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"Not going to lie, that would probably do it for me."
Oliver hits pause and glances at her sidelong, a frown downturning his lips. "Really? You'd fall for that?"
Felicity arches a brow, peering at him over the frame of her glasses. "Is that judgment I detect?"
"No," he denies quickly, fiddling with the plastic device in his hand, "I just never pictured you being duped by such an obvious play. I mean, working Dirty Dancing into conversation? Having the soundtrack just conveniently on hand? It's all so..." he waves the remote vaguely at the screen, scrabbling for the right descriptor, "contrived."
"As opposed to any other ploy to get into a woman's pants?"
He shrugs. "More so than others, I'd say."
Felicity's gaze shifts back to the paused screen, spoon tapping idly against her lips. "Okay, first of all, I would not be 'duped'. If, hypothetically speaking, Ryan Gosling were to pick me up at a bar, take me to his place and pull out The Big Move, I would absolutely know what he was up to." Her lips twist wryly. "Because a dude bringing up Dirty Dancing for no reason and out of the blue? Total tip-off. But would I call him out on it?" She shrugs a shoulder. "Probably not."
"But why is that?" Oliver asks, attempting nonchalance.
Felicity rolls her eyes. "Look, I'm a human woman who happens to be a diehard Dirty Dancing fan. And just like a pair of strategically placed boobs can get a frat boy to do anything," he sheepishly ducks his head at her pointed look, "a shirtless Ryan Gosling lifting me into the air à la Patrick Swayze will knock down all my barbed wire defences and reduce me to a puddle of goo."
Oliver slumps into the sofa, a hand scrubbing over his jaw as he considers her response. "So," he drags out the syllable, squinting at the frozen frame of Emma Stone, mid-flail and held high by Ryan Gosling, "is it, like, every woman's fantasy to recreate that lift?"
"Well, I don't know if it's every woman's, though the movie sort of insinuates it is." Felicity shovels out a spoonful of ice cream and pops it into her mouth. Swallowing, she says, "But it's a classic, as far as romantic scenes go. Right up there with John Cusack and his boombox and, like, every second scene from Titanic." She shrugs. "I certainly wouldn't pass up the opportunity if someone offered."
Oliver hums, low and thoughtful, gaze settling on her.
"What?" Felicity blurts out, a hand raising to her face self-consciously. "Do I have chocolate on my face?"
He shakes his head, lifting her calves from his lap to rise to his feet. Folding her legs to her chest, Felicity scoots closer to the arm of the sofa, eyes following his movements with mild curiosity.
Oliver whisks the bowl of ice cream from its perch on her knees, ignoring her loudly voiced protest. He sets it on the coffee table before turning back to tug her up gently by the wrists, careful to avoid a whack to the nose from the spoon she still wields in her hand. "We're going to do this."
"And what exactly is this 'this' we're going to be doing?" Felicity asks, warily eyeing Oliver as he proceeds to shove various pieces of furniture into the corners of the room.
"I," he pushes the sofa up against the wall, "am officially offering you the opportunity to experience that Dirty Dancing scene firsthand."
Felicity's expression transitions (quite comically, in Oliver's opinion) from one of slack-jawed disbelief to nose-scrunched confusion before settling on slit-eyed suspicion.
"Are you messing with me?" she asks, pointing the spoon at him accusingly. "Because Oliver Queen volunteering to recreate a scene from one of the corniest movies in existence is not something I thought I'd see in this - or any other - lifetime. In fact, it sounds like something straight out of an Oliver Queen nightmare, number two on your bucket list of 'Things I'll Never Do', right under tropical getaway with Malcolm Merlyn."
He shrugs. "I'm trying this new thing where I defy people's expectations of me, and according to Thea, I need to stop walking around with a rod shoved up my ass."
Felicity snorts. "And that starts with me?"
A firm nod. "It starts with you."
"So I'm basically the unfortunate test subject," she sighs in mock-despair. "Alright, fine, I guess I can work with that. But if we're really going to do this, you have to fill me in on the logistics. Like, just high off the ground are we talking here? Because my ceiling's pretty low and I have zero interest in getting up close and personal with the ceiling fan."
"Scared of a little height?" Oliver asks archly, lips quirking into a smirk.
Felicity scoffs, plunking her spoon onto the nearest surface and crossing her arms. "You wish. Since agreeing to work with you, I've had the absolute pleasure of," she begins to tick off points on her fingers, "swinging across an elevator shaft, zip-lining out of various high-rises buildings, and, most memorably, jumping out of a flying aircraft."
She sniffs haughtily. "At this point, you could airdrop me onto the tip of the Eiffel Tower and ask me to bungee jump off it and I wouldn't bat an eye." Her gaze turns leery. "Not that I'm suggesting we test that theory."
"Not even for science?"
"Not ever."
Answering Oliver's pout with a baleful glare thrown over her shoulder, Felicity stomps to the opposite end of the room.
"Okay, let's see if you've got what it takes to out-Swayze the Gosling," she huffs, launching into an elaborate sequence of stretches.
"What're you doing?" he asks, watching her reach for her toes.
"Limbering up." The duh goes unspoken, manifesting as a halfhearted eye-roll instead. "I'm not going to bed with a pulled hamstring." She begins a series of lunges. "Not that I doubt your physical ability -- because anyone who's seen you climb a rope with just your arms would be hard pressed to deny your upper body strength -- but are you sure you can even do this?"
