crosses her arms over her chest and stares at her. Waiting.

So Felicity tries again.

“He consults for AIG. We’d been seeing each other about six weeks. And he got a suite at the Mandarin Oriental for Christmas Eve. I bought him a camera. A nice camera.”

Walter looks pained as she continues. “All right,” he tries to interrupt, like it’s finished.

But it’s not. Now that she’s started, she has to keep going.

“We’d been drinking, and he wanted me to pose. And...you know, I did. For fun. Just for us.”

God, she was such a fool. There were so many different times when she could have stopped it. If she hadn’t agreed to spend the night with him on Christmas Eve. If she’d stopped at that second vodka tonic. If she’d said no when he asked her to take off her bra as he uncapped the lens of his camera.

“Last night, I broke up with him.”

Isabel looks at her critically. “Have you heard of this site, Revenge Porn?”

“I have now,” Felicity deadpans.

Walter decides to step in again. “Why can’t you file for injunctive relief and get the pictures down?”

Isabel shakes her head. “The pictures are up everywhere. They have their own Facebook page.”

“Then she sues for defamation,” he continues stubbornly.

“She posed for the pictures.”

“Copyright.” He’s grasping at straws at this point.

“It was his camera. She gave it to him. He owns the pictures and it doesn’t look to me like she was doing anything against her will.”

“I wasn’t,” Felicity says. That’s for sure. She had willingly let him take those fucking pictures.

Walter’s eyes are so sad as he looks at her, and it makes Felicity wonder how he can still see her the same way now that he’s seen her stripped completely bare. How anyone in the bullpen will be able to see her the same way anymore.

Isabel takes her phone out of her pocket and checks it. Without looking up, she asks, “Are you on TV tonight?”

“Yeah, in about two hours.”

Whatever’s on Isabel’s screen must be amusing to her, because she cocks her head to the side and smirks.

Then she finally looks up and says, “You’re trending number one, Felicity.”

There are a lot of things going through Oliver’s mind as he walks through the the doors of his office, fresh from the last rundown meeting before they go to air. The first thing he has to do is get the misquote corrected before it spirals any further. That’s his number one priority.

But there’s another niggling little thought in the back of his mind that’s been fighting to come to the forefront all day. He’s been viciously pushing it back, refusing to even it enough light to become a full-fledged musing.

It doesn’t make it easier to ignore.

Not bothering to flick the light on in his office, he grabs the phone on his desk and holds the handpiece up to his ear. Then he starts dialling.

The line rings four times, then goes to voicemail. Figures.

“Phillip. It’s Oliver Queen,” he begins. “Call me back at the office, and if you call between ten and eleven, tell them I said to put you through to the control room. We’ve got to fix this.”

When he’s finished with his message, he hangs up the phone and turns to walk back out of his office.

But a voice stops him.

“What happened?”

“Jesus,” Oliver starts.

He glances over and realizes Felicity’s sitting on the floor by his bookshelf. She’s hugging her knees to her chest and she’s staring straight ahead like she does when she’s on air and she’s reading off the teleprompter.

But when he takes a closer look, he realizes that her lovely blue eyes have turned red and puffy, and there are tiny rivers of mascara running down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’m down here,” she murmurs.

Oliver has never seen her like this before. Felicity is a force. She commands any room she stands in, with confidence and pride. Her sitting curled up in a ball in the corner of his darkened office is wrong. The wrongest of wrongs.

Though it’s not like he doesn’t know why.

He hasn’t looked at them. He heard about it from someone else, and of course all of his non-journalist dude friends were passing around the link to the site like it was cocaine at a Playboy Mansion party. But he refused to click on it.

He has never wanted to see anyone naked more than he wants to see Felicity Smoak, but refusing to look at the pictures is the easiest thing he’s ever done.

“It’s all right,” he answers as he slowly approaches.

If you ask anyone, they would tell you that Oliver Queen is the last person anyone would ever turn to for emotional trauma. He’s terrible at comforting. He never knows the right thing to say. He usually ends up making everything worse.

But damn it, it’s Felicity. He has to try.

He stands in front of her, but for once, her eyes don’t glance to him. She’s still staring straight ahead, unseeing.

“What are you doing?”

She shrugs. “Just hanging out.” Her voice is light, as if nothing is wrong. “Grant’s in my office. Our office.”

