Title: Zero to Sixty
Word Count: 7110

Notes: Happy Pride Month, everyone! I hope you're celebrating as much as I am—even if only on the Internet. (My blog is filled with ace posts right now.) You all are valid, important, and awesome. :)

I've been wanting to do a full version of this fic since I wrote the dialogue-only version, and I finally got the opportunity last month. I think it helps tell the story that wasn't told originally, but I'm curious to hear what y'all think.

There are some changes to the dialogue. Most of them are minor, but there is one relatively big one. Mostly it's punctuation and a few words here and there. For the most part, it should look the same to you.

Also, shout-out to Elsie for taking an entire Sunday to whip this into shape.

Thanks for reading! :) I hope to hear from you, if you have the chance!

When the bell rings, it takes everything within Oliver not to sigh in relief. Tara's red lips form a pout, but he's already rising from his chair to move on to the next table, barely murmuring an audible goodbye. There's no question this is the worst thing he's ever done—and he spent five years in absolute hell after his father's yacht went down in the North China Sea. Well-intentioned or not, Oliver reminds himself to never agree to anything Thea asks again.

Especially not speed dating.

At first, he thought it had seemed better than the other alternatives. Meeting a new woman every five minutes for two hours seemed simple; if one wasn't ideal, he could quickly move on to the next. But after seventeen banal women asking prying or inappropriate questions, Oliver is beginning to rethink his logic. If he had refused, he could be putting arrows in criminals right now.

At least, he supposes, there are only seven more left before the night is over and he can report his attempt at socialization to his beloved sister.

He arrives at the next table on his card at the same time as yet another blonde with red lipstick—his fifth matching that description tonight. In the sea of revealing dresses and not-quite-contained cleavage, she manages to be a novelty anyway. Her sleeveless, red dress flounces around her knees, the only embellishment a small, flirty cutout at her breastbone. After staring down at her card with a frown, she points to the number in the middle of the table and nods once, her ponytail flouncing as she adjusts her glasses.

With a growing sense of dread and fake smile, Oliver moves to stand next to her, keeping a respectable distance between them. "Hi, I'm Oliver," he tells her, though his upbeat tone falls flat.

She gapes at him for a moment, and, just when he thinks it's about to begin again, she rolls her eyes. "I know who you are," she responds in a soft voice with some gravel at the edges, an octave lower than he expects. "Your face has been on the tabloids for ages—I haven't been living under a rock." Her head tilts to the side, her ponytail swaying. "No offense, but this isn't your scene, is it?"

After a moment of floundering at her fresh dialogue and the way her blue eyes sparkle with kindness, he finally admits to her, "I had no choice in the matter."

To his surprise, her eyes light up further. "Hey, me, too," is her response. He waits for a name—their pause a heartbeat too long. Her cheeks fill with unexpected color. "Oh, yeah—I'm Felicity."

He offers her his hand. "Nice to meet you, Felicity."

She stares down at his offered hand as though it's a dead fish, and, just as he's about to rescind the offer, she takes it. "Oh, a handshake." Her hand is soft in his, her purple fingernails contrasting oddly with the back of his hand. "That's… different." Her tone attempts brightness, but falls short.

Oliver grimaces. "Apparently I'm out of practice."

To his surprise, Felicity immediately waves away his almost-apology. "No, I like it," she assures him with a small smile. It seems genuine, as do her words. "It establishes us as equals." In a lower voice, she adds, "It's definitely the nicest greeting I've gotten tonight. One guy tried to hug me." She cringes at the memory. Oliver's lips press together to keep a laugh from escaping as she waves a hand through the air flippantly. "I mean, I'm a hugger, but I like to actually know someone for more than thirty seconds first."

With a smile that's more honest than he's been with anyone since he returned home, he pulls out her chair. "Have a seat."

When her eyes widen, Oliver thinks he might have crossed an unspoken boundary—he's already had two women lecture him about independence and how they didn't need men to do things for him—but then she shakes her head. "Wow, pulling the chair out for me?" she asks. Before he can defend himself, she adds, "That's a nice touch." Felicity slides onto the chair, smoothing the hem of her skirt beneath her. "They say chivalry is dead." Her voice lilts as she teases him, a sound he doesn't think he'd mind hearing more of.

"Despite what you've heard," he teases back, "I was taught proper etiquette."

