Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow, obviously.

A/N: Between 3x21 and the upcoming 3x22 some humorous Olicity fluff is overdue. I recognize that last Wednesday kinda wrecked all my ideas but psst: I don't care.

Not knowing something about your spouse of two weeks was an absolutely normal thing, Felicity tried to tell herself as she entered the Arrowcave that night. It had nothing to do with how their wedding went down. Felicity didn't doubt that she had made the right decision in marrying Oliver, yet the unconventionality was nagging at her.

She had known him for more than three years and their first date was close to a year ago now, but they had only been dating, really uncompromisingly dating, for several hours before he had asked her to marry him. Their engagement itself lasted less than an hour. They had been standing in the parlor of the Queen Mansion where he had proposed, kissing, uber happy about the fact that they had finally made it, when they started planning their wedding - only to realize they didn't want a wedding. For Felicity, and she knew for Oliver too, it hadn't been about marriage itself but the meaning behind it. It was a promise, a necessary promise, of never letting go, to always love each other, always be there. It was a very drastic way of saying they wouldn't let the other slip away again. With their history drastic was almost normal.

So, they had called the only official they knew, asked him to bring a witness, and gotten married under one of the trees that dominated the garden behind the house. They both had been perfectly happy about it and the past two weeks had been two of the best of her life.

Still, if her mother found out she would be pissed. It wasn't exactly a Vegas marriage where you got drunk and married the guy you had danced with for the last two hours, but it wasn't Donna's dream of walking her daughter down the aisle in a white dress. Plus, in a Vegas marriage you at least knew what your spouse looked like drunken.

Felicity on the other hand didn't. Of course she had seen pictures of pre-island Oliver stumbling out of clubs with Tommy and occasionally Laurel, but that wasn't the Oliver she had married. In the three years she had known him he had never drunk more than he could hold up. Until now.

Her husband was sitting on one of the lab tables, wearing only boxer shorts. His left ankle was bandaged, an ugly bruise was forming on his rib cage, and a bandage was showing on his shoulder, probably going down his back.

"'licity!," he called out when he saw her, raising a bottle in greeting. He was grinning broadly and was obviously flustered and drunk. "Wanna some?"

"John, what have you done?," she asked, forcefully throwing the bag with the requested clothes next to Oliver.

Her friend took a step back to evade her accusatory glare. "Stitched him up in the back. The rest he did to himself."

She took the bottle from her husband and walked around to get a better look at his injuries. The bandage went down to the small of his back and stitching up the whole length must have hurt. It still didn't justify this. "And the drinking is not your fault either? He just refused the painkillers and grabbed the - what is this stuff anyways?" Glaring at the bottle Felicity sloshed the brown liquid around. More than half of it was gone and something told her Diggle had not partaken in emptying it.

"Whiskey. And are you gonna drink or can I haftat back?," Oliver answered, oblivious to her mood. The evening was going probably pretty good for him. She on the other hand could have named a few night time activities that were more enjoyable than picking up your drunk vigilante-husband from his lair.

"No," she said, placing the whiskey on a counter very much out of his reach. "No more drinking for you tonight."

If it bothered him he didn't show it. Maybe he was just too drunk to care whether or not he got even more drunk.

Instead he was grinning at her like an idiot. He leaned towards her, a gesture that usually proved no difficulty for anyone but now induced her with fear that he might topple over and hurt himself.

"You're such a good wife. Takin' care of me 'n' everythin'."

For a second Felicity's heart beat faster with the ugly feeling of getting caught. They hadn't told anyone what they had done yet and Oliver blurting it out while being drunk was the way she least expected it to go. To her relief it didn't though. Diggle seemed merely amused. "Very interesting way of proposing."

Oliver frowned at him, then, with an earnestness that was totally inappropriate for the situation said: "What did I propose? 'licity, tell him he's not makin' any senseses."

She sighed.

"I'm really sorry," Diggle said. "But, this place is a mess. I couldn't find painkillers and he seemed to be hurting pretty bad so I just handed him the whiskey. I didn't know it would escalate this badly."

Looking around Felicity had to agree with him. The move to the secondary lair as the primary one hadn't gone exactly smoothly. For one thing because Oliver had joined the League in the middle of it, on the other hand because, with two people gone, she and Diggle weren't sure if they wanted to keep it up. Could keep it up.

They had and Oliver came back but it took it's time getting used to it. Officially one week back in the business this was the first time he had gotten seriously hurt, reminding them of all they still had to do.

She took a deep breath. "Okay, buddy. Let's get you dressed and home."

"'kay," he muttered and meekly let her clothe him, a task that proved more difficult than it seemed. Oliver tried to help her which in turn led to a lot of fumbling, without the dirty innuendo. He slid from the table in an attempt to get the jogging pants past his butt.

When his feet hit the floor he winced. His eyes wandered to his ankle as if he had only now realized that something wasn't quite right. Instinctively lifting his foot he lost his balance and crashed against her. "So-ey," he mumbled into her shoulder.