Oliver shakes his head. Felicity’s one of the most well-known faces for ACN. The fact that she didn’t have her own office by now was baffling.

“You shouldn’t be sharing an office anymore,” he tells her.

“I don’t mind,” she answers with a tiny smile that does nothing to lift the sadness from her face. “I like Grant, and he’s usually in D.C. He brings his dog in sometimes. A basset hound...always looks very puzzled. Just confounded. But working on it, you know?”

Her voice starts to break, and so does Oliver’s heart.

“Just...everybody, slow down and let me catch up, because I’m down here.”

Her chin quivers and the tears start overflowing again. Every muscle in his body screams at him to rush to her, to wrap her up in his arms and hold her until her body stops shaking, until her eyes run dry. Until her mind is at peace again.

He knows better, though. He keeps his hands to himself, even though it’s the last thing he wants.

She shakes her head, still looking straight. “There’s no way to see this coming,” she says in a quavering voice. “He’s a really nice guy.”

Then her voice completely disappears in a ragged whisper. “I totally trusted him.”

Oliver can’t take it anymore. He gives into his longing to be closer and slowly approaches her, until he’s standing just two feet away. But still, he doesn’t touch her.

Felicity starts sobbing, though he can see she’s trying like hell to hold it in. It’s like she’s trying to stay strong, but every bit of her is breaking apart.

He can’t bear to see her like this. He wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to stay strong for him. He wants to tell her that it’s OK for her to fall apart. He wants to tell her that she’s safe.

But all that comes out is, “It’s all right.”

He’s lost track of how long they’ve been in his office.

At some point, he finds himself sitting down right next to Felicity. Though he still has to struggle to keep himself from touching her, he finds that this is a decent compromise. They both have their arms wrapped around their knees as they stare ahead, sitting mostly in silence.

Sometimes she breaks the silence with whatever errant thought pops into her brain, and it makes him wonder for the millionth time just how fast her brain processes things. He thinks it might be faster than the speed of light, because one moment she’ll tell him a story from her childhood and the next minute she’s trying to explain why subprime auto loans are going to be the next bubble to burst.

Right now she’s telling a joke, like she’s trying to cheer the both of them up.

“A lion’s walking through the woods. He comes up to a zebra, and the lion says, ‘You know something, zebra? You are a ridiculous looking animal. You’re half white, half black, half horse, half donkey. Look at me — I’m rough, I’m tough, I’m the king of the jungle.’ The zebra just shrugs and moves on. The lion comes to a giraffe, and the lion says, ‘You know something, giraffe? You are a ridiculous looking animal. You’ve got a long neck and little horns. Look at me — I’m rough, I’m tough, I’m the king of the jungle.’ Lion comes to a frog and says, ‘You know something, frog? You are a ridiculous looking animal. You’re green and slimy.’ And the frog says, ‘Hey, fuck you! I’ve been sick!’”

Oliver can’t help it. He lets out a chuckle.

Felicity smiles a little at his reaction, but it disappears pretty quickly.

“You’ve got to get your show ready,” she reminds him.

“I’m all right,” he answers.

She sighs. “At some point I’m going to have to call my mom.”

“Do you have to?”

There’s a brief pause before she answers him.

“She keeps a scrapbook on me. She Googles me every morning.”

He looks over at her. There were so many layers to how fucked up this whole situation was, so he searched for the right words that would make her feel better.

“She’s going to understand.”

Felicity lets out a huff of breath and shakes her head.

“She will,” he insists.

“Not deep down. No one will.”

Her voice drops into a whisper, and her eyes deaden. “This is who I am now.”

Oliver refuses to believe that. Felicity Smoak is so much more than a group of naked pictures some dickbag posted on the internet. Yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, she’s smart. But she’s also kind. Compassionate. Warm and funny and one of the most amazing people he’s ever met in his life.

She is so much more than this.

He finally asks the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue all day.

“What happened?”

Her eyebrows furrow. “You mean...how did he — ”

“No.” He doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t want the details. He doesn’t think he could bear to hear the details. “No, was it a bad break up? I didn’t even know you were going out with someone.”

Her frown deepens and her voice goes mechanical. “He was a very well-respected analyst. We met at a Forbes party. And no, I didn’t think it was a bad break up. He wasn’t very upset about it.” Then her voice raises slightly and he can see the indignation on her face. “But even if it had been, this — this would be OK?”