As he slides her chair forward to the table, she throws him another stunning smile. Retreating to his own seat across the table, he glances over to the platform where the stunning redhead stands. Despite any outward beauty, Oliver has already determined that Carrie, their matchmaker for the night, is just as dangerous as he is. Something about the way she looks at him reminds him of a cat watching a canary. "Everyone has five minutes!" she calls for the eighteenth time tonight. She makes sure to meet his eyes, throwing him a wink. "Begin!"

His eyes are already on Felicity by the time she finishes. "Ladies first?" he offers.

Her eyes seem to sparkle with mirth as she waves a hand between them. "Because you're the first guy to offer all night," she answers, "you can go first."

Not wanting to waste any time with the most refreshing person he's met tonight, Oliver only answers, "Alright." After clearing his throat, he asks, "What do you do for a living?" He then reaches for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table, pouring them both a glass.

Felicity actually rolls her eyes at the question before answering in a clipped tone, "Tech. I'm in IT." She takes a sip of water—after clinking her glass against his—before asking, "Do you like puppies?"

"Uh, sure," he answers, brows knitting together. He'd rehearsed most of his answers before leaving tonight, but this wasn't among them. He can't decide if she's toying with him or not, with those bright eyes and those provocative lips wrapped around the edge of her water glass. Desperate for context, he uses his next question: "Why? Do you have one?"

She sighs, shaking her head as her lips fall out of that smile. "Landlord won't let me have anything bigger than a rabbit, sadly," is her response. He thinks she isn't going to offer anything else, but Felicity has mercy on him. "But it's a good indicator of a person's character." Her right hand makes a cavalier path through the air, this time carrying her glass. "I just don't think anyone who likes puppies can be bad—at least not through and through."

For the life of him, Oliver can't understand this girl. Part of him thinks she's playing with him for sport, but the part of him watching her expression is convinced of her sincerity. "If I had said 'no,' then…" he leads her gently.

The blonde immediately squares her shoulders, brow furrowed. "I would have stood up and walked away," she finishes without missing a beat. Leaning forward, she adds, "Even hardened criminals love puppies, Oliver." Something about the way she says his name makes his eyes fall to her lips, even as his press together at the strength of her opinions on puppies, of all things.

The only sound that finally leaves his mouth is, "Oh."

Fortunately, Felicity has no difficulty finding words. "Who signed you up for this event?" she asks, leaning forward again. One corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk as her eyes brighten with mischief. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

At first he thinks she's flirting, but Oliver is pleasantly surprised to see nothing but curiosity in her features. After a night filled with flirting women, it's a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale night. "My sister, Thea," he admits after a long moment. He refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely. "She thinks I'm 'moping around the house' and need to get out more."

Her red lips press together as she nods knowingly. "Ah, she has you wrapped around her little finger," Felicity concludes, holding up her pinky and wiggling it for emphasis. "Got it." Something about her expression changes, as if a puzzle piece has fallen into place before her. Oliver adds that to his ongoing catalog of her traits: dangerously quick-witted. The blonde leans forward, placing her elbows on the table in a defiance of etiquette he finds charming. "Mine's better: my mother. She's that pushy."

It takes him a moment to answer because all he can do is stare, transfixed. Felicity's good humor is contagious, and Oliver finds he has no immunity to it. "Wow," he finally answers.

"Yeah," she agrees, nodding. "She's a modern woman—which I like about her," she rushes to add with yet another hand gesture. Her mouth purses in a frown as her eyes roll, and it takes Oliver a moment to bring his eyes away from her lips again. "Except she thinks sex is the answer to all my problems." Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side as she arches an eyebrow. "Which it isn't. This is her subtle"—she emphasizes it with great irony—"reminder that she wants grandchildren soon. Preferably in the next nine months."

Oliver isn't sure how to take that—it could be an offer aimed at him, or she could be simply stating fact. "That's…" he tries, but words seem to fail him.

"Yeah," Felicity agrees again with a nod, as if being overwhelmed is an emotion commonly related to her mother. "That's just my mom." Her smile doesn't quite meet her eyes this time. "But if we start talking about her, we'll be here all night." She pries an index finger away from her water glass to point at him. "Your question."

As she takes a sip, Oliver tries desperately to cling to his train of thought. Finally one comes to him: "Um, hobbies?"

