Work Text:
“Are you hogging my WiFi?”
His apartment door slams shut with a burst of energy, the rapid clicking of heels echoing against wooden floors signaling the whirlwind entrance of one Felicity Smoak, his next door neighbor and truest friend.
Oliver’s lips twitch before she even enters his peripheral vision. “Good to see you too, Felicity.”
When he glances up from the bowl of dough, Oliver instantly stills.
There, standing in his kitchen, is the Vice President of Palmer Tech, dressed in an elaborate Christmas green dress with her golden hair curled and falling in a perfect cascade over her shoulder. Her presence in his apartment is nothing unusual--considering the fact that they spend ample time together almost every weekend. But seeing her like this ...adorned for a lavish evening with her hair styled so simply yet elegantly, so very Felicity ...Oliver feels all his breath leave his body almost painfully. She looks like she just stepped out of a classic movie. She looks like she belongs anywhere but in his cramped, flour-coated kitchen.
But all Oliver manages is a gulp and a “You look nice.”
Felicity rolls her eyes, thankfully utterly ignorant to his startled reaction to her glowing appearance. “Office Christmas party-- not Holiday Party, mind you. Although I’ve mentioned to them that I am Jewish on a number of occasions. I mean, half the staff knows I’m Jewish. You would think being the VP would give me some cred in this arena but nooooo. Not that I’m complaining. Or am I? I shouldn’t complain about work functions like this when there are so many people out there who don’t get to celebrate either holiday and--and does that make me a bad person?”
She pauses in her rant just long enough to catch her breath.
When she doesn’t continue but just stares at him with newfound concern, clearly waiting for an answer, Oliver smiles gently. “Felicity, I don’t there’s anything on earth that could make you a bad person.”
He’s pleased to see that his words have their intended positive impact, as her face softens, as her shoulders seem to loosen, and her posture loses some of its tension. “That’s sweet of you to say. But you know me too well.”
And yet not well enough , Oliver thinks. As far as he’s concerned, there is always more to learn about this woman. He could devote a lifetime to the task and still come up short.
Felicity suddenly sighs, staring down at her own gown in disappointment. “I’m not so sure green is my color.”
Oliver follows her line of sight and feels one of his eyebrows rise up in betrayal. Oh, he would beg to differ. Wrapped in emerald green fabric that hugs her waist just right and accentuates her toned legs...this woman manages to make every color look ravishing. Oliver swallows, quickly diverting his attention back to the task in front of him.
“Space heater not working again?” he asks casually, glancing up just enough to notice her head shaking. He regrets that decision when she bits her lower lip in dismay. Why is every little act that she does so appealing to him?
“You can stay here as long as you need to,” he tells her, like he tells her almost every weekend. It seems no repairman can get that contraption to work longer than 24 hours. He’s thought about just buying her a new one entirely to save all this time and effort. Except then they wouldn’t have these little rituals.
“I should just move in here,” she says in passing, tossing off her heels and throwing them into a corner, like she already owns the place.
Oliver tries to ignore the flutter that passes through his chest at the thought of her living here . He also tries--and fails completely--to ignore the way his heart seems to beat little faster as her body moves closer to him.
“And what are you doing this fine evening?” Felicity asks right against his shoulder.
Oliver clears his throat as he rolls another batch of dough. “Baking some cookies for my family’s annual Christmas party.”
She snorts. “Doesn’t your mom have like ten chefs to do that for her?”
“There’s actually only one chef--and Raisa, of course. But I don’t know...I like baking.”
“Oh really? So you’re telling me all those breads I’ve received over the past year were not made from toil and sorrow?” Her tone is full of mock exasperation that Oliver can’t help but look at her again. He catches the way her eyes glint with humor, the slight tip in her head silently challenging him to banter back.
Something inside him softly clicks into place. He likes her most like this, when the weight of the world has slipped from her shoulders, when she doesn’t have to be Felicity Smoak Vice President, or when he doesn’t have to be the socialite Queen son. When it’s just the two of them, two ordinary people living and making each other happy. Making each other better.