Oliver shakes his head, immediately regretting the implication in his words. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

“What the fuck!” she exclaims. “I am feeling...so intensely something that I don’t know what it is!”

Oliver pauses before he answers. He certainly knows what he’s feeling.

“Rage.”

There’s another pause as they process together.

“Do you want me to scrap you from the rundown?” he asks. He understands completely if she does. She’s supposed to interview a high-profile financial guy that Oliver hardly pays attention to, but at this point he would let her do anything she wants.

“Yes,” she answers without hesitating. “I’m not going on TV and interviewing — the guy, he’s — he’s the chancellor of the Exchequer. You can’t … “

She can’t finish her sentence, so she starts over. “He should have Tommy.”

His heart breaks again, for what feels like the millionth time. Or maybe the million and first. He’s lost track.

“OK.”

He gets up from the floor and walks to his desk so he can make the call to his senior producer and tell him to get Felicity off the rundown. But just as he’s dialing, she speaks up again.

“I bought him the camera,” she says conversationally. “It was a good camera. I asked a couple of our freelance guys for help.”

She closes her eyes. “I miss still photography. Though...not so much lately.”

He can’t take it anymore. He needs to do something. His body is screaming at him to spring into action, and since he can’t hunt down the bastard and beat the living daylights out of him, and he also can’t reach out and hold her close, he settles instead for making the call to Rory and asking him to change the rundown so Felicity isn’t on the hook for an interview on her worst day ever.

After he hangs up, he turns around and sits back down next to her.

“Anyway...you’re feeling rage.”

Felicity shakes her head. “I’d love it if I was. I’d give anything to feel rage. I’d jump the humiliation, and I’d be able to get up. I think I live here now.”

He lets out a breath. “I wonder if I were able to promise you that humiliation always turns into rage.”

“How long does that conversion take?” she asks. “How long is the evolution? How long does it take to get from the larva stage of this, to — how long does it take?”

It’s Oliver’s turn to shake his head. The return of the babbling might be a good sign. Or it might just be her trying to distract herself from everything.

“I guess it depends,” he answers. “Like for Germany, it was fifteen to twenty years. But Wile E. Coyote, he…”

Felicity chuckles a little and so does he. “He has a fast turnaround.”

The smile drops off Felicity’s face as quickly as it came, and a long silence stretches between them.

“I want to die,” she whispers.

And all Oliver can say to comfort her is, “I know.”

She’s been sitting there for almost an hour and a half. She knows she should leave. Oliver’s got a show to prepare for, and he’s got five minutes to fill now that she’s not coming on to do her interview.

She should leave. But she can’t bring herself to get up.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, she’s sure. But it also could be that Oliver’s sitting right next to her, and his comforting presence makes her feel less like ripping her own skin off and more...well, more normal.

“Is this the right time to ask why you date men like this?” he asks.

“No,” she answers.

“It’s not?”

“It’s not the right time.”

“All right.”

“Because you don’t know they’re like that until they are.”

He shakes his head. “But they are a lot with you, it’s just — ”

“There’s no way to tell, Oliver,” she interrupts him quietly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe that.”

He doesn’t get it. He’s thinking like a guy. Guys categorize women into groups, usually crazies versus non-crazies. Guys think they can tell just by looking. But women know better.

“You don’t,” she says flatly.

“I don’t believe that someone who is capable of this, that a shithead this big is able to keep it a secret from someone they’ve been dating for seven weeks.”

Felicity’s face falls and her arms go to cross over her chest. “You’re saying I knew he was like this, but didn’t care?”

“I’m saying you don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, and I don’t get it.”

No, Felicity thinks. Of course he doesn’t get it. But it’s not entirely his fault — he’s a good guy, after all. He fundamentally can’t understand it when other men aren’t.

Oliver seems to have broken through a barrier that held back what he’s really feeling, because he keeps going.

“And since this is also not the right time, let me also say that if it had been a woman who had done this, her friends would be saying, ‘You go girl!’”

She snorts. He’s trying to prove a double standard where none exists.

“I promise you, he’s getting that right now from his friends in arbitrage.”

After all, dickbags flock to one another. They come together in groups and high-five and congratulate one another after they’ve committed particularly dickish acts.

“No,” Oliver shakes his head. “Deep down, they think he’s an asshole.”

Oh please, Felicity thinks to herself.