"Computers," Felicity blurts, pushing her glass toward the center of the table. When his eyebrows come together, she colors again. "I mean, I build them at night while watching Netflix," she clarifies with a wave of her hand. The words have barely left her lips when she cringes. "That's a little pathetic, isn't it?" Before Oliver can assure her it isn't, she rushes on, "I play a little Warcraft from time to time and— Oh, God, I'm making it worse." Her eyes fall closed as she holds her hands up between them. They tap on the white tablecloth for a moment. "Let's just say I'm a Doctor Who fan and leave it there."

She's a safe without a combination—a riddle he can't crack. And Oliver can't get enough of her voice, her passion, her smile. Making a mental note to look up Doctor Who later, he admits, "I have no idea what that is."

"I'm sorry about your very bland life," she deadpans, tracing a purple fingernail around the rim of her glass. It hums softly under her touch. Instead of clarifying, she simply asks, "What's your favorite kind of ice cream?"

It's been so long since Oliver tasted ice cream that he doesn't remember anymore. He always swore to himself he'd share his next bowl with Laurel, but that's been difficult considering she doesn't speak to him anymore. He thinks back to what he used to get when he took Thea, back when she still liked being called Speedy and she thought he was the best brother in the world. "Um… anything with chocolate?" It somehow comes out as a question.

Felicity doesn't balk in the face of his hesitance. "A vague answer," she comments, as though he's presented her with an interesting mystery. Oliver understands the feeling well. "But it's chocolate nonetheless," she relents a moment later, "so I approve."

The corners of his mouth twist up. "Thanks," he replies. All of the typical questions race through his head, but he decides they aren't worth asking. Felicity isn't a typical woman, and he thinks she's deserving of some originality. "Since you're asking questions that aren't exactly first-date material," he leans in, his tone dancing across the line between teasing and flirting, "how do you feel about archery?"

The smile he receives in response is so stunning he has to release a breath. Felicity smiles with so much more than her mouth; her eyes light up, her nose scrunches a little, and her posture relaxes. "As long as you're not the guy putting arrows in criminals and delivering them to the cops, I don't care," she quips. "Everyone needs a hobby."

Oliver's mouth opens, yet nothing comes out, blinking several times. She laughs, and he commits the sound to memory. He'll make her laugh again—this time, on purpose. "I'm kidding," she assures him, holding her hands up in surrender. "I happen to think that guy is doing a lot of good in the city. He saved my roommate from getting mugged last week." He relaxes in his seat, silently expressing his gratitude to the universe for putting a mugging in his path. Positive opinions about his work as the city's resident vigilante are few and far between.

"Favorite book?" she asks this time.

One immediately springs to mind, but Oliver remembers the scoff he earned from his mother when he talked about it the last time. "Would you believe me if I said Hamlet?" he asks her in a quiet voice.

"Of course," Felicity assures him. Her dismissal comes not because she doubts him capable of appreciating Shakespeare, but for another reason entirely: "But Hamlet is technically a play, not a book."

Another title springs immediately to mind. "The Odyssey."

She nods once before her eyes narrow. "You're on shaky ground, Oliver," Felicity warns in a hard tone that contradicts her smile, "but I'll allow it."

A chuckle leaves him—soft and under his breath, but still there. "You?" is his only inquiry.

Rolling her eyes as if he'd asked the color of the sky, Felicity only answers, "Favorite book is a tier, not a single literary work. We don't have that kind of time." She taps her fingers on the table, and he can practically see her mind whirling. "What are your opinions on guinea pigs?" she asks suddenly.

Before, he would have hesitated, trying to give her the expected answer, but now he knows Felicity doesn't have any preconceived notions about who he's supposed to be. "I'm not sure I have any," he answers with a warm smile. Her eyes widen for reasons he doesn't understand. "Why?"

It takes her a moment to respond, shaking her head as her face heats. "I have a guinea pig named George," is her answer. Oliver smiles because of course. "He whistles at me after I get dressed in the morning," Felicity continues as he bites down on a smile, "but that might be because she knows I'm going to bring food with me. Usually I don't appreciate unsolicited opinions about what I wear, but he's very supportive of my wardrobe choices. She even whistles at my yoga pants."

There are so many things he wants to reply, but finally Oliver settles for the one that gnaws at him the most: "You just called it 'he' and 'she' interchangeably."

