All in a Day's Work

Synopsis: By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

Rating: T, though later chapters may venture near/into M territory

Warnings: none

Spoilers: Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much to all of you who continue to read. I should probably take a minute to explain that I am slow writer. I think it's a bit of my own ADD coming out, as well as the fact that I want to get things right. Plus, I tend to be detailed (perhaps overly so) and write long chapters. I do appreciate your patience. I'm aiming for a chapter every week, but that doesn't always happen. :)

To those of you who left reviews but did not sign in, I could not send you personal messages of thanks, but I do truly appreciate you!

The other things I wanted to touch upon are some plot points that have been challenged. This is all kind of boring, so if you want to skip on down to the story, you aren't really missing anything. :)

For the record, Isabel Rochev is on The List. A reviewer insisted I was wrong about this, but I'm not. Isabel's name can clearly be seen a couple of lines under Adam Hunt's name in Robert Queen's book in the Arrow pilot. Additionally, interviews with those connected to Arrow have suggested that we will find out why Isabel was on The List by the end of the season. In the absence of a current explanation from the show, this story will have its own spin, which may or may not prove to be accurate once the canon story unfolds.

Also, a guest reviewer seemed to take exception to the premise and offered financial reasons for why the plot did not make sense to her/him. I submit that based on what we've seen established on the show, Oliver doesn't have enough liquid assets to ward off a takeover by himself (that was the reason Oliver needed financial backing from investors, which he found with a bank...go Walter). Yes, he is a billionaire, but most extremely wealthy people do not have their billions lying around. The money is invested. Coupled with Moira's legal woes, Oliver didn't have enough funds. So with the bank backing now in danger in this story thanks to Isabel's machinations, Oliver has the same problem. The reviewer suggested that it would make more sense for Oliver to buy into the bank himself, but if he had the money for that, wouldn't he have just put that money into QC?

Either way, I'm happy this story (which really is intended to be mostly fluffy, by the way), has folks thinking.

Part Four: Who Wants to Date a Dead Fish?

The Starling City Rockets were notoriously unpredictable. The local sports commentator Skip Masters often joked (in that punny way that newscasters gratingly do) that the fans never knew whether the team was going to crash and burn or whether they would be firing on all thrusters. However, the one predictable aspect of every Rockets game was that at the beginning of each home game, someone (pre-arranged, according to Oliver when Felicity later asked about it) threw a dead fish on the ice.

As Felicity Smoak sat in the Queen family's private suite well above the activity of the rink below and saw the fish thrown onto the ice, she leaned forward wondering if her contact lenses were playing tricks on her. The act seemed somehow prophetic. After all, she was a fish out of water, completely out of her element, just as much as the dead fish on ice below. She frowned slightly, realizing how ridiculous the comparison was. Prophetic. Poetic. Pathetic.

And this is why your dating life is nonexistent. Who wants to date a dead fish?

A scantily clad ice girl skated onto the rink with a shovel and cleared the fish away, all with a million-watt smile. Felicity doubted she had any trouble meeting men.

"And what do you do for a living?"

"Why, I look cute and shovel things."

Felicity looked to Oliver to see his reaction to the spectacle, but he was speaking with the suite attendant and was not paying attention to the action below.

She shifted in the plush leather seat. Being in the suite was odd; this wasn't her lifestyle. It wasn't that she was raised in a barn (more like a tree-lined middle class neighborhood, actually), but everything about the suite broadcast opulence.

The Queen suite seemed large, though Felicity didn't really have anything with which to compare it, except maybe her living room. The smell of leather filled her nostrils, the upholstery from the overstuffed chairs and sofas, she realized. A wet bar made from gleaming teakwood adorned one wall. Already, a variety of snacks were set out on its surface, while bottles of various liquor—some more expensive than what she earned in a week's time—were neatly arranged behind the bar on a shelf. A little alcohol to calm her frayed nerves was tempting, but the last thing she needed was to have her tongue loosened.

What was she doing here? She could be home, enjoying a much-needed break from the rigors of putting out Oliver's fires, and binge watching Doctor Who on Netflix.