Felicity took his arms and put them around her to steady him, then pulled the pants over his hips. Leaning him against the table she somehow managed to get his arms into the hoodie. She zipped it shut and then crouched to slip a sock and a shoe on his undamaged foot. Oliver was grinning down at her, then his face fell.

"'licity. 'licityy." The urgency in his voice grew each time he said her name.

She got up and straightened the hood. It wasn't like he cared but the crinkles bothered her. "Yes?"

"'licity, can I go to the bathroom?"

Closing her eyes and suppressing another sigh she nodded. "Sure you can."

Oliver nodded too, then squeezed out between her and the table. Forgetting about his ankle again he stepped on it and, upon pulling it up after the contact, almost crashed to the floor. With one hand on the metal beside him he caught himself in the last moment. Completely unfazed by his uncharacteristic mishap he leaned against the table. Frowning he turned back. "'licity, where's the bathroom?"

Sighing she lent him her arm and, having him lean on her, guided him to the bathroom. Felicity was about to ask if he needed help in there too, something she realized in the moment it was about to leave her lips was very inappropriate to ask, even when the person asked was your husband, as he closed the door on her.

"Are you mad?," Diggle asked behind her. She turned to look at her friend. His arms were crossed and he stood behind a table. Bringing as much between her and her anger as possible, she realized.

A small laugh escaped her as she let her head fall for a second. Looking back up she said: "No. Honestly it's kind of adorable. I mean his 'licity is sort of growing on me. And seriously, he has kept me awake at night so often I couldn't possibly get mad at this. And I just realized what I said and want to add that I meant that in both the good ways and the bad and this isn't making it any better so I'm just gonna stop..."

Taking a deep breath she chuckled. At the very least her marriage wasn't getting boring.

Diggle grinned. "He has been very talkative, you know. For one thing he kept asking when you would be here ever since I told him you'd come to pick him up. Also he kept telling me why he wanted you here. I think in all the time I've known him I never heard Oliver Queen talk so freely about his feelings."

Felicity cocked an eyebrow while she was sure she turned twenty shades of red. "What did he say?"

"Well, he kept calling you his Felicity and also babbled about how he liked your name which unfortunately he had problems saying. I think he was trying to come up with a nickname - hey, man"

Oliver was leaning in the bathroom doorway. He inclined his head towards his friend in greeting. "Diggles." Turning towards her he asked: "'licity, can we go home?"

"Yeah. Let's do that," she answered, giving Diggle a smile.

Her husband detached himself from the door frame, hobbled in her direction and then almost fell for the third time in the past twenty minutes. This time it was Diggle who caught him. He leaned heavily against the other man, blinked up as if he only now realized he was even falling, and brushed some invisible dirt off his friends shoulder.

They walked to the car like this, Felicity leading the way, Diggle following while half carrying Oliver. Before they left she grabbed the trash can from beside the door. Even if it was just the mini cooper she didn't want to clean it out in the morning.

Bringing the cooper had been a good idea because getting her wasted husband into that was hard enough. Diggle managed to lower him into the seat, then almost got kicked in the face when Oliver tried to get his feet inside by himself. Their friend fastened Oliver's seat belt and Felicity shoved the trashcan into his lap. He leaned forward and hugged it, his head resting on the rim.

"Okay," Diggle said as he closed the door. "If you need anything call me."

She nodded in affirmation. "Thank you, John."

"Yeah," Oliver mumbled from the passengers seat. "Thanks you, Diggles."

When she had pulled out into the street he turned to look at her. "Why'd we say thank-a yous to Diggles?"

"Because he helped us," she answered. He probably wouldn't have cared more if she actually explained either.

"Yeah, that's Diggles. He's nice, 'licity. I like that we're friends with him."

Felicity wasn't sure how to respond to this. How did you respond to something like that? When your husband got drunk and made cute, but horribly obvious statements? In the end she just smiled and said "Me too."

He didn't answer that. Instead he kept looking at her. Then he started playing with one of her curls. "Gosh, you're so pretty, 'licity. I'm really happy I married you."

Again there was nothing to do but chuckle. Oliver was adorable right now and she would enjoy it while it lasted. Tomorrow he would have a horrible hangover and she could picture herself fussing over him, trying to make it better. It was part of the "for worse". Felicity would honor that duty.

Her husband had stopped playing with her hair. Instead his hand just stayed on her shoulder, stopped in mid motion. He leaned back in his seat, head against the headrest. "I love you, 'licity."

"I love you too, Oliver."

A small smile played on his lips. His answer was a murmured "mmhh." The hand fell to the console between them and she took it in hers. Even though he didn't yawn she could tell he was getting tired. "'licity, if I fall asleep you gonna carry me in, right?"

She laughed. "I will."

They both knew that she couldn't do it, physically, and she didn't have to. Oliver stayed awake until they were home, silently looking at her from the passengers seat. As soon as his head hit the mattress he was out and Felicity used the opportunity to watch him. Her husband, burying his face in the blanket, sleeping like a baby. The sight was so seldom and she enjoyed every second of it until she fell asleep beside him.