She scoffs. "George does not adhere to a binary gender system, Oliver."

Despite his attempts to maintain a straight face, Oliver chuckles before replying, "She sounds like he'd be an interesting guinea pig, then. What—?"

Felicity points at his face. "Why are your lips twitching?" she demands, eyebrows narrowing as she makes a concerted effort to look stern. It's undermined by her smile. "Are you laughing at me?"

Oliver holds up an index finger. "My turn to ask a question, remember?" he reminds her. She actually crosses her arms and pouts, as he tries to think of a universe where she could be more adorable. None spring to mind. "If you did have a dog," he asks, "what would you name it?"

"Mildred," she blurts immediately. "Mildred the Komondor." She sits a little straighter as she says it, the corners of her mouth pull up before falling back into place. "She would strike fear into the hearts of mops everywhere."

Oliver studies her expression for a moment. The corners of her mouth twitch again, and her eyes light up with that mischievous energy again. "Are you making fun of me?" he demands.

She wags a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah, Oliver," she insists in a playful tone. "My turn, remember?" Her voice rises an octave with her tone, and she leans further across the table. "Why were you laughing at me?"

There are so many answers that spring to mind at once, but Oliver finally settles on the truth: "Because you're charming and different." Her smile softens as he chuckles, shaking his head. "Your first question was if I liked puppies and you have a genderfluid guinea pig named George who approves your wardrobe choices."

For reasons he doesn't understand, Felicity colors slightly. "Well," she finally answers, "I suppose it does sound a little strange when you say it like that." She makes the confession to her water glass instead of him. That won't do. Oliver reaches a hand out to touch hers, in an attempt to capture her attention again.

She looks up at him immediately, and he offers a tentative smile. She returns it, even though the curve of her lips is shy and small. "Now," he reminds her, drawing back, "were you making fun of me?"

Laughing again, Felicity admits, "Maybe a little." She holds her index finger and thumb a hair's breadth apart as evidence. She twists her head to the side, gnawing on her lip with a thoughtful expression. "I'd get a Newfoundland and name it Grima, after the Fell Dragon," she answers after a moment. "Maybe a Great Pyrenees, too—and name it after the Divine Dragon, Naga."

The words might as well be Greek for all they mean to Oliver. "What?"

She waves a hand, rolling her eyes again. "I'll introduce you to video games later," she assures him, placing her hand on his when she finishes. His smile widens at the concept of later; that means Felicity is planning on seeing him again sometime, and that might be good for him. She might be good for him. "When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

He laughs at the question. "A pirate," he admits, one corner of his mouth lifting. "You?"

Felicity runs a fingernail along the rim of her glass thoughtfully. A lazy smile spreads across her face, slow and languid. "I can almost picture you as the scourge of the seven seas," she admits after a moment. She winks before adding, "I wanted to be a ninja."

He smiles at her a long moment, before filling her water glass again. His palms rest against the top of the table, and she reaches for them. For reasons he doesn't quite understand himself, he doesn't pull away, though it's his instinct when it comes to touch from another. But something about her… To consider Felicity a threat would be laughable.

She flips his right hand over, her soft fingertips running along his callused fingers. With hawk-like eyes, she studies them, drawing shapes and symbols into his palm for a long moment. Unlike when the silence sets in at the foundry, or in his room at the manor, it's the peaceful, content sort of quiet that never feels uncomfortable.

Despite that, he clears his throat, desperate to know more about her while he has her full attention. "It's your turn, Felicity," he reminds her, his voice unintentionally rough. He coughs again, this time to clear the raspy quality from his tone.

"Oh, right," she replies, blinking several times, as if she's forgotten they're supposed to be learning about one another. "Um…" Oliver watches as Felicity's mind whirls at a mile a minute, scrambling for a topic-or, perhaps, to settle on just one. "How do you feel about gay roommates?"

Yet another subject change to make him reel, wondering where her mind is at. This time, it's easier; most likely, her thoughts are traveling to a gay roommate. "Are you asking about the gay part or the roommate part?" he asks after a moment.

After a long moment of deliberation, Felicity finally replies, "Hmm… that's fair." She brightens—not that Felicity could get any brighter. "I'll allow it. Individually and as a whole."

"That's a vague answer," Oliver teases.

"I don't offer any other kind, Oliver," she replies in kind, before sipping from her water.