The whole day had been a surreal experience, now that she thought about it. Nothing said surreal like being fake-engaged to a playboy billionaire with a secret identity as a leather-wearing crime fighter. The leather was definitely more intimidating than, say, tights, though there was a certain curiosity she had regarding Oliver and tights…

She shook the thought from her head. Mind out of the gutter. Don't think of him that way. Again, she mentally added.

Her mind was running away with her in so many directions at once.

No more freak-outs. You can do this. You can. If you can survive various explosions, being attacked by a serial killer, manmade earthquakes, and Oliver's murderous ex-girlfriend with impossibly perfect hair, surely you can survive a date pretending to be the fiancée of a man who alternately makes your mouth go dry and causes you to drool. And saving said man's multi-billion dollar company? All in a day's work, right?

It really wasn't so different from other dates, she reasoned, only Oliver was up front that he was using her, whereas other men she'd dated typically sprung it on her. And it wasn't even a real date. Oliver had no romantic interest in her. That was loud and clear. She could have worn granny panties and neglected to shave her legs, and he would never know.

Watching the Zamboni machine resurface the ice of the rink, she was once again reminded just how little she knew about hockey. Football, she understood. Same with baseball and basketball. But it never even occurred to her to attend a hockey game, though the Rockets were certainly popular enough locally, even if they had yet to reach national prominence like the Detroit Red Wings or the New York Rangers. If anything, she avoided this part of town when the Rockets were playing. Too crowded.

Other than her own cross-country meets in high school, the only sporting event she had ever attended was part of a 49ers game with Mr. Wrong on a weekend getaway to San Francisco. That was until he kissed her and she quickly discovered she could no longer breathe. That put a damper on their plans. She might've hoped Jack would make her breathless by the end of the night, but she had something in mind other than severe anaphylactic shock causing her airways to constrict. In her brain-addled state of mind, she had marveled that it was her luck that she was allergic to him. It turned out he'd eaten peanuts shortly before meeting her for their date in the hotel lobby. Good times. In retrospect, maybe it was the universe telling her that Jack Sommet was not the one for her.

She never really felt like she was missing out, though, when it came to the live sports experience (or when it came to the Jack Sommet experience). She was content to watch the occasional NFL game to root for her hometown's football hero, Aaron Rodgers, even if he did play for the Green Bay Packers.

So while being in a crowd never appealed to her, nor did struggling to find parking, coming to this game was a different experience. First, Oliver had reserved parking. There was no mad hunt for parking a mile away from the arena. Yes, there was a crowd outside the venue, but when he'd taken her hand, all of the trepidation fell away, as though it was only the two of them. He led her through the VIP entrance of the arena, and just as quickly as they could climb a fight of stairs, they were in the club level that housed the private suites.

And now she played the waiting game.

Waiting for a hockey game she didn't understand to begin.

Waiting for a schmoozing game she really didn't understand to begin.

Waiting for it all to be over so she could go home and stop pretending that all of these games were her normal life.

She chanced a glance back at Oliver, but he looked to be in deep conversation with the suite attendant. Were there really that many instructions to be given? She hoped Oliver wasn't one of those guys, like the rock stars who demanded that all the brown M&Ms be removed from the bowl.

Her attention quickly returned to the ice when music filled the arena. Guns N 'Roses' classic hit "Rocket Queen" accompanied the emergence of the Rockets players onto the ice. Felicity fought a smile, as she often did whenever she heard any mention of the name Queen. If she heard "God Save the Queen," she would probably have the same reaction.

To begin warm-ups, the players skated with the ferocity of steamrollers—and looked graceful doing it. They glided across the ice with ease and practiced taking shots into the goal, quickly pivoted, changed direction, and did it without once falling on their butts.

Impressive.

The warm-ups continued for several minutes while the announcer ran through a list of sponsors for the event, where information kiosks were located, as well as citing the entertainment between periods.