She switches legs. "Because even professional dancers train for this kind of thing, you know; it doesn't just happen. And then there's the space issue, or lack thereof. My living room isn't exactly a ballroom or a dance studio--"
"Felicity."
Her eyes snap to his, nearly wobbling out of her lunge. "Yeah?"
A knowing smile pulls at Oliver's lips. "You're stalling."
"I am not!"
"Then," he backs up a couple of paces, "let's do this."
Felicity breathes out an incredulous laugh, stepping her feet back together. "I can't believe you are the one convincing me to do this." She rolls out her shoulders and neck, hopping lightly on the spot. "You better not drop me, Oliver," she warns, "I've never broken a bone in my life and I don't plan on starting tonight."
"You trust me, don't you?"
She shoots him a pointed look. "You know I do."
"Then," he says, stance widening and knees bending, upturned palms beckoning her forward, "have a little faith."
With a deep inhale (and a muttered "Here goes nothing"), Felicity sprints toward Oliver, springboarding into his outstretched arms just as he's stooping a fraction lower to receive her. He catches her by the waist, hands strong and steady, effortlessly lifting her high over his head.
Air rushes out of Felicity's lungs in an exhilarated laugh as she braces her hands against Oliver's shoulders, legs kicking awkwardly to find balance. As far as execution went, it was more Emma Stone than Jennifer Grey.
Once she's steadied herself ("Keeping the flailing to a minimum might be helpful," Oliver suggests dryly. He receives a pinch to the shoulder for his trouble.), Felicity peers down, head cocked to the side. "You should be a carnival attraction." At his bemused expression, she hastily explains. "Like a kissing booth, but instead of kissing, you do this. 'Dirty Dancing Reenactment with Oliver Queen' -- you'd be the hottest selling attraction."
Oliver chuckles, thumbs brushing over her lower ribs. "I'll be sure to suggest it for the next charity event. Maybe that'll get the organizers off my back about doing the dunk tank."
She gives an amused headshake. "While I've no doubt that that would draw quite the crowd and probably raise enough money to fund an entire wing for Starling General, we both know that's a terrible idea. Getting you shirtless and wet will be the last thing on people's minds once they get an eyeful of your scars and tattoos." She blows an errant curl out of her face. "I say you get Digg and Roy to man the dunk tank. There's enough rippling muscle and a combined twelve-pack between the two of them to satisfy the masses."
Oliver grins, wide and affectionate. "And that's why you're the brains behind our operations. We wouldn't last a day--" The rest of the sentence dies in his throat as he stumbles over a dog-eared corner of her geometric rug. The descent to the ground inevitable, he quickly brings a squawking Felicity to his chest, who in turn curls into him, eyes squeezed shut and hands clutching the front of his hoodie.
They land with an oomph, Oliver absorbing most of the impact as his back collides with the cold hardwood, hand cupping the back of Felicity's head instinctively.
"This is exactly what I was afraid of," she mumbles wryly into his neck.
"But, as promised, no broken bones."
"Yeah, but maybe forever traumatized from attempting that ever again." She blinks up at him. "I feel like a bird that's just crash landed on its first attempt at flying."
He dips his chin, peering down at her. "A bird?"
"Yeah, like a nestling that really should've known better."
"Well," he presses a kiss into the crown on her head, "if you're a bird, I'm a bird."
"That is," Felicity peers up at him with knitted brows, "not from the Ryan Gosling movie we were just watching."
"I know. It's from The Notebook."
She arches a brow.
Oliver shrugs. "I was around for that. Kind of hard to escape, actually. Laurel made me sit through it in theatres, then Thea begged me to watch it with her when it came out on DVD. Also," a roguish smirk tugs at his lips, "it was my way in with the ladies." Then he winks.
Realization dawns on Felicity. The cheeky bastard. "Did you just play your version of The Big Move on me?"
"I don't know," he hums innocently, "is it working?"
"Well, seeing as how we're already sleeping together, I'd say I'm the last person you should be testing your moves on. You're bound to get skewed results." She lifts onto her forearms and tilts her head. "Though I am curious, what other Notebook bits did you misappropriate for the purposes of charming the ladies?"
Oliver merely presses his lips together, shaking his head.
"Oh, come on," Felicity whines. "I won't laugh at your lack of creativity. This movie was every man's go-to source for the dos and -- okay, only dos -- of making a girl swoon post-2005." Her smile is coaxing. "I know you're just dying to spill the beans, and you may as well tell me now because Laurel certainly won't hold back."
Oliver's chest rumbles beneath her.
"Did you do the dangling from the Ferris wheel bit? Or lie in the middle of a road to prove you were a badass, and then follow that up with some moonlit dancing to showcase your inner romantic? Did you go full out rowboats, swan-gazing and scraggly beards? Oh my God, don't tell me you built them houses because--"
He cuts her off, kissing her soundly on the lips. He smiles as Felicity melts into him.
"You have a knack for that?" she murmurs against his lips.
"What?"
"Stopping my babbles."
Oliver nips at her bottom lip. "It's why you keep me around."
She sighs contentedly. "Amongst other things."
He hums.
"Like your my abs." She runs a hand down his torso. "Which could totally out-pack Ryan Gosling's anytime and anywhere. And bonus: I know for a fact yours aren't photoshopped."
Oliver tips his head back, barking out a laugh.
"But we're going to have to work on that lift of yours, mister," Felicity says drolly, snuggling into his chest. "Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to drag Ryan Gosling into this relationship."
"Noted."