He rattles it around in his head before admitting, "I don't understand what there is to have an opinion about." He lifts a shoulder. "People should be able to love whomever they want. I've never had a roommate before, so I don't really know about that." Suddenly he isn't sure he understood that question. "Unless you mean that in a different way," he adds belatedly.

Though he's learned that Felicity speaks with her hands, none of her previous gesturing compares to the way she waves her hands now, eyes the size of saucers. "No, no!" she immediately answers. After he catches her wrist and cups her hand between his, she takes a deep breath, reddening again. "I mean, I'm not opposed to polyamorous relationships, but I'd make that clear from the beginning." His eyes widen at the leap; maybe he wasn't clear, either.

She waves her other hand, content to let her right stay occupied with his. "My roommate, Curtis, is gay. Some guys I've dated before have had problems with it." She pulls both hands to wave them again. "Not that we're dating or anything," Felicity rushes to add. "I don't mean to presume anything, but—"

"Felicity," he reminds her with a laugh, "this is a speed date." Her smile shrinks a little at the reminder; funny how it makes him feel the same way. "Dating is kind of in the name."

She shrugs. "Yeah," she allows, "but neither of us want to be here and we're just trying to commiserate, so it doesn't count." She waves it away with a toss of her left hand.

Chuckling, Oliver replies, "Either way, we're exchanging phone numbers after this." Her smile brightens, and he returns it. Good to know he's not the only one enjoying these five minutes. "You're the only good conversation I've had all night."

Blowing out a breath, Felicity nods. "Agreed." She waves it away. "Anyway, it's a question I start asking on the first date." It takes Oliver a moment to change tracks, back to her roommate. Curtis, she had said. "This one guy got insanely jealous because I'm living with a guy—despite the fact that he, by definition, has no interest in me." She rolls her eyes for emphasis.

"Sounds like he had problems," is Oliver's response.

Sighing, she admits to her glass, "Story of my life." Her eyes turn glassy and unfocused, and he wonders what memories she's reliving now. Having been one a time or two himself, Oliver knows that horrible boyfriends come in many shapes and sizes—and, of course, varying degrees. She brightens again, but her smile is a little askew. "But enough about past mistakes. Your question."

Though he knows the subject change for what it is, Oliver doesn't pry. He, of all people, understands the nature of secrets and the burden of sharing them. A single thought comes to mind, one he's been thinking about her for the last few minutes, but he already knows how it sounds. "This might sound like a line," he warns her, "but it's a serious question."

If anything, she leans further across the table, smile growing. "Shoot."

Oliver takes a deep breath… and then: "How are you still single?"

The smile on her lips falters, but it comes back in full force, even as she rolls her eyes. "You're right," she agrees in a dry tone. "It does sound like a line."

"Felicity," he chides.

After making a noise of distaste in the back of her throat, her nose wrinkles up. She has to push her glasses up afterward. "Ugh, fine," she relents, though reluctant. She points a finger at him. "I get to ask you a hard question after this, though."

"How is that a hard question?" Oliver asks, brow furrowing.

Felicity's shoulders straighten, squaring them as though she's about to charge into battle. Her hands fall from the table to her lap, and her lips push together. After a long bout of shared silence, she finally admits with weight, "I'm asexual."

From the weight of the confession, he knows it's something important to her, but to him, the word is meaningless. "I don't really know what that is," he admits to her.

She shakes her head, not meeting his eyes before muttering, "No one ever does." Her right hand falls across the table again, her fingertips patting out a rhythm understood only by her as she bites her lip. After a moment, she continues, "It means I'm not sexually attracted to anyone." Oliver's head tilts of his own accord, trying to make sense of the words, to understand what they mean for her relationships. "Which is kind of challenging," she continues quickly, "because I want a romantic relationship. I just don't want the sex part." Another roll of her eyes. "And the guys I date are typically interested in the sex part."

He nods once, digesting this information as he offers her a small smile. "That's a really personal fact to share with someone you met a few moments ago," Oliver observes. He quiets her tapping fingers by placing his hand over hers. "Thank you."

Blushing again, Felicity waves him off with a scoff and a flippant gesture. "When you measure how well we know each other in minutes, it's miniscule," she agrees, "but when you measure it by connection, it's infinite."

The sound of Oliver's laugh sounds foreign to his own ears. He can't remember the last time he laughed and really meant it; it had to have been before the island. "That's very… deep of you, Felicity," he replies, shaking his head.