“He’s an asshole right on top.”

He tries to explain himself. “Oh no, they — his friends in arbitrage — ”

“Yeah, I know,” she interrupts him. “I was making a joke.”

A tiny smile creeps up over his face. “You’re really…”

He trails off, and Felicity glances over, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

“You’re impressive,” he murmurs.

She realizes he’s looking at her with an intensity she’d never seen before, and if it had been any other day, her heart would be fluttering and there would be butterflies blooming in her stomach.

As it is, she can hardly feel any of that through the thick blanket of despair and humiliation.

---

Eventually Oliver has to leave to produce his show, but he doesn’t kick her out. He insists that she stay in his office as long as she needs, and so she does. The bullpen might have cleared out for the most part, since Right Now with Tommy Merlyn at ten o’clock is the last show of the day, but she still doesn’t want to have to face the people who are lingering.

So she turns on the TV to watch the broadcast. Tommy does the interview she was supposed to do, and he does it well enough. But he neglects to ask the follow-ups. It’s not his fault — Tommy’s not a financial analyst, and it’s certainly not his forte either.

Felicity knows she would have done a better job. And she knows that it really should have been her sitting in that chair instead of Tommy.

And all of a sudden, she feels a deep, flaming anger bloom inside her chest. Fucking Cooper. He is the one who kept her away from the studio. He is the one that made it almost impossible for her to do her job. A job she is damn good at, thank you very much.

He’s the one who deserves to suffer humiliation. Not her.

The show finishes up and fifteen minutes after Tommy signs off, Oliver is back in his office.

“Good show,” she tells him with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he answers, returning it.

“No, thank you.” It’s an inadequate phrase. How are two words supposed to encompass all the gratitude she feels toward him?

But it’s all she has.

“I think I’m done in here,” she tells him. A plan starts to unfold in her mind, and the smile on her face turns vengeful.

She knows what she wants to do next.

Oliver waits outside the conference room. It’s one of the more impressive ones he’s seen around New York, but of course it would be — this is AIG, after all.

Felicity’s standing in the doorway, her back straight and her eyes clear. She wiped the mascara tracks off her face in the cab on the way there, and he swears he’s never seen a more beautiful woman without a speck of makeup on her face than Felicity Smoak.

“Excuse me,” he hears her say. “Cathy told me to come on back. Cooper, can we talk for just one second? I’ll have him right back.”

The next thing he hears is a soft, “excuse me” and the creak of a chair, followed by the shuffle of footsteps as the asshole stands up and walks toward her. Oliver shakes his head — this Cooper guy must be stupider than he though, if he isn’t getting up to run in the opposite direction.

What follows is probably one of the most cathartic experiences he’s ever witnessed.

He sees a little of it from the doorway. Once Cooper is standing just a few feet away from her, Felicity swings her high-heeled foot and kicks him right in between the legs. Cooper lets out a groan of pain and doubles over, but Felicity isn’t finished. She rears back her arm and punches him right in the face.

Straight wrist and all.

A vindictive pleasure washes over him as he sees Cooper fall to the floor, blood spouting from his nose. Sure, Oliver wishes he was the one who could make the asshole bleed, but he also recognizes the need for Felicity to do it herself.

Plus, the smirk on her face is totally worth it.

“I made it to the rage phase,” she says as she pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of her ex-boyfriend lying on the floor, clutching his crotch and bleeding all over his face.

Once she’s finished, she straightens up and strides right out of the room. She hardly glances his way as she walks past him, but her smile is enough to light up the whole room.

He hadn’t been lying when he told her she was impressive.

A few seconds later, Cooper struggles into a standing position and tries to follow her out. Seeing this, Oliver gets in his way and holds out his hand.

“No, no,” he says with a smirk. He will never, ever speak with Felicity Smoak again.

And so help him, if Oliver ever sees Cooper Seldon again, he wouldn’t be nearly as kind.

[mandywantsacookie]

Sparks

Characters: Darcy Lewis, Stephen Strange, Jane Foster, mentions of Steve Rogers.  Entirely MCU based.  Premise: Darcy stumbles upon the strangest thing in the lab one night. Author’s Note: Not long after seeing Doctor Strange I posted this.  The fic has been floating around my head for awhile so I finally decided to see what happened.  This is the result.  I will warn you that this it the first time I have ever attempted to write Stephen Strange, and I sadly have only seen the movie once.  So I am not sure if I got him right.  I just wanted to have fun.  Hopefully you will enjoy it.  Will be posted to AO3 tomorrow.