“Want to help?” He has to work to keep the eagerness out of his tone, but he doubts he succeeds, if her emerging smile is anything to go by. It’s only then that he remembers her dress, and he’s about to rescind his offer, when--
“Is it safe for me to help?” Her eyes narrow teasingly.
Oliver’s already moving to grab the spare apron--the Felicity apron, the white one covered in stains and animated kittens performing various cooking activities. It was given to him once as a gag present, but after Felicity wore it the first time she helped him prep a family Thanksgiving dish, Oliver set the apron aside and officially deemed it hers. Other than the wooden basket from the welcome gift basket she gave him last year, it’s the only item in his apartment that belongs to her. One day he hopes to change that.
Without hesitation, Felicity pirouettes in place, letting Oliver slip the apron over her head and tie it in place. As he ties a loose knot right on top of the zipper of her dress, Oliver leans in close to her ear. “Felicity, one of these days you need to get over your phobia of the kitchen.”
When he finishes tying the knot, Felicity turns back around, already giving him the look. “It’s not a phobia. It’s practicality. I can’t ruin anything if I just avoid all kitchen appliances in general.”
Oliver chuckles. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Um have you met me? I accidentally burn down the whole apartment complex?”
“Felicity, you burnt a pizza once . That could happen to anybody. Besides, I’ll be here the entire time. I promise you won’t burn anything.” He can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding her shoulder for reassurance.
She nibbles on the inside of her cheek for a bit, before finally nodding.
“How about you just measure some flour? You can measure, right?” he taunts.
She shoots him a pretend glare and then proceeds to measure flour with precise and dainty care, carefully scraping a butter knife across each and every scoop. Oliver gets distracted throughout their baking process by the way her bottom lip pouts a little as she focuses or the way little strands of hair fall into her face every time she scraps floured fingers through her hair. By the time the second batch is in the oven, her cheeks and neck are coated in patches of white. She’s never looked more lovely.
As they work side-by-side, swapping horror stories of holidays past and tossing flour at each other and eating an obscene amount of cookie dough, an unfamiliar peace sneaks in and settles within Oliver’s heart. As he watches her now, a tiny goddess determined to help a friend in need, even in the face of something she fears, even something as simple as cooking, a new image begins to form and linger in Oliver’s mind...like a soft dream descending from the heavens. He can see this being their life one day. He can picture them , her dressed to the nines but barefoot in the kitchen after a long day, babbling about work in that adorably animated way of hers, while he cooks and discusses his plans for the club expansion. How he wishes being a club owner and perpetual socialite was good enough for her, that he was good enough.
From the day he stumbled upon her lock-picking her way into her own apartment, Oliver Queen has been smitten. They grew into a natural friendship the way a lot of neighbors do. But even then, Oliver knew ...there was just something about her, some innate goodness that drew him back for more, a constant need to remain in her presence, to keep her company, to be the source of her smiles.
He’s been in love with his best friend for so long he’s forgotten what life was like before she became what he most looked forward to every day. How can he go another day without telling her? It’s Christmas, after all. What’s the worst that could happen? Perhaps he should take his own advice.
“Felicity?” he hears himself asking.
“Hmm?” She’s looks up from another scoop of flour.
Oliver licks his lips, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs with an alarming intensity. “I uh… You’re Jewish.”
She blinks. “I don’t need to be told that.” He can tell she’s trying hard not to laugh, and he loves her all the more for it.
“I just mean...I know you said you don’t celebrate Christmas…”
“Well, I don’t know. Your Christmas cookies might have just convinced me.” She winks at him, and Oliver almost gives up right then.
Instead, he huffs a sigh. “Felicity?”
“Yes Oliver?” She’s really smiling now, shooting him a devilish grin while taking another bite out of a recently baked cookie, the act distracting him enough that he focuses on the tantalizing movement of her bright red lips.
“Would you…” He clears his throat, forcing himself--and yet, not really forcing at all--to look her in the eye. He finds the same steady generosity that he always finds there, and it’s enough to boost his courage. “Would you like to come to my family’s Christmas party tomorrow with me?”
