Hoping to manage a few of these short-ish Christmas-y things before I head back to "We Are Brave". I've not had near enough holiday fic to keep me going this month, so I'm just going to do it myself. I have no idea what to expect, but I hope you enjoy. Spoilers, canon, AU, whatever I'm feeling like, all olicity, set in my happy place that exists outside the wretched Arrow writers' heads. What's your favorite Christmas song?

Christmastime in Tinsel Town (Again)

Well it's Christmas time in tinsel town again.
I know it's been a year, but man it feels like ten.

Plush private jets were only marginally less terrifying than duct-taped Chinese junker planes. There were still far too many insect-like buzzy noises and random, ghost-hands-ripping-important-parts-off-the flying-machine jerks and bumps for Felicity's liking. The seats might be softer, but there were still only a finite number of ways back to earth, and most of them were not soft landings.

A quaking shudder beneath her feet caused Felicity to clutch the arms of her seat with white knuckles, her eyes squeezing tightly shut as she swallowed hard. She cursed the infernally secured (read: un-hackable from the comfort of her own lair) computer network of evil, heroin-dealing, corporate genius Corbin Fereday's MISKO International headquarters, and the fact that it was located in Hollywood, California—too far for a road trip, according to Oliver. He'd called it a short hop. She called it eternal damnation.

Oliver's voice brought her out of the mental refuge she'd retreated into and she realized the plane wasn't moving anymore, and the engines had quieted.

"Felicity. We're here."

Slowly she opened her eyes, blinking in the dimness of the wood-paneled cabin. Oliver stood before her, a hand outstretched. Taking a deep breath she accepted the offer and got to her feet, hyper-aware of the comfortable warmth of his fingers wrapped around hers, as she always was when their bodies came into contact. She'd gotten better at masking her outward reaction over the past couple of years, but his touch never failed to make her chest contract and her spine tremble.

Lately, it seemed like her increase in control was in direct opposition to Oliver's lack of it. What used to be the occasional touch at her elbow, her shoulder—a one-armed hug after coming back alive even, had become more. She scowled at the floor as she retrieved her purse and laptop bag and turned toward the doorway. He just couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself these days, and he was pushing the limits of her resistance, and it wasn't fair.

It was Oliver who'd said no—who'd insisted on distance, shut them down, told her it was over before it had really started. She'd given him an ultimatum in the heat of the moment, and dude but that had backfired. It was like grocery shopping when you were hungry and without a list. She'd mean it—wanted to mean it—but the bottom line was that Oliver was Oliver and she was herself, she knew she would never be able to move on from him, fall out of love with him, any more than she could refuse a case of doughnuts when she was all "hangry" at Costco, and the sample lady got friendly with her.

His hand at the small of her back elicited an involuntary "grrr" at the back of her throat, and she felt his fingers convulse slightly.

"Alright?" he asked.

She nodded wordlessly, and stepped ahead of him, her tangerine heels clanking down the metal staircase, sounding even to her own ears, irritated. Roy was already at the bottom, but she avoided his gaze and walked past, down the darkened tarmac, alone.

Well it's Christmas time in tinsel town again.
Well it seems so long, oh Saint Nick where have you been.

The infiltration, dissipation of Fereday's finances, dissemination of evidence of his criminal organization's activities to the local and federal authorities—all went off without a hitch. It was a clean, surgical, op, and by the time Roy and Oliver were returning to the hotel base three blocks from MISKO, Felicity had packed her equipment and was ready to head back to the airport. Anxious to get the plane ride over and be home in her own bed with her fuzzy jammies on and no annoying UST to deal with until she arrived at the lair Monday night.

She was standing at the balcony door, watching the lights of the city below, arms wrapped around herself as she leant on the jamb. The reflection in the glass showed only Oliver entering the room, and Felicity turned questioningly.

"Where's Roy?"

Oliver looked uncomfortable—and unbelievably handsome in his hoodie and jeans—and hesitated before he answered. "I told him to take the weekend. Enjoy the city. He's never been here before . . . you know . . . walk of fame, Venice Beach, celebrity sighting tours . . ."

Felicity's eyes narrowed. "You told him to be a tourist? And just what would possess you to do that?" She watched him closely, her heart beginning to beat a little faster. He fidgeted, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and looking up at the ceiling. When he finally spoke, it was to seemingly change the subject.

"Have you been here before . . . to Hollywood?"

She frowned. "Almost? Senior trip I blew off because Mom got arrested and I had to use the money to bail her out?"

Oliver sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, then smiled. "It's Christmastime in Tinsel Town, Felicity. I have good memories here . . . I'd like to make more."

Her eyebrows went up and she couldn't help a surprised intake of breath. She also couldn't help the babble that started promptly after it. He'd dismissed Roy. He wanted to stay in Hollywood and do something fun—in spite of her best intentions of not getting to close, the dismissal she was reading into his words hurt. I'll just go now.

"Good memories are good—really good—I approve of them. Having them, making them, you know, in general. I'm sure it will be great. Have a wonderful time—I'll see you when you get back."

She moved on auto-pilot to walk past him and pick up her bags where they sat in the alcove by the front door, willing herself to take steady steps, and not meet his gaze. Then Oliver's hand reaching out and catching hers stopped her progress.

"Felicity."

Not trusting her voice she turned to him, unable to keep herself from looking up into his eyes as she did.

"With you."

