Written as a prompt response from iamangstville, this is set in the "Stop the Presses" universe following "Actions Speak Louder Than Words (and other true sayings)."
Eight Months Later
She's never having egg salad again. Ever.
Who cares that it used to be one of her favorites? At this point she's pretty sure she's never going to be able to even look at an egg again without heaving and running for the bathroom. The last day or so has been brutal, basically. She's entirely too familiar with how badly she needs to clean the grout in between the tiles of their bathroom floor.
"Hey. How are you feeling?" Oliver asks her, his voice softer than normal as he crouches next to her, running a hand along her back soothingly.
It drains some of the tension right out of her, the steady pressure of his palm circling against her spine. It helps. A little, anyhow.
"Like death," she mutters, lolling her head to the side to look at him. "On the upside, I'm pretty sure I have nothing left inside me to upchuck at this point."
"Can I get you anything?" He asks, voice low and brow knit in concern.
"A new stomach?" She asks hopefully. "There's got to be a black market for that, right? I mean… it's pricey, I'm sure. But it seems worth it about now."
"Pretty sure that a black market organ transplant ring is the sort of thing we'd stop," he points out.
"Damn us and our morals," she replies dryly.
He lets out a little laugh and places a lingering kiss on her forehead. It's as sweet as it is gross. Because - make no mistake - she's gross right now. She's sweaty and she smells like puke and she's just… yuck. She doesn't even want to be near herself, to be honest. But he loves her anyhow and, damn, she hopes that always amazes her like it does right now.
"How about I make you some tea instead?" He offers, his calloused fingers working their way up to her neck and stroking along the line of her spine. "It's not a new stomach, but I picked up some ginger tea at the store on the way home. Might help."
"'Kay," she says weakly. "I think I'm gonna hop in the shower, try to approach feeling human again."
"Okay," he agrees easily, brushing her hair back from her face before kissing her temple.
He helps her to her feet a moment later, letting her lean her weight against him. It's dizzying, probably because she's likely had a negative number of calories that have stuck with her in the last day, and she feels herself sway a little.
"You going to be okay in the shower on your own?" He asks with blatant concern.
Usually when he suggests he join her in the shower it's with way less concern for her well-being and way more kisses on her neck.
She likes the usual way better.
She's so done with this 'being sick' thing.
"I'm fine," she says, squeezing his arm in reassurance and also because she can and his bicep is ridiculous, even if she is battling the food poisoning from hell.
So, apparently she's not totally dead yet, is all that means.
"Shout if you need anything," he tells her with absurd amounts of intensity that she appreciates but is slightly confused by.
The way he's looking at her is… a little off. Concern is great. She likes the concern. And the touching. Oliver's a touchy guy. She loves that. But the last day, since she's been sick? He hovers. He's constantly been there. And he's incredibly supportive and wonderful, but she also doesn't quite get it because it's not like she's never been sick or injured before and he's never been like this.
"Oliver... are you alright?" She asks him, because damn if she doesn't hate a mystery and she can't figure him out right now.
He looks a little surprised by her question for a second and hesitates like he wants to say something but in the end just shakes his head at her instead, his lips quirking into a thin smile.
"I'm fine," he replies lightly. "Just worried about you, is all."
"It's food poisoning, you realize? This isn't the bubonic plague," she reminds him.
"...Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know."
It's the pause that clues her in for sure. He's lying. Or, at least, he's not telling her something. It's no I-ran-out-of-sports-bottles lie, but it's definitely not the whole truth. And that startles her.
"Oliver…" she starts, bewildered.
"I picked you up some mouthwash, one of those motion sickness bracelet things, some other stuff," he tells her, nodding toward a paper bag on the bathroom counter. "Want some soup after your shower?"
"...Yeah," she blinks at him, trying to figure out exactly what's going on. "Mostly broth, okay?"
"Sure," he agrees readily, running a hand down the line of her arm to squeeze her hand as he kisses her temple again for what seems like the dozenth time in as many minutes.
He leaves her alone in the bathroom a moment later, confused and trying to figure out what exactly has happened to her boyfriend. Her brain isn't quite with it today, though. Being violently ill for the last solid 24 hours has left her feeling sluggish and horrible and she just can't connect the dots like usual. So, she turns on the shower to warm up and grabs the bag Oliver left, because mouthwash was a brilliant idea.
Peeking in the bag to hunt down the Scope, though, everything becomes incredibly, blindingly clear.
Oh my God.
She forgets the mouthwash, ignores that the shower is still running, and just walks back out into the main room.
"What is this?" She asks immediately, holding a fairly distinctive box in her hands.
He hasn't even gotten all the way to the kitchen yet and he turns immediately at her voice. His mouth is open a little and she can see his tongue between his teeth like he wants to say something but he's holding himself back for some reason. But, frankly, right now she wants answers.