Darcy is bleary eyed as she shuffles down the hall at a little after 4 in the morning.  Part of her wants to go right back where she came from (a nice warm bed).  Instead she feels her way towards the lab with her fingers, cursing when she stubs her toe on box (why haven’t they unpacked that yet --- it’s been weeks).

She has a feeling.

One strong enough that she had been jolted from dreams of a certain spangly super solider.  She knows better than to ignore said feeling.  She has done that approximately two times in her life and both ended in disaster (that she would rather not talk about thank you very much).  

Half limping from her encounter with the big bad box, Darcy pushes open the door to the lab and sure enough --- her feeling is validated.  “JANE!” She tries her best to sound authoritarian.  She sounds surprised instead which is fitting because her companion clearly hasn’t heard her coming (even with all that cursing).  

Jane’s body jolts and then she lets out a high pitched squeak. “Darcy,” Jane states as she turns away from a machine.  She looks sheepish --- like a kid caught after curfew.  In a way she is.  

Darcy stands in the doorway of the lab, hands on her hips.  “You promised.”

“I know...”

“You promised,” Darcy repeats.  “Five hours of uninterrupted sleep.  No scribbling notes under the covers with a flashlight, no staring at the ceiling while working equations and definitely no lab!”

“But...”

“No buts either,” Darcy states and watches Jane’s head hang.  She has her on the ropes.  “It was our deal. I forsaked my bed until three in the morning just to ensure that you didn’t end up drooling on the....” She glanced at the complex machine still beeping away on the table.  “...on the doohickey of importance because you promised me you would get some real sleep.  Time to keep that promise, missy.”

“Yes, Darcy.”

“Damn straight it’s yes, Darcy,” She says in triumph.  Before Jane can get her second wind and try to argue her down to four hours of sleep, Darcy has her hands on her friend’s shoulders and she is steering her back towards her bedroom.  “This is for your own good you know.  You won’t be able to report on all these exciting new findings...” That Darcy does not understand in the least. “...if you can’t properly string two words together.”  They reach Jane’s bedroom and she gives her friend a little shove.  “Now go! Sleep.”

Jane stumbles and Darcy almost lurches forward to ensure that Jane doesn’t end up face first on the floor.  Thankfully Jane has enough left in her to right her steps.  She looks drunk as she weaves and bobs towards her bed.  

Darcy decides that for the sake of her own sleep cycle she will bear witness to Jane’s final descent.  She moves further into the room, her fingers playing with the hem of the t-shirt she is wearing.  Jane clearly is not interested in sleepwear, instead just flopping on her bed hard enough to bounce.  “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

Jane says something directly into the mattress.  Darcy is sure it is words of agreement.  

“Sweet dreams of Asgardians with big hammers, Jane,” Darcy says fondly, already stepping backwards towards the exit (she can practically taste her bed).  She continues her escape and is nearly free when Jane bolts up straight in bed.

“Darcy!”

Darcy’s heartbeat is pounding against her chest.  “What the hell?  You trying to kill me before I turn thirty?”  

“Turn it off,” Jane instructs and for a moment Darcy is lost.  “It needs to be powered down if no one is monitoring it.”

Ah...the doohickey of importance.

“I got your back,” she promises and leaves as soon as Jane falls back on the bed.  She doesn’t need to look twice to know her friend is deep asleep.  She’ll be doing the same as soon as she follows through on her last good deed of the night.

She avoids the box this time as she makes her way into the lab.  Without Jane to focus on, Darcy finds the whole thing...kind of creepy.  “Right, doohickey and then skedaddle,” she vows and crosses the space towards the machine that is still blinking its own version of Morose Code.  She bends down, squinting to find the off switch.  Predictably it is not labelled.  “ --- I’m going to blow my ass up before I’ve had the chance to climb Mount Rogers.”  

It’s a real possibility.  

Her hand hovers over the machine for a moment or two, fingers dancing between two buttons (she narrows it down by color).  She considers playing Eenie Meenie Miney Mo but that seems wholly unscientific.  Finally, she decides to go with her gut.  After all, she has a good track record (minus those two times).  