She frowns, obviously not understanding. “Oliver, it’s your family. You shouldn’t have to bribe someone into going with you.”
“I’m not bribing you. I’m...negotiating.” Suddenly, he’s becoming more desperate. And the longer he talks, the worse his efforts become. “Please, I just...last year was kind of a disaster. And this year, with everything that’s been going on with Thea, I just...I could use someone with me.”
Oliver groans a little at the back of his throat. God, he is butchering this.
She considers his offer for a moment. “Someone as in like a friend?”
He shakes his head, stepping a bit closer, about to try again. “Felicity--”
Her eyes suddenly go wide. “Oh. Or is this like a date...thing? Like a date-date? As in...you and me?” She motions rapidly between the two of them.
Oliver stills. Now that it’s been said, there’s no way to unsay it...to take it back...to return to the way things were between them. Safe. As just friends. He can’t even bring himself to verbally confirm what she’s surmised. All he can do is stand there and wait.
He regards her with rapt, stunned attention as her look changes, softening. A slow, easy smile develops across her face, and her eyes seem to light up. While he knows that smile very well, it’s the way she’s watching him now that makes him feel like the pulse in his neck is going to explode. As she lazily moves into his personal space and rises up on her tiptoes, Oliver’s hands naturally find her waist, pulling her closer.
“Oliver…” she breathes against his skin just before she presses her lips to his.
Felicity . He swallows her name as he kisses her back. She’s warm and all-consuming, full of the taste of sweet mint and cookie dough and home. She feels even more amazing than he’d hoped. She feels like she belongs with him and he with her. Her arms come up and wrap around his neck, as she leans even more deeply into his embrace, into him , trusting him completely to hold her safe.
When they finally come up for air, Felicity pulls back just enough to nuzzle her floured nose against his. She lets out a short laugh, and Oliver laughs with her out of sheer amazement.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask me,” she whispers before pecking his lips once more.
“What?” He studies her face, searching for what she’s not saying out loud.
An oddly guilty look crosses her face, her cheeks turning a deep shade a red. Felicity pulls out a piece of paper from one of her dress pockets and hands it to him.
Oliver opens the thin slip of paper that’s clearly been folded and refolded so many times it bears heavy creases that are threatening to tear. When he opens it, all that is written there is a single word in her classically neat handwriting: Mistletoe.
Oliver frowns, still confused. “What’s this?”
When Felicity bites her lower lip again, he's sorely tempted to kiss it. But then she launches into her explanation. “I was going to wait until later this week. I was just...trying to work up the courage to find the right time. Since it’s only three days till Christmas, there are literally no stores that still have mistletoe in stock. Believe me, I’ve checked.”
Like lightning, the truth finally hits Oliver. Felicity was trying to find the right time to kiss him . He’s so elated by that thought, he knows he must be grinning like a madman at her now.
“And even though I may not celebrate Christmas, I am still quiet familiar with certain traditions, and I think--”
Oliver cuts her off with another kiss, unable to hold back any more. He angles his head this time to deepen the kiss, and she gives back with an equal ferocity, nearly knocking him over. The longer he kisses her, the deeper it grows, a humming stirring between them, as she clings more deeply to him, her nails digging into his shirt, his hands playing with the ties of her apron. Oliver’s hands travel further down the smooth contours of her back, until he reaches low enough to grab her legs. As he bends down, Felicity seems to get the message and lifts her body enough so he can place her on the counter, stepping in between her legs.
Their need for air finally cuts them off again.
“Hey,” he breathes against her, practically heaving but feeling incredibly alive.
“Hi,” Felicity smiles back at him, eyes wide and bright, equally breathless. She playfully fiddles with the hem of his apron, her fingers stroking the tips of his hair in soothing, already familiar patterns. “Merry Christmas, Oliver.”
“Happy Hanukkah, Felicity.”
It wouldn’t be until next year’s Annual Christmas-Hanukkah Extravaganza that Oliver would learn that Felicity's space heater was never actually broken.