The Drop was more Diggle's speed—a relaxed, Saturday night kinda place for people who were more interested in having a good time than being seen having a good time. He didn't have anything against Club Darkside, the meal had been excellent, but it wasn't the kind of place you relaxed at. The Drop had a set of bead curtains that led into an arcade room, a bowling lane at the far side of another room, a dance floor, and a house band. Tonight, though, the only musicians were in the audience—only the aspiring were allowed to get on stage for Karaoke Night.

"Now this is nice," Carly said. "I don't think I've been here since Andy…"

Diggle took off his tie, tucking it into a pocket. "Shame about the music, though."

On stage, an American Idol wannabe was doing undeserved things to Suspicious Minds.

"It'll pick up," she assured him. "Hey, you know, you don't have to take my mind off him."

"Andy?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't be out on a date with you if I weren't comfortable with—this."

"I just don't want to make things uncomfortable."

"You won't. He was your brother, my husband, we both loved him. Honestly, I don't mind being reminded of him. Yes, it hurts a little, even now, but that hurt just reminds me of how good it was when he was here. I don't think he'd want me to forget that. I don't."

Diggle felt a smile pulling at his lips like a hand running over his skin. "I don't either. But all things being equal, let's work on making some new memories instead of going over the old ones?"

"Sounds good to me. You wanna dance?" A would-be high note crashed and burned instead. "Once Elvis has stopped spinning in his grave?"

Nearby, Ollie sat disguised in a ruffled knitwear sweater, his face hidden by a hat pulled low and a collar pulled high. Also, he had applied some eye shadow, which he thought was underrated as disguises went.

"Felicity, we need some better tunes if they're going to dance—are you hearing this? If I told you a cat were being murdered on stage, would you doubt me?"

"I never doubt you. And I'm not surprised the singing's bad, that club's membership is eighty-four percent white."

"Little racist, Fe."

There was a brief pause, then she spoke apologetically: "My name's Felicity. That's okay, a lot of people forget it."

Ollie frowned. "I didn't forget your name, I just thought you could use a nickname. Friends call each other nicknames."

"Oh. Right. Do you have a nickname?"

"Yeah, my friends call me Ollie—"

"I think I'll call you Queequeg."

Ollie's response was flat, even by his standards. "What."

"It's short for Queen."

"That's longer than Queen."

"And he's a character from Moby Dick, so the both of you were in a shipwreck, it's literary—why aren't you stopping me from talking?"

"Felicity, tunes, now."

"Right." A quick clatter of typing. "Based on her visits to 8tracks, I'm going to say that her favorite song is I Say A Little Prayer. You know it?"

"Why would I need to know it?"

"Well, you're going to sing it, right? You can't just pay someone to sing it for you."

"I'm a very rich man, Felicity."

"Believe it or not, I can't tell whether someone is a good singer by checking their browser history. If we're going to do this, we have to do it ourselves. C'mon, you have a great voice, I love listening to you talk—people love listening to you talk—"

"Felicity, I'm tone-deaf."

"Tone-deaf?"

"I can't sing."

"Can't sing?"

Ollie tapped his earpiece. "Is this thing repeating on me?"

"Oliver, everyone can sing."

"Not me. I can hit a bullseye at a hundred meters, I can beat up any three black belts, and I'm very good in bed. That's my skillset. No singing."

"Let me think—"

Someone got on stage to apparently punish a Nicki Minaj song for being a Nicki Minaj song, which should've already been punishment enough.

"Hurry, Smoak."

"Okay, I've hacked into the place's sound system, I can patch into the microphone—how good are you are lip-syncing?"

"What?"

"I have an excellent singing voice, Oliver. Obviously, I don't sing in public because it's nerve-wracking, but I should be fine doing it over the internet. Same principle as my take on Back To The Future. I could never argue that Marty McFly represents historical revisionism in the classroom face to face…"

"So you're going to sing, and I'm going to pretend to be singing? Like Singing In The Rain?"

"Oh, I love that movie, it's been so long since I've watched it—"

"It's been a while for me too, but from what I can recall, they were both women in that movie."

"Have I mentioned I have a very masculine singing voice, Oliver?"

Diggle happened to look at the stage as the next singer came up. Carly noticed.

"Are you alright, John? You look pale, and that's a neat trick for a black man."

The emcee had already taken a quick selfie with Oliver. Now, he hyped him, dreaming of The Drop trending in the next five minutes. "Alright everyone, we've got a special treat for you tonight! Starling's own Oliver Queen is going to sing for us, right, now!"

A plethora of smartphones appeared as if by magic, their screens reflecting Ollie like backwards mirrors as he approached the microphone.

"Hello," he said stiffly. "Do you like music? I… like music. Let's do some music. Now." He tapped on the microphone. "Testing, one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two…" There was a hiss of static. "Okay. Musi—"

He was interrupted by a sudden stir of Burt Bacharach piano playing. Ollie nodded along, trying to remember how the song went, jumping in just as he heard Felicity start.

"The moment I wake up/Before I put on my makeup…"

Carly was already shimmying in her seat a little. "Your boss has good taste. This is my jam! He's surprisingly falsetto, though."

"It's like the Bee Gees," Diggle told her. "White man who sings like a black girl. You wanna dance?"

Somewhere in the Glades, Felicity sang her heart out, always remembering that Christina Aguilera wouldn't be afraid to sing pretending to be her male boss so that her best friend could have a nice date.

Carly hadn't been a nun after Andy died. She tried to put herself out there, date as best she could with an equally grief-stricken son who needed her. They weren't all jerks, either. A lot of them were patient, understanding. But she kept comparing them to Andy—his love for her—his rightness for her—and she'd felt pathetic, trying to substitute one for the other.

Dancing with John didn't feel pathetic… that felt good. That felt right.

And from the look in his eyes, she could tell John felt the same way. She hoped he could tell from her eyes as well. It wasn't like he was looking anywhere else.

Jazz hands, Oliver Queen thought. The key to good lip-syncing is the precise application of jazz hands…