The music then shifted to Def Leppard's "Rocket" as the high definition megatron showed the starting six from the Starling City Rockets, amidst uproarious cheering of the masses. If it was that loud in the suite, Felicity imagined it must have been practically deafening in the general admissions seating. Just as quickly, the music changed again as graphics appeared on the megatron showing the opening lineup of the Rockets' opponents. As the announcer introduced each player from the San Jose Sharks, "Rock and Roll" came over the loudspeaker and the crowd chanted in unison, "Hey, you suck" as each opponent's picture appeared. This was not what she expected, but the crowd seemed to be experienced game-goers. When the last player from the Sharks was announced, the crowd chanted, "He sucks, too."

The bustle of the crowd below calmed briefly as an Army specialist who had just returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan beautifully sang the national anthem, though when the man reached the climax of the song and the impossibly high notes it demanded, the crowd went wild.

And then it was game on. One player from each team met in the center of ice and faced off for control of the puck. At least she knew what the object was called, but wasn't Oliver supposed to be teaching her how all of this worked?

Like clockwork, he appeared by her side, sliding into the seat next to her. He barely even glanced at the action on the ice. "Are you hungry?"

She could eat pretty much always, but she tried to temper her enthusiasm. "A little. Everything okay?" she asked as she turned to make sure the attendant was gone.

Her nervousness from earlier had not entirely dissipated. It wasn't so much Oliver that made her anxious now, as it was the fact that she was soon to be on display and everything was riding on her performance, the futures of QC and Team Arrow. Social situations had never been her forte. Retrieving information from a bullet laden computer or secret government agencies was far easier than retrieving her dignity if she screwed this up. Not to mention, if she was supposed to be Oliver's image rehab, the last thing she wanted was for that image to be her wearing food.

"Just getting some intel. Steve's supposed to let me know when McMartin shows."

She assumed Steve was the name of the attendant.

"And then what?" Felicity asked. "We're here in our own private world, and I'm guessing Mr. McMartin will be in his own private world, so…"

"So we pay our respects."

"Invade," she corrected.

"Same difference."

"You have a really bad habit of showing up uninvited."

At that, an eyebrow shot up. "It usually works out. Did with you."

She groaned good-naturedly. "You are such a jackass."

"And you like it."

And he was right, though she wasn't about to admit that to him. Oliver's confidence—particularly because she often lacked her own—was alternately appealing and off-putting. This Oliver sounded more the way she imagined he must have sounded back in the day. Roguishly charming. Dripping with charisma.

"I never did get that blood out of the back seat of my car. I had to make up a cover story when my friend JoJo was in town visiting last weekend."

"JoJo?" he questioned.

That was right. Oliver didn't know about the visit. The two of them hadn't exactly been covered up in bonding moments since Oliver had been covered up with Isabel two weeks earlier.

It still stung, but what right did she have to be angry about it? He had made no commitment to her at any point other than he would keep her safe. And it wasn't as if he led a celibate life. There had been many women in his past. Many. Many. And there would be women in his future.

But Isabel Rochev? Of all the women in the world, that's whom Oliver chose to scratch his itch? Every time Felicity saw Isabel, she couldn't help but think that maybe if Isabel ate some of that expensive makeup she wore, she could be pretty on the inside. Felicity had occasionally seen Oliver with women of substance, like McKenna Hall. A woman like that—decent, smart, who didn't see dollar signs when she looked at him—that was the type of woman Felicity wanted for Oliver. Not that he'd exactly asked her opinion.

Isabel had certainly been free with her opinion earlier, though. It had taken every ounce of self-control Felicity possessed to keep from reacting to the other woman's sneering during their encounter in the elevator at Queen Consolidated. When their little charade was over, though, Felicity couldn't wait to set the record straight. She was neither a fool nor a gold digger.

And she sure as hell wasn't a pushover.

Part of the reason she had agreed to help Oliver was just to piss Isabel off, to show Ms. Rochev she wasn't as smart as she thought. Of course, her main goal was protecting the Queen family's interests in QC and by extension, continuing the access to the Applied Sciences Division of QC, as well as the financial shelter the company provided to Team Arrow. But knocking down Isabel a peg or two? That wouldn't hurt Felicity's feelings any.

She suddenly realized she'd been lost in thought and hadn't responded to Oliver.

"Joanna," Felicity clarified after a beat. "I've just always called her JoJo. Good thing my cover stories are better than yours."