He pulled her back, taking her other hand in his as well. He spoke quickly then, the words in a rush of nerves so unlike his usual, stoic, cadence.

"I know Christmas isn't really your thing, but I was hoping you might be willing to stay . . . it's supposed to snow . . ."

He looked away and then down at her again, pulling her a little closer. "We came when I was ten; the year Thea was born. For Christmas. My parents went event hopping, but Raisa took me ice skating, took us to the light display at the zoo. There was a gingerbread festival at the children's museum too. And she even dragged me to the ballet—The Nutcracker. We didn't see my parents hardly at all . . . but it was one of my favorite Christmases."

Felicity's heart swirled warm and overflowing in her chest as she watched Oliver's face during the recitation. He wasn't sending her packing. He was opening up and inviting her in. She didn't trust herself to speak past the chestnut-sized lump that had lodged in her throat, so she nodded, barely containing the grin she felt bubbling towards the surface.

But you know what?
I've got so much yuletide lovin' in me,
that nothin' gonna get me down.

The Nutcracker was stunning. The lights at the L.A. Zoo were incredible. They'd made gingerbread houses at a little boutique bakery open house, and had Buche de Noel at The Four Seasons' holiday high tea. Ice skating (indoors) had proved an exercise in hilarity—while she could walk like a model on a catwalk in 4-inch heels, gliding on metal blades was not one of Felicity's skills, while Oliver skated like a born-and-bred Canadian.

Finally, they were in evening dress—Isabel's ill-gotten gains were being put to incredibly good use, as evidenced by the vintage emerald silk dress and gold Fluevogs she was wearing—at an old Hollywood theater, waiting for the main attraction to take the stage. It wasn't like she'd never sat next to Oliver, dressed to the nines, smelling his aftershave and trying not to pass out because of the way the man looked in a tux. It was a reoccurring theme in her life, actually. Before he'd ended up broke and un-CEO'd, there'd been more charity events on his social calendar than you could shake a stick at, most of which she'd ended up going to with him. This was different though.

For one thing, his hand was on her knee, fingertips tracing small circles on the thin fabric covering her patella. That was new. New, and making it hard for her to breathe. As new as the fact that he'd pulled her against his side in the back of the cab they'd taken here, arm low around her waist, palm flat against her hipbone. That was as blindingly shiny-new as the diamond arrowhead-shaped earrings he'd pulled from his pocket while they waited for their ride to show up, with a mumbled, "had these for awhile . . . waiting for the right time . . ."

This was beyond not fair—this was playing dirty—and she was too confused by it to even innuendo that word all up in her mind. If he didn't stop it, she'd end up in his lap before the last note had been played tonight, and she couldn't be responsible for any kissing senseless-ness she might be forced to engage in. Her hands tightened on the clutch which held her lipstick, and she was holding on to it for dear life—and Oliver's protection—to keep herself from reciprocating that insane little knee fondling thing he was doing. Really. This was too much dirtiness. The fighting kind, not the other kind. Maybe.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy was awesome. At least Felicity assumed as much. She'd crossed her legs after the first song to save her knee and her sanity from Oliver's circle-y temptation, which had only been useful temporarily, since he'd simply transferred his attention to the nape of her neck. No matter what she did, she only succeeded in avoiding his searing, constant, touch when it was time to clap! Intermission had saved her from losing all sense of propriety—she'd fairly jogged to the ladies' room and stayed until the final reminder of the show starting again, and now it was over and she felt like she'd engaged in a 24-hour hacking marathon; exhausted, high on adrenaline, hyper-aware.

Oliver, one the other hand, appeared to be as relaxed as she'd ever seen him—and much more pleased with himself than he should be allowed to be considering she felt like she was losing her mind. There were lines. Lines he'd drawn. She'd drawn some too, to be fair, but she hadn't meant them, and he had, and what in the name of all that was holy was this thing he was doing?

They'd stepped out of the theater to find it snowing. Perfect, Hollywood, giant white flakes of fluff from a sky kept bright by a million big-city lights. It took Felicity's breath away, and even as she stopped, struck by the magic of it, she felt Oliver guiding her away from the exit as people thronged past them. They stood silently under the corner of the marquee, and he slipped his hand into hers. He was always warm—she'd chuckled to herself dozens of times about him running hot—and the heat of his hand was welcome in the chill. She couldn't have said which of the two temperatures it was that made her shiver just now.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice low and soft as he turned to look down at her.

Her eyes found his and held them, and she felt like universe had slowed to a snow globe's pace. The luminosity of the bare bulbs behind him created a halo effect, and the snow lingering for an instant in his hair made him look like an other-worldly creature—one that made her feel distinctly lightheaded. Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a half-smile and he glanced meaningfully above their heads with a small nod.

Her inarticulate sound of questioning squeaked upwards at the end when she followed his gaze to the live garland of greenery which decked the front of the theater. It was dotted with red springs of holly, blue cedar berries, and tiny, white, translucent pearls of . . . mistletoe.

The moment would not be wasted, and Felicity Smoak needed no further encouragement. Without hesitation, she dropped his hand and linked both of hers around the back of his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. She couldn't be held responsible, but she was happy to take the blame. The last kiss—their only kiss—had been a goodbye. This one held the wonder of hello, and now, and yesyesyes.

But I know when it snows at night.
That I'll get to hold you oh so tight
and kiss you under the mistletoe tonight.

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