She is about to press the circular button on the side when something catches her eye.  Or more accurately, she notices an orange glow bathing the otherwise darkened room.  Uh oh.  She takes a deep breath and glances over her shoulder.

Sparks.

There are sparks.

“Oh shit!” She cries, a panic seizing her immediately.  Sparks aren’t good.  Sparks are never good.  She can’t tell exactly what piece of equipment is about to burst in flames but does that really matter at this point?  

Instead of trying to locate the exact source she scrambles, tripping over Jane’s sneakers.  She lands with an audible umph but it proves to be a useful maneuver.  She can see the fire extinguisher now tucked away under the desk.  She drags it towards her, fingers working the pin as she does so.  By the time she is on her feet again, she is ready to unload the whole thing.

On sparks that have formed a circle --- a swirling circle.

She blinks, wondering if it some science thing or if she has finally lost her goddamn mind.  Either way, she is better off not getting hypnotized by odd display.  It’s still the beginnings of a catastrophe after all.  

She lets loose with the fire extinguisher and a funny thing happens.

(not so much funny haha as funny wtf is this)

Through the cloud of white she sees a shape emerging in the center of the sparks.  It starts small and she squints as it takes on a more discernible form.  A human form.

Her mouth falls open.  For a moment her grip on the extinguisher falters but there are still sparks so she redoubles her efforts.  

“Stop! Stop!” A male voice echoes through the space.

Still in shock as to what she has just witnessed, Darcy actually complies.  The sparks have gone and the cloud of carbon dioxide is settling, bathing the surrounding area in a white residue.

There is a rather large lump in the middle of it all.

She is breathing heavily as she reaches for the lights.  The sudden brightness is harsh on her eyes and she blinks repeatedly to help them adjust.  Then she is looking to the floor.

It is...a red ball.  

At least that is what is looks like.

She is still clutching the fire extinguisher, only now it serves as weapon.  She takes a step closer to the newcomer and then immediately hops back when the red ball begins to wiggle violently.

“Yes, yes, I am alright.  No need for this cocoon,” the male voice says and an arm shoots out from underneath.  It is followed by a leg.  She tilts her head as the red covering seems to unfold itself from around the source of the voice.

She raises the extinguisher expecting the worse.

Then makes a face at what she sees.

“You don’t look like an alien,” she states (a silly thing to say considering the last ‘alien’ she met had a heck of a six pack).

The man finally seems to acknowledge her.  His head turns quickly so he is looking directly at her.  “Excuse me?”

“Alien,” she says slowly, wondering if his birth through a sparkly circus hoop has damaged his hearing.  “You don’t look like an alien.”

He stands (oh boy he’s tall).  There is a furious patting down of his arms and she realizes that that red thing is a cape.  Not a Thor cape either.  This one seems to be alive because it is helping its wearer get rid of any proof he has sprayed down.  He finally looks to her again.  “That is because I am not.”

Huh, that’s new.

“So...you’re...not from Asgard?” She asks, throwing in one last ditch effort for an explanation that would at least make sense to her.

“No, I am not Asgardian,” he assures her.  “I’m Stephen Strange.”

“Got that right,” she immediately retorts, noting that he has a particularly interesting take on facial hair.

He levels a dirty look in her direction.  “Doctor Stephen Strange.”

Darcy hasn’t let up on her grip on the fire extinguisher.  “Darcy Lewis.” 

For a moment she thinks he looks wounded that she hasn’t recognized him.  Then he straightens himself up. “Not Jane Foster then?  Where is she?”

“Sleeping.  Like most people do at this time of night,” Darcy tells him.  She blinks again and then wonders why she is answering his questions.  “Okay, hold up --- just what the hell are you doing here?  And did you seriously come through...nothing?”

There is a hint of a grin on his face.  “No, I did not come from nothing.  That would be physically impossible.  I am afraid that the true explanation is complicated...”

“I work with a world renowned astrophysicist.  Try me.”

He must take it as a challenge (good, she has meant it as one).  “I have the ability to travel throughout various dimensions ---”

“Stop.  Stop right there,” Darcy says, raising the hand holding the nozzle of the extinguisher.  “I am either too tired or not drunk enough to discuss the idea of traveling between dimensions.” She knows of traveling between worlds --- but that’s different then dimensions (or she really has misunderstood the foundation of Jane’s research; entirely possible).  “Let’s just focus on the first question: what the hell are you doing here?”

