Oliver is never not beautiful when he's laughing the way he does just now: thrown surprised and delighted by it.
It's an easy thought, a carelsss one, fond and absent, at her own flash bright trite levity and proof of measuring up to his request. Maybe that doesn't get any further inspection, maybe it hasn't in good while now, but there has never been and will never again a day, in any timeline, on any world, where Oliver Queen needs something from her and she won't be there to help him with all she can and all she has.
Still, she doesn't miss a beat, Miss Sara Lance, whose face turns a river of shameless implication to the opposite, posture canted to one side, and smile a tilted twist. "Well, that's definitely your first mistake. Try not to contemplate too hard that you asked for your own demise while you get my knives."
Which is all she says, before her weight shifts on the turn of one foot and she's making her way through the crowd back to the bar he'd originally come from the direction of.
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Oliver is never not beautiful when he's laughing the way he does just now: thrown surprised and delighted by it.
It's an easy thought, a carelsss one, fond and absent, at her own flash bright trite levity and proof of measuring up to his request. Maybe that doesn't get any further inspection, maybe it hasn't in good while now, but there has never been and will never again a day, in any timeline, on any world, where Oliver Queen needs something from her and she won't be there to help him with all she can and all she has.
Still, she doesn't miss a beat, Miss Sara Lance, whose face turns a river of shameless implication to the opposite, posture canted to one side, and smile a tilted twist. "Well, that's definitely your first mistake. Try not to contemplate too hard that you asked for your own demise while you get my knives."
Which is all she says, before her weight shifts on the turn of one foot and she's making her way through the crowd back to the bar he'd originally come from the direction of.