"I mean, I know what it is," she clarifies. "Because, obviously I do. I just don't understand why you're buying me a pregnancy test when I have food poisoning."
He licks his lips and hesitates before speaking and she realizes, suddenly, that he genuinely doesn't know exactly what to say in this situation. But he wants to. He's trying.
"I thought… maybe it would be better to be sure," he says finally.
She's never seen him look awkward before. Not really. But he's coming damned close now. His fingers keep rubbing against each other and he's shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes can't seen to figure out where to settle.
"Oliver… I'm not pregnant," she tells him slowly and decisively.
"We're careful. I know," he tells her, taking a couple of steps until he's right in front of her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Just… Felicity… honey, please just take the test. Okay?"
"I started my period this morning. I'm not pregnant," she tells him more firmly, eyes searching his.
If they weren't standing quite so close, if she didn't know Oliver quite so well, she might have missed his reaction entirely. But he's barely a foot away and she does know him absurdly well and she sees the way his whole frame droops slightly and he blinks a few too many times before a wry, dishonest smile masks his face.
"Guess I'll be avoiding the deli across the street then," he says with forced lightness.
"Oliver…" she says a little breathlessly as realization sets in. "Did you want me to be pregnant?"
He shrugs one shoulder and his whole face tenses as he shakes his head, eyes looking everywhere but her.
"Doesn't really matter," he tells her.
"It really sort of does," she counters, trying to catch his eye and failing. "Oliver… talk to me."
He looks at her finally at that. And… oh wow the look on his face sort of kills her a little. He looks sad and worried and more than a little cornered but she can't just let this go. She can't.
"Did you?" She asks him again.
"Yeah," he admits on an exhale.
She knew it. She knew it. But it still stuns her enough that she can't breathe for a moment. Because wow. She just… she doesn't know what to do with that. Words escape her. What she does know, however, is that they need to deal with this together. So she laces her fingers with his and stares at their hands for a moment while she wills the words to come.
"We haven't ever even talked about kids," she says after a moment.
"I know," he agrees.
"We've been dating less than a year. We are literally secret crime-fighters by night," she points out, looking up at him.
"Yeah," he agrees again.
"And you still wanted to have a baby?" She asks, because these parts don't really add together in her head.
"With you," he clarifies with tremendous emphasis, looking her in the eye as he speaks. "I still wanted to have a baby with you."
She swallows heavily against the weight of those words. Oliver can't lie to her. Not convincingly. And crazy as this whole thing is, she knows he is absolutely, totally, completely telling her the truth.
"There was a time about ten years ago when I was almost a dad," he tells her slowly.
It's not a hugely surprising admission. She knows what his reputation was like before the island, the kind of man he'd been back then. Still, she wasn't quite expecting this. She schools her expression well, though, squeezes his hand and nods for him to continue.
"I was too young, too immature," he tells her. "And I didn't love her. When she lost the baby, I was just… I was sad, but I was relieved. I couldn't see it then, you know?"
"But you can now?" She asks, sort of proud of herself that she can form words at the moment.
"Yeah," he says, licking his lips. "I really can. Because it's you and me and a little boy with your eyes diving into our bed at six in the morning or a little girl with blonde curls begging me to teach her to shoot and I see it."
For the first time in her life, Felicity finds she can see it, too. She's never really wanted kids, hadn't really gotten along with most of them even when she was a kid herself. Maybe that's what happens when you're smarter than everyone else even after they skip you two grades. Or maybe it's because her mother worked sixty hour work weeks and Felicity grew up mostly raising herself. But kids have never been a priority for her. Kids with Oliver, though… she can see that. And she's surprised at the way her heart clenches at the thought.
"I think you'd be an amazing dad," she tells him.
He blinks back at her in surprise and she knows she's thrown him with that.
"Yeah?" He asks, looking uncertain. "I didn't exactly have the best examples, you know."
"Just means you know what mistakes not to make," she tells him. "The way you love, Oliver... it's unconditional and open. And if we ever have kids, I have no doubt that you'd be a fantastic father. You'd be there for them and they'd never doubt how much you loved them. I know that."
He sucks in a breath at her words and swallows heavily, blinking a few times in quick succession.
"I sort of thought you didn't want kids," he tells her.
"I sort of didn't," she replies. "But kids with you? I can see that. Someday."
"Someday," he echoes, a little smile creeping across his lips, so barely-there and so genuine and so very Oliver.
And she sees it, just for a moment, that distinctive quiet smile quirking the lips of a little girl with his eyes and her nose, her intelligence and his determination. And, for the first time, she thinks that might be a little girl she'd like to meet.
Someday.