Smacking his hand lightly in reply, she huffs with that brilliant smile, "Don't laugh at me, Oliver." She crosses her arms, pouting. "I'm a complex person. I'm allowed to be deep."

It makes him laugh again; he suspects Felicity is more complex than anyone realizes, and he has yet to even scratch the surface. "It's just…" He shakes his head. "People don't usually talk like that, Felicity." Her eyes drift to his lips as he says her name.

Those lovely blue eyes snap back to his as she shrugs. "I can't help it if people aren't interesting, Oliver," is her answer, given with a scoff. "Now for the hard question." The smile she sends him an absolutely wicked smile, and Oliver swallows hard in response. He's not sure this side of Felicity is one he wants to cross. "What is your biggest aspiration?"

When his mouth opens, no words come out. Not only hasn't he been asked this question tonight, Oliver doesn't think anyone has ever asked it of him. His path has always been set in stone, as the heir to the Queen family legacy, but now a lovely blonde with a silver tongue and a wicked mouth is waiting, expectantly, for an answer.

"Well, I…" he stammers, trying to gain ground. How does he explain his desires when they all revolve around the Arrow? "I guess I want to make a difference," he starts slowly and quietly, building speed and volume as he continues, "to stop this city from being preyed upon by people like me. I… I guess I want to do something meaningful, to make even the Glades a better place to live."

"There are so many people suffering," he continues. "Tommy-my best friend-drove me through town a few days ago, and I saw so many people trying to survive on the streets. I've struggled to survive before, Felicity, and I'd never wish that on anyone. Most of these people are in that situation because my father sold the steel factory. Over fifteen hundred people lost their jobs because of that. He made sure they didn't even get severances." As much as Oliver wants to deny it, he did a lot of research into his father's heartless decisions. "And that was just our employees. I don't know how many more lost their jobs because steel production left the city."

The thought brings back that night on the boat-and his father's last words. "I… I think he changed. One of the last things he told me is that he wanted to right his wrongs and fix what he had broken." He can no longer meet Felicity's eyes. "I would like to do that for him. I'd like to help stop other people who took advantage of those in the Glades in the last five years. Maybe then the city could rebuild, and things could improve. Her eyes widen, and he shrugs self-consciously. "I mean, I'm already here. The least I can do is something worthwhile, whether the history books remember or not."

She gapes at him long after he finishes. Her mouth moves several times, but no words come out. "I know, it's stupid," Oliver rushes to add, dismissing it before she can.

"No!" Felicity responds, too loudly. She winces before reducing her volume. "Not at all!" Several hand motions follow, her frown growing as she becomes more animated. "It's just…" With a hint of a smile, Oliver wonders if Felicity could speak without hands to wave around. "Wow," she finally finishes, her voice breaking slightly.

A lone tear rolls down from the corner of her eye, smudging her makeup a little. Somehow it only manages to make her more captivating. When she makes no move to wipe at it, he points toward the edge of his own eye. "You're, um…"

Her face flushes a delicate pink as she dabs at the spot. "My eyes are leaking just a little," she finishes for him. Felicity smiles. "That was beautiful, by the way. Very inspiring." She laughs in self-deprecation before adding, "I would have just said something like 'to move out of IT' or 'to own a tech company one day,' and now I'm just a little… overwhelmed." Her mouth tilts upward at one corner. "Oliver Queen, gentle idealist."

"I've… never shared that with anyone," Oliver admits. Even now, he has trouble believing he did; he's not in the habit of telling deeply personal things to people he's only known for a few minutes. Something about Felicity, though… it makes him feel as though he's known her his entire life.

"You should," she insists, leaning across the table again. Her eyes brighten with her enthusiasm. "It's passionate. It might help everyone remember you're not the same guy you were five years ago." His eyebrows shoot up of their own accord; he hasn't talked to anyone about trying to break with his past, but Felicity mentions it as though they've spent hours discussing it. "I didn't even know you then and I can see that."

"Thanks. That means a lot, Felicity." He surprises himself with his sincerity.

"You mean coming from a random stranger?" she teases, lips tilting up in a smirk.

He laughs at that. "You're not a random stranger," he assures her. "If you measure how well we know each other by minutes, it's miniscule," Oliver teases, watching as Felicity's eyes light up, "but when you measure it by connection, it's infinite." This time, he takes her hand—and he doesn't let go.

