1964-03-28 - Gangsters, Gams and Green Men
Summary: Lois Lane is investigating gangsters smuggling drugs through paintings when she meets Oliver Queen and takes him as her cover date. Romance, action and comedy ensue in a completely (un)successful evening.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
oliver lois 

Sometimes the most difficult part of being a vigilante is maintaining a low profile. Comparably low, anyway. Oliver was pleased to receive an invite to the unveiling of a private art gallery featuring pre-war paintings from France, Poland, Germany, and Russia. The collector is a decent enough sort, but his acquisitions are gifts from mobsters and war criminals. Thus Oliver's pleasure. Many birds with one stone.

The eldest Queen is wearing the best, as always. While most of the men here are sporting tuxedos, Oliver has opted for a dinner jacket and a crisp bow tie. Despite his elegant attire, he still seems to have forgotten how to shave somewhere in the last day or two.

The party has been booked at a concert hall that has a blessedly large number of sidebars. After a great deal of shaking hands, dancing, and making merry, Ollie has taken up at one of the bars and is ordering a double scotch.


Of course, this is NOT the sort of party that Lois Lane gets an invitation to. No one wants a reporter sniffing around a room full of gangers and war criminals. Hell, most people in New York don't want Lois Lane sniffing around *at all*. But, that's why she was such a good reporter, and no one really know the face behind the infamous byline, so it was easy enough for her to sneak her way in. Some bullshitting at the door about being so-and-so's date, the flashing of a low cut dress, flirting, and suddenly she was inside, sniffing around most of the night without being caught.

However, she had a feeling a few people were getting suspicious. Lois felt the eyes of the security guards on her back more than once over the last twenty minutes. So, she needed a better plan. Having surveyed the entire room twice now, she's already broken down people by profile, type, who is dating whom, and general motivations. That left her exactly one man who may be a safe cover for her and who did not have a date. Oliver Queen. So, suddenly, there is a dark haired woman in a practically skin tight red dress next to him. She's stunning, in that dangerous, femme fatale sort of way. She smells like vanilla and wine and has her hair down carelessly across completely bared shoulders. She mutters quickly beneath her breath, lips hidden by the wine glass she's holding. "I need a date right now, if anyone asks, pretend we came here together. I promise I'll make you look good and make it worth your while after."


To his credit, Ollie doesn't hesitate. He smiles crookedly and reaches out to lay his hand at the small of his new date's back. "I make it a point to never say no to a beautiful woman," he admits. "Especially one wearing red."

Where he'd previously kept his voice low, now he raises it as he calls for two glasses of champagne. Once the bartender has departed, he cocks his head a fraction to the side. "You're hiding," he surmises. Rather than judging, he seems intrigued. "You need cover. If I were a shade more ruthless, I'd squeeze you until you really made it worth my while. Why the subterfuge?"


Like they've known each other a decade and slept together at least a dozen times, Lois suddenly, languidly sinks into the grasp of his arm. She's flush and warm to the touch, already having had at least a few glasses of wine, and the back of her dress leaves much of her skin scandalously bare. It was a gown made to distract people from her face, to her body. Made so people would talk about her LOOKS and not her actual PERSON. There are many versions of undercover.

"Champange? Mmm. You do spoil me, my dear. And to think I was coming over to make you feel guilty for bringing me and not asking me to dance a single time yet!" Lois insists, more publicly loud, her full mouth playing into an overly dramatic sort of smirk. She then settles in closer against him, her head turning to whisper some sweet nothing at the line of his jaw.

"Just over my left shoulder, in the powder blue get up? That's Tommy Corsone. He's here tonight to finish a negotiation between families to take over the drug smuggling business from the Corelli's. All these paintings that came in from Europe? There were drugs in all the packing materials. If he finishes this deal, there won't be single dealer in New York that can beat the Corsone monopoly. Not even the Asians. And that's going to get messy real fast. Hoping to blow the story out of the water but I think someone got wind that the fourth estate was here and I'm five steps from being kicked out."


Oliver's eyes flutter half-closed and he angles he chin upward to better accept the attentions he's been offered. "Guilty? You know I don't have that setting. All the same, I promise I'll make tonight worth your while."

Though he seems languid and apathetic on the surface, his eyes are sharp and wary. He spots the offered targets, then files each detail about them away for future reference.

Though they've barely touched them, he takes both glasses of champagne and sets the back on the bar. "Dance with me." He's lowered his voice again, using tones that are clearly just for the two of them as he offers his hand. "You'll blend in and make me look good at the same time."


"I am very skilled at making a man look good. Especially one who's already three fourths of the way there." That comment should have been louder, should have been made for the room, but it wasn't. It's not about work, it's all about him, and it absolutely was her flirting— that dangerous, tempting glimmer in her ice blue eyes. While she is here to work, Lois seems a woman who actually knows how to enjoy herself as well. "I never thought you'd ask." That part she does say louder, letting him set the glasses down and lead her out to the floor.