“Jane Foster is currently working on establishing contact between Earth and various other worlds,” Stephen states.  “Fascinating science really --- almost within the realm of the fantastical...”  

When he shifts his weight, she swings the fire extinguisher over her shoulder, wielding it like a baseball bat.  “How do you know that?”

“Are you going to hit me with that?”

“Right in that goateed face of yours,” Darcy confirms.  “Pro Tip: Tony Stark does it better.”

Stephen appears to weigh his options and then holds up both hands.  “I truly did not come here for nefarious purposes.”  

“Most non-nefarious people use the door,” Darcy points out.

He clucks his tongue.  “--- hardly as convenient.”

Her initial burst of adrenaline is starting to wear off and the exhaustion is creeping in to take its place.  “Look, Doctor Strange, if you want to discuss science with Jane make an appointment with her assistant.  Which is me by the way.  Sorry to stay she’s busy for the next decade or so.  So you and your...cape thing...” Did it just ruffle at Darcy’s words? “...are shit out of luck.”

“Oh I don’t want to discuss,” Stephen corrects.  “Not yet.  I just want to go over notes.  See if she has made any progress since last time...”

Since last time?

It dawns on her.  

“This isn’t your first time fire jumping your way in here, is it?” She asks, horrified.  “You...come here when we are sleeping?”

He seems to realize the implications of her accusation.  “Well...just once.  And only for a minute or two.”

Darcy screws her face up.  “Oh you absolute creep!” She swings the extinguisher now.  It is a clumsy attempt and goes wide.  Still the goddamn cape swipes out and knocks the thing from her hands.  She is left standing there open mouthed and filled with an odd mixture of fury and confusion.  “That thing...that’s the alien.”

Stephen furrows his brows.  “You might be right on that.”  One of the flaps springs up, knocking itself off his cheek.  “Don’t take it personally.” He paws at it until it returns to normal. 

Then he is looking at Darcy intently.  She realizes she is standing there in a pair of underwear and her Culver t-shirt.  Not exactly her best look considering the situation.  She is about to give him hell when she realizes he is not looking at her.  He is looking past her.  She glances over her shoulder to find what has caught his attention.  

The doohickey of importance.

“She managed to get it working,” he states with just the right amount of awe to have Darcy beaming proudly.

“Of course she did.”

Stephen makes a move towards it and Darcy yelps, throwing herself between the strange man and Jane’s current reason for living. 

“No touching!” She tells him, pressing her hands on his chest (impressive pecks for someone whose cape does the fighting for him).  She squirms to turn around.  “Actually I was just shutting it down for the night...” She extends her finger to press the circle button once more.

“No! No! Don’t do that!” Stephen’s voice is loud and Darcy jumps, banging her hip into the side of the table.  She turns to give him a dirty look.  “I mean --- by all means, press it if you wish to find yourself in multiple pieces.”

Okay, first thing tomorrow: Jane is labeling the buttons.

Stephen reaches around her and presses the square bottom on the top.  The blinking stops and the machine makes a noise that she can only equate to powering down.  “There,” he says with a rather large smile.  “Perfectly safe.”

“ --- thanks,” she deadpans.  “Now get the hell out.”

“I suppose that is the best thing to do,” Stephen concedes.  He steps back and goes into a stance that has Darcy snorting out a giggle, despite everything.  He glares in her direction and then eloquently flicks his wrist.  Seconds later those sparks reappear and form a circle.

She can see the Empire State Building in the center of it.

That shuts her up.

He grins once more and steps towards it.  

Darcy finally finds her voice.  “...and no more middle of the night...these things...” She makes a circular motion towards at the impossible thing hovering in the middle of the lab.  “You want to visit, you make an appointment.  I’m serious.  I’m setting up motion detectors and everything.”

Okay, Jane will set them up.

Stephen gives a nod of his head.  Then steps through the circle.  Moments later it fades until there are only a few sparks left.  She can’t help but stick her finger out to let one touch her finger as it falls.  She hisses as it burns her skin.

She leaves the lab as it is (white foam on the floor, fire extinguisher lying haphazardly next to the computer tower) and hits the lights.  She needs her bed.  Badly.  She repeats Jane’s actions and practically throws herself at it.  

She finds herself suckling her singed finger as she thinks over the entire crazy encounter.

In the end, she decides that yep, sparks are definitely bad.