"People don't talk like that, Oliver," she replies without missing a beat, quoting him.

With a grin, he finishes, "I can't help it if people aren't interesting, Felicity."

Motioning to his expression, she says with awe, "Oh, wow. You should smile like that more often." When he lifts an eyebrow at her, she bites her lip, looking away. "It's a nice smile. I kind of want to take a picture of you smiling and hang it on my wall to appreciate for all eternity."

Teasing, he replies, "People don't talk like that, either."

It does the trick: Felicity laughs. "It's complicated for me to explain attraction," she clarifies. Leaning further across the table, she adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "Legend has it that allosexuals—people who experience sexual attraction—sometimes equate aesthetic attraction and sexual desire."

Until a minute ago, Oliver didn't realize those were two separate things. Playing along, he leans in to whisper, "As an allosexual myself, I can confirm that."

Now, more than ever, he feels them at once. The first time he saw her, he would have dismissed her, but he's come to realize that Felicity's beauty comes out best in bright eyes and sunny smiles. It's when she's talking to someone, engaged and animated, that she shines. And right now, laughing at his antics, she's easily the most beautiful woman in the room.

Suddenly it slips from her face. "What?" he asks her, frowning.

"Your eyes," she mutters. When he lifts his eyebrows in a silent question, she waves a hand, floundering. "They, um, they just turned really dark." Oliver blinks twice; maybe he's more attracted to her than he realized. "Anyway, your question."

"What would you say if I told you that—?" he starts.

A hand on his shoulder interrupts him, and Oliver flinches under the touch. The part of him that's a survivor yearns to break those blood red fingernails. "Excuse me?" she calls, and he finally glances up to see Carrie Cutter, their host, staring down at him. "Mr. Queen? Ms. Smoak?"

Shrugging out from under her touch, Oliver puts on his most polished smile. "Yes?"

"Your five minutes ended about a minute ago," she explains in a sickly sweet voice just as insincere as his smile. When he looks up, sure enough, people are switching tables, except for a pair whispering to each other and throwing glances to the two of them.

"Oh, it's my fault, Ms. Cutter," Felicity supplies, waving her hand. Carrie's eyes actually narrow. "I sort of distracted him with a hardball question."

It's possible that the corner of Carrie's mouth purses, but Oliver nearly misses the action. "It's time to move on to the next table, Ms. Smoak," she repeats, but this time there's less honey in her voice.

Instead of answering, Felicity chooses to turn back to Oliver. "Better idea," she declares, patting his hand. "Oliver, do you want to ditch this petty attempt at dating—" Carrie opens her mouth to protest, but Felicity cuts her off. "No offense, Ms. Cutter, but it's not my speed." She doesn't even seem to realize the pun in those words. "—and go get some anything-with-chocolate ice cream?" the blonde finishes with a wink.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. Of all the curveballs Felicity has thrown him tonight, it's this one that leaves him speechless. Despite all the women in his past, they were never the ones to make the first move, to ask him to spend time together. In truth, the man he was before the island would have balked at the idea of anyone else making similar suggestions, but now he only shakes his head with a smile.

"What?" the blonde demands immediately.

As he makes his confession, Oliver doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I've never been asked on a date before," he admits after a long moment. At least he doesn't have to stutter through the question himself.

She dismisses his statement with a wave of her hand. "Screw gender norms, Oliver," is her response, punctuated by a roll of her eyes. "Do you want ice cream with me, or do you want to do another five-minute date with a stranger?"

With a wink and a lopsided smile, Oliver answers, "Ask me a hard question."

As she gnaws on her lip, her cheeks color. He doesn't understand the cause of her discomfort, but he doesn't get the chance to figure it out. "I'm sure I will at some point," she agrees with a sagely nod, "but I think that requires ice cream first."

As she rises from his seat, Oliver turns another polished smile at Carrie. "Thank you for hosting such a lovely event, Ms. Cutter," he offers, placing a hand at the small of Felicity's back as he turns her toward the exit, "but I think Felicity and I will be leaving now."

"But—" the hostess begins, after several stuttered attempts.

By the time her protest begins, they're nearly out of the dining hall. After turning in a slip to the coat check attendant, Felicity mutters to Oliver, "Wow, she wasn't happy we left."