Lois' body moves like a languid, slightly overly affectionate feline. All graceful movements, ALMOST too slow, but just keeping up with the time, and close enough to his body to be scandalous. But she knows how to dance and she knows how to follow a lead, her legs weaving in between his on the spike heels she wears. Those motions reveal her left, shapely leg all the way up to her mid thigh, the slit in her dress allowing for such freedom of movement. As they sink into a vicious and seductive tango, she mutters.

"Corelli is either going to take the deal and run, leaving most of his crew high and dry, or try to pull a hit on Corsone outside at the end of tonight. If he can take out Corsone, he'll be able to take over *his* crew and still get the monopoly."


Just as they start to dance, the orchestra strikes up 'Por Una Cabeza.' It's a classic song that's silky and seductive. There's nothing better suited for a tango.

When the strings hit a high note, Oliver reaches down to take his still unnamed date's leg behind the knee. He draws her up close to him and cups her cheek with his free hand when the music reaches a crescendo.

When he whispers, it's under the cover of a kiss to the ear while he rakes back a pile of soft, dark hair. "He's planning the hit, but Corsone still has support. It could get ugly. How do you know all this? Who ARE you?"


If there was anything more seductive to Lois Lane than a handsome man who can dance, take control, AND whispers sweet nothings about mob-hits into her ear? She can't think of it right now. Adrenaline pumps, making her heart skip a touch, with the thrill of this situation on so many levels. She fully trusts her weight to his arms, leg draped over his grasp and nose dragging down the side of his temple the same way her fingertips trace his back with the drama of the music.

"Lois Lane. Investigative reporter. And I know I want the story but, even more than that, I'd rather not innocents die. The mobsters can bite at each other all they please, but this has the potential to be a blood bath. I know all this because I've been tailing Corsone for three weeks. I think it's one of his guards that finally recognized me." Even without her normal, tinted sunglasses. Even with way more make up and way more high society than she ever has on a regular basis.

Then she's suddenly being spun away with the music. She takes two seconds to look over the pattern in the room, who Corsone stands with. Where his hand is. When she's spun back into Oliver's body, she mutters, "I don't think Corsone is carrying. Everyone else is."


Oliver spins Lois and pulls her back against him. He keeps one arm around her waist and the other buried in her hair. Either he's very, very good at putting on a show or he's actually enjoying himself. Probably both, though there's a telltale smile on his face. "Corsone keeps a straight razor in his jacket pocket. Don't underestimate him. And his guards are better armed than they look."

He dips her low, supporting her weight easily as he leans over her. When he straightens, he lifts her until her feet barely touch the ground, then lowers her down along the front of his suit. "There's someone here keeping an eye on them. If things get out of hand, he'll cut in, though I may have to step away to let him know he's needed."


The woman is easily lifted — Lois is a bit skin and bones beneath that dress, the long, lanky sort of body which is coming into style but is also probably partially a product from working far too long hours, forgetting to eat, and more than one regular drug habit. But she's not strung out tonight. Not in the least. She knew she was coming to something highly dangerous and she had to be on her game. The wine has been the only intoxicant in her blood this evening. Well, and the way his dancing makes her head spin.

"…Damn, you're good at this." Lois half growls, half purrs, as he slowly drags her down the front of his suit. One of her hands remains hooked around the back of his shoulders so, the moment her feet finally hit the ground fully, one leg can come up and wrap around his waist so he can dip her violently back once more and she can help balance her weight, snapping back up against him as fast as she went down. "…Step away? You know Batman, or something?" She half laughs, lips moving to the other side of his head, "…I don't care who you call, as long as I get the exclusive on the story. Capiche?" The Italian is definitely used in some strange mockery of the whole ridiculously dangerous situation.


"You're pretty good, too. And you look good while you're doing it." At this point it's clear that Lois isn't the only one enjoying their dance. He cups a hand against the back of her neck; it's an old-fashioned dance step, one normally reserved for lovers. Though they have everyone else convinced, between the two of them it could be considered scandalous. Then he leans in to graze his lips against her collarbone, which brings them a half-step past establishing a cover story.

"I've met him," Oliver says, chuckling. "But I wouldn't expect him if I were you. Either way, I think you've more than earned your story at this point. You may be the most dedicated reporter I've met."


There is no complaint for her about them pushing the cover story. A girl can actually enjoy many levels of her work, no? Lois' eyes half lid and he might actually be able to hear the fact that her breath *does* catch a moment or two. She wasn't expecting that. She liked it. For as on top of everything as she is, and as much as she's here for the job, he has managed to surprise her. Fingertips tighten on his shoulder a bit more, their bodies so close that, at this point, some people are looking away in almost discomfort. All the better for her to not get fingered by the security guards once and for all.