"Oh?"

"She thinks I took you home after you got into a bar brawl."

"Did I at least win?" he asked rhetorically before standing and extending his hand to her. Puzzled, she hesitated before taking it. Oliver was awfully handsy tonight. First in her apartment, then walking into the arena, and now. Though as he pulled her up from her seat and his gaze lingered on her, she couldn't quite remember why that was a bad thing.

Wow. His eyelashes were long.

With her free hand, she nervously went to push her glasses up her nose, a habit of hers, only to find they weren't there. Right. Contact lenses. Oliver broke into a smile, and she felt the light flutters in her stomach.

Stupid biology.

Don't, she reminded herself. Don't let down your guard. Don't let yourself think this is in any way, shape, or form real. She withdrew her hand but followed him as he walked to the bar.

"I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I arranged for a little bit of everything. Hot wings. Nachos. Funnel cakes. Popcorn. Kosher beef franks. A few other things. Nothing with nuts."

He arranged for heartburn.

"And no tacos," he added wryly, though she could detect a hint of amusement shining in his blue eyes.

"That's really thoughtful, but you didn't have to go to so much trouble. I don't strictly observe kosher rules. Pepperoni on pizza is pretty fabulous."

"So all those times we ordered pizza late at night, we could have been eating pepperoni?" he asked passing her a plate.

She shrugged, "I thought you didn't like it. And Digg, well, he'll eat anything. But for the record, I do like it. A lot. Bacon, too. I mean, I don't eat non-kosher foods in front of my family, which I guess makes me kind of phony now that I think about it…" she trailed off.

"We all have secrets from our families."

"Some more so than others, but secrets aren't always bad. Your secret keeps your family safe."

"I don't know that I'd call them safe. Malcolm Merlyn was blackmailing my mom and I didn't even know it. Now she's about to go on trial for her life. And Thea—she's involved with someone who's nothing but trouble."

"You don't seem to have a problem using Roy when it suits your purposes," Felicity pointed out.

"He's too much of a wild card. Thea needs someone safe."

"Good thing she's not listening to you," Felicity practically snorted.

Oliver shot her a withering look. It was a patented glare that used to automatically make her knees quiver and still could on occasion, but for whatever reason, she felt emboldened tonight. Maybe it was because she knew he needed her. Where else would he find a fake fiancée on such short notice? Or maybe it was because she knew he needed a reality check. Too many people kowtowing to Oliver all the time—as her associates at QC often did—would only serve to make him insufferable, so she tried to counterbalance that when he felt strongly about a subject. "Oh no you don't."

"Don't what?" he asked.

"Don't give me the stink eye. Just because something is safe, that doesn't mean it's always the best choice. You taught me that."

If they were having a staring contest, which was what it started to feel like to Felicity, she won when Oliver blinked.

The contemplative look that crossed his face worried her, though, more than if he'd been furious. Nine months ago, he'd put his trust in her and asked her to trust him in return when he revealed his double-life. She chose to save his life and not only keep his secret but help him using her own skill set. It wasn't the safe choice—Oliver Queen could never be called safe—but it was the right thing, and she hadn't looked back, hadn't regretted stepping out of her ordinary life into one far more extraordinary and, yes, dangerous. Even when they clashed on his methods, she believed in his cause, believed in him.

She just wished she could take away his guilt. He didn't say it, but she was certain he was quietly piling onto his handy-dandy guilt scale, no doubt developed by the mis-Applied Sciences Division of Queen Consolidated. "This was my choice, Oliver."

He furrowed his brows as though questioning, "How did you know?" but he didn't actually verbalize the thought.

She wanted to tell him that when let down his guard, he wasn't that hard for her to the man was already emotionally stunted. No need to make him even more emotionally unavailable.

"Look, I may not know your sister well, but I've seen enough of her to know that she's smart, intuitive, and…" Felicity added with a smile, "something of a firecracker. Roy makes her happy and challenges her."

"He's one step up from a thug."

She loaded raw veggies on her plate next to a hot dog. "He's a survivor, and as far as I can tell, he works hard at Verdant to support himself, to make his own way. He doesn't use Thea for her money."