A few words come back to him that one of the women had mentioned earlier: When I heard you were going to be here, of course I had to come. "I think she's been using my name to convince women to sign up," he confesses to her. It makes him frown, and Felicity's nose wrinkles as she pulls on a vibrant purple peacoat. Oliver smiles. Of course.

When she turns to him, he swallows before offering her his hand. "There's an ice cream parlor right around the corner if you…" Five different endings die on his tongue: …if you want to come. …if you aren't ready for this night to end. …if you're just as desperate to spend time with me as I am with you. …if you trust me enough to walk a block with a stranger. …if you aren't scared away by me yet.

Instead of weaving her fingers through his, Felicity wraps her hand into the crook of his arm. Oliver releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Yes!" is her immediate reply. "I want very much. Both to talk to you and eat ice cream." As they walk out, into the cool night air, the blonde pokes his shoulder. "But we're going dutch. I don't want your money." She throws her hand out, almost smacking it against a streetlight. "Donate it to the ASPCA so they don't have to do those sad commercials with Sara McLachlan songs."

"That sounds like a deal," he agrees slowly.

They fall into that comfortable sort of quiet again, leaving Oliver to the privacy of his thoughts. When this event began, he never thought he'd be leaving early with one of the women he'd met. More than that, he'd already call Felicity a friend, someone he can trust. After five years of living on instinct, he's learned to rely on them, and they're all telling him she's someone he can tell anything. He's been met without fear or judgment every time he's told her a secret—and she knows so many already.

Except the one that really matters.

The thought makes his blood go cold. Of all the things she knows about him, Oliver hasn't told her about being the Arrow. As much as he wants to keep this secret, he also knows that a betrayal like that would end whatever friendship they had when she found out—and she would find out. Telling her now risks so much more: she could walk away. It scares him that the thought of losing her would be so unbearable, but it is. Either way, he's left with the two choices.

When they pass under another streetlight, he stops, giving her a lighted path to make her way back to her car if he frightens her. Losing her now is difficult to process, but losing her later will be far more unbearable.

Felicity's head tilts to the side as she waits for him, and Oliver slowly sheds himself of her grip on his arm before taking a deep breath. "Felicity…" He releases a heavy sigh, steeling himself for what's to come. "I have a hard question."

As the smile slips off her face, he frowns. "Okay," she agrees in a somber tone, nodding several times. A gentle smile pulls to her lips. "Are you sure you want to ask before ice cream?"

No, he isn't, and her providing him with ways out isn't helping. "Yeah."

"Fire away," she replies with a patient smile.

Oliver has no idea how to do just that. Words form in his head, but they don't pass through his lips as he tries to make sense of them. Despite how long the silence stretches on, Felicity waits for him to form his thoughts. They somehow come out as, "Hypothetically… what would you say if I told you I was the Arrow?"

Her head tilts to the side, brow wrinkling temporarily. With a neutral expression that could rival even the best poker players, she asks, "Just to clarify, is this a serious question?" Her hands fall on his shoulders as she gauges his expression.

"Very," he bites out. His thumb rubs against his index finger as he waits for the answer.

After an infinite moment of thought, she replies with a slight smile, "I'd probably hug you so tight you couldn't breathe for doing such a good job in the city. Then I'd ask if you needed any technical support."

Oliver's grin feels like it splits his face in half. Leaning down, he presses his lips to her ear before whispering, "I'm the Arrow."

Before he can anticipate it, Felicity's arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into one of the better hugs he's received in his life. One arm wraps around her instinctively, though one side of him screams to let her go and shy away from the contact.

After a moment, she pulls back, though not far. Two words fall from her lips, so soft he can't even hear them. They're a whisper on the wind, and only through watching her mouth can he understand what she says: Thank you.

For the life of him, he can't understand what she's thanking him for. Oliver has done nothing worth her gratitude. What little he does for the city is nothing; it's simply a way to run free in the city, a way to escape the confines of a life that no longer feels like his.

Instead of answering her silent thanks he chooses to tease Felicity with, "You weren't kidding about that hug, were you?"

Her hand falls over his mouth a moment later, even though she has to stand on her toes to do so. "Not your turn, Oliver," she chides. With twinkling eyes, she continues, "My next question: do you need any technical support?"

Weaving his arm back through hers, he replies, "From you? Any day."