"That's all I ask. I'm half tempted to call the fuzz in on this, but I'm pretty sure half of them are in Corsone's pocket anyway. At least, in this area of the city." And there is that line of government conspiracy theory paranoia behind her voice. Lois is a damned good reporter, but she doesn't much trust anyone that wasn't herself and the words she printed. "And yes. I'm the best damned reporter in this entire city. Junior title or not. The tits hold me back."


"I'd beg to differ." Oliver is gentleman enough to not look down at them, but barely. "Your cover would be perfect if you weren't the most stunning woman here. I'm not sure if you're wearing that dress or it's wearing you, but I'm not the only one who's noticed how good you look."

The song ends too soon, but he doesn't let Lois go. He lingers on the last note with her held close to his chest and his eyes on hers. This is another moment when people aren't sure if they should stare or look away, and for good reason. "You don't want to call the police," he whispers against her ear. "They'd just get in the way. Trust me."


"I know they would. Occasionally, some strange sense of being a proper citizen rings loose in the back of my head, but then I remember we live in New York, half this city is corrupt, the government has been lying to us for years and is setting us up to go to war *again* and people like Wilson Fisk are making the cops dance on his puppet strings. So… I trust the one and only thing I can, the fourth estate, and I'll defend it until the day I die." Lois rants quietly, heated whispers against his cheek of a woman who feels *far* too strongly about these things and doesn't her normal blunting, coping mechanisms. So everything is there, right on the surface, screaming at the back of her head to mingle with the heat of their dance and the heady scent of his colonge. It was almost too much. Almost.

So, she lingers there, body pressed fully against his front and bare leg still woven between his as they sink into half swaying to the far slower, jazzy piece that hs come up next. The room couldn't take two tangos like that in a row. "… So… who's your friend and why should I trust him? Or her. It'd be a real damn interesting twist if it was a her." Slowly, as they settle into this dance and conversation, her long, bare arms wind their way around the back of his neck. Most of the security has lost interest by now. They look like drunk, besotted lovers.


"Your passion is admirable," Oliver admits. Then he smiles slyly. "As is your dedication to the cause."

The change in tune suits him. He doesn't relinquish his hold on Lois. Far from it, he seems to be enjoying it at least as much as she is. The way she feels. The sound of her voice. The red dress.

The change in tune slows things down. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her closer, then leans in until his lips are a whisper away from hers. That's when he responds. "Him. Telling is no fun. Wouldn't you rather find out for yourself?"


He's not alone in enjoying this. It's been a long time since Lois met someone who could keep up with her, mentally and physically. Much less doing it fully sober on her end. Touch was so much more alive this way, skin more sensitive. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline of knowing half the room was ready to kill each other at some point in time before the end of the night. Still, she sways with him, almost matching her breath to the timing of his. It was hard not to fall into some sort of mirrored sync like this.

The tease of his lips, not *actually* completeing that kiss but teasing her the whole damn way, it makes her red mouth smile against the brush of his. She can appreciate the tease. "…I'm a reporter. Telling is all the fun. Gives me time to get the story right and interesting, you know. And get the best…" She shifts a bit closer to him, head angled up so her lips absolutely touch the corner of his as she breathes out the next work, "… angle. So I can keep aware of everything that's going… Down."


Now teasing and angles aren't enough for Oliver. He hooks the curve of a finger under his date's chin and tips her head back a fraction further. Still, the kiss he offers is a bare brush. It'd be chaste if it were shared between two different people on a very different night. Tonight the grazing kiss tells a longer and far more interesting story.

"I'd love to tell you a story, but I think my friend and I would both be in trouble if it ended up in the papers." It's another few seconds before he withdraws, but he leaves a hand up cupping Lois' cheek affectionately. "And I get the impression you're a reporter who knows how to get exactly what she wants, especially when it comes to a story."


While Lois was sniffing out the story, and she knew that they were getting dangerously close to the time that Corsone was supposed to make the trade off, she could not help but let her pale eyes sink shut behind heavy lashes for just a quickened heartbeat or two, as their lips actually brush. It's only when they break that Lois gives the quietest of little groans into his mouth, "Gods dammit why am I working tonight?" She half growls it, half laughs it. "And yes. I am… very good at getting what I want." That is a promise, devilish grin in her eyes as they reopen.

And then she hears steps behind them moving for a door and she stiffens suddenly, "…Go time. I'm headed out the side door. I think I very much need a cigarette right now. Seems wise to get fresh air." And then she can be getting fresh air near whatever else is going down outside. Suddenly, her body is shifting away from his, leaving cold air where there once was flesh.

"I guarantee your place is closer." It's clear that's all it takes to make it the preferable location in Oliver's mind. "So yours first. Then mine."

Sounds like sleep may be a mythical thing best left in the distant future. His crooked smile stretches into a mischievous grin. "And none taken. I've leave the leather on. Don't even think about taking off that dress. At least not right away."

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