"They met when he stole her purse," he reminded her with measured patience, which signaled to her that he was about to lose what little bit of that virtue he had left.

"He wants the city to be safe again, just like you do."

"Not just like I do," he groused.

She set her plate aside and touched his forearm. "Hey." She tilted her head subtly, as though making a peace offering. "We can keep this up, or do you want to talk about something with less conflict? Less grrrrr? You promised me you'd teach me about hockey, so let's talk hockey."

A few minutes later as the two sat side-by-side eating traditional game food (she did not add any condiments onto her hot dog for fear of dripping them onto herself—though she didn't tell him that was her reasoning—but with her luck, he would probably think she didn't like ketchup or mustard), Felicity learned how ironic her request was. Hockey was, by its nature, a game of conflict. She was already familiar with the premise of the game, but the rules were foreign to her, as was the purpose behind the blue and red marks visible through the ice. Once Oliver explained the rules to her, she could see the strategy involved far more than skating around in circles carrying a big sticks and trying not to trip. She grimaced or uttered an "ouch" when a player would check an opponent and slam him into the Plexiglas, which struck her as unsportsmanlike but was apparently the norm in this game. She could've sworn she heard Oliver mutter under his breath about taking worse blows than that without protective padding. And the penalty box? That she found especially baffling. It was the NHL version of parenting. Grown man misbehaves? Just put him in time out.

When the left wing of the Rockets went into the penalty box after an illegal hit and the Sharks enjoyed a Powerplay, she commented, "In our next redesign of the foundry basement, I vote we install one of those."

Playing along, he asked, "But who would be the ref?" He swiped a carrot stick off her plate.

Felicity glanced back at the player in the box who looked none too pleased and was jawing his frustration. "All I know is the man who has to sit with the guy in time out has the worst job ever. I will never complain again when you ask for coffee."

Oliver leaned forward in his seat as the Sharks' center approached the Rockets' goal on the Powerplay. The player attempted a shot—and missed when it was deflected by the goalie.

Oliver did a fist pump in reaction.

Wow. That was not what she expected from Mr. Cool.

"So…hockey fan. Another secret identity, I take it."

"Not as much anymore, but when I was a kid…" His voice trailed off, as though lost in his own memories. Realizing she was waiting for him to finish, he went on, "My dad used to bring me to the home games when he wasn't too busy. Mom didn't really care about hockey and Thea was too little, so it was just the two of us." He paused. "And whatever business associates or employees Dad brought along."

Oliver rarely spoke of his father except in the context of QC business or the path Robert Queen set him on to right his wrongs.

"And you played hockey as a kid." Felicity tried to imagine a young, carefree Oliver and came up short. The man who sat next to her seemed like such an old soul most of the time.

"I wasn't very good," he admitted. "I was uncoordinated."

That was hard to believe. Oliver's every movement seemed so deliberate, so graceful. He was a man who knew his body, knew how to use it to its full effect.

"What about you?" he asked. "Did you play any sports?"

She fought back a gurgle of laughter. "I ran."

"Track and field?"

"Cross country. I had to depend on others less that way. Team sports were never my thing. My parents insisted that I do something athletic, and I agreed as it made me better rounded as a scholarship applicant."

"And yet you're a valuable member of a team now."

"I live a life of irony," she sighed. "And I've learned to play nice with others."

"Mostly," he teased. "You still run."

"Every morning. How did you…?"

He tilted his head as his eyes dipped over her body, the flatness of her stomach, her toned thighs and calves.

Her cheeks suddenly felt very warm. "Right."

"We should run together some morning," he suggested.

She shook her head vehemently. "I don't think so. I've seen you run."

"Too fast for you?" he challenged.

"Too Parkour for me," she retorted.

He threw her a crooked smile that suggested the matter wasn't entirely closed, but he was willing to let it go for now.

His eyes returned to the game, but he continued the conversation. "You said your parents wanted you to play sports. So what about your family? What's their story?"

"That's the first time you've asked. Probably because you checked me out. My credentials. Checked out my credentials and background. Not checked me out checked me out."

He looked back at her. "I did check you out." And he winked.

Felicity took a gulp from her bottle of water and looked away.

"You rarely talk about them," he persisted.

"My family is complicated, which is strange because they shouldn't be. There are no dark skeletons in their past. Not that I'm suggesting your family has skeletons. I mean, we all have skeletons. Otherwise, our bodies would just flop all over the place, and our brains would end up in our spleen, which is a mystery in and of itself because what does a spleen even do, and…" She paused and shook her head, as though pushing a mental reset button. "I've really got to stop that."

"My family has skeletons," Oliver asserted. "They made their fortunes off the misfortune of others."

"That's not going to be your legacy."

Oliver side-stepped the topic. "Why is your family complicated?"

"Why is any family complicated?" Felicity hedged. "Here's the thing. My parents have put all their hopes and dreams into me. And have you ever been around Jewish mothers? You should meet mine. I specialize in IT; she specializes in guilt. She wants to know why I'm not settling down and having babies."

"What do you tell her?"

"That I'm happy with the way things are."

"Are you?"

His question sucked the wind from her as the conversation took a far more serious turn than she had anticipated. Both of her jobs required an enormous commitment, leaving little time for those things that used to seem so important but in retrospect weren't (though she wished she still had time to go to Trivia Night with her friends from the IT Department). In the midst of those demanding jobs, she found unexpected friendships and a sense of purpose. So was she happy?

"Most of the time." She reached over and snatched a nacho cheese laden chip from his plate, careful to not let the cheese drip. Turnabout was fair play. "What about you?"

He looked uncomfortable with the question but responded, "I'll be happy when the city is cleaned up."

"That's no way to live."

Her words were blunt but her tone soft. She could see the flickering of emotion in his eyes, but she couldn't entirely decipher it.

"It just seems like things are getting worse, not better, and I'm trying to plug a hole in a dam by using a finger."

She reached over and hooked her forefinger with his. "All the more reason to see the possibilities around you. Oliver, happiness isn't something to be attained at some unknown point in the future. It's something you have to find in the here and now. It's the little things like hockey games and really good nacho cheese and buy one get one free. It's spending time with people who are special to you and being able to let go long enough to laugh."

"Felicity."

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you think nacho cheese is a good thing because your sleeve is in my nacho cheese."

She yelped and pulled back her arm. Sure enough, the orange, gooey, cheesy goodness was smeared on the sleeve of her leather jacket. She let out a half-groan, half-chuckle. "So much for being careful. I may as well have had the ketchup and mustard."

He shot her a confused look but got up to retrieve a damp towel to wipe the garment.

Felicity stood and shrugged off the jacket. When she turned to look at him, he quickly turned his head, but she could see the gentle shaking of his body. Was he laughing? She was not particularly thrilled that she had done something embarrassing yet again, but maybe the outcome was worth it.

Oliver turned back around and had a straight face, except for the twitching of his lips. He took the jacket from her and gently rubbed the cheese off.

"Looks like you're cleaning up all my messes today," she chirped.

"God knows you've cleaned up enough of mine," he replied holding the jacket out to her.

She took it from him, and as she did, their eyes locked onto one another, blue on blue. She caught a glimpse of the man behind the affected mask and her breath caught within her. He was a man of flaws, of contradictions. Tragic and triumphant, scarred and beautiful, vulnerable and strong. Above all, he was a survivor and a hero. If only he could see himself the way she did, but that was something he would have to learn on his own.

He studied her a moment before asking, "Your mom wants you married off and having kids. Is that what you want? A family of your own?"

Was he worried about standing in her way of having a family? Never let it be said Oliver Queen was an undemanding boss, but he had yet to demand anything of her that she was unwilling to give. And at this point, she didn't see where a husband and children could even fit into her existence. And then there was the small matter that now the bar was set very, very high for the next man to come along in her life.

Poor guy.

"I want to keep doing what I'm doing. I love my mom, but I'm not going to live my life for her. But down the road….way down the road, I can see myself getting married and having kids. Theoretically."

"Any man would be lucky to have you, Felicity." The rawness, the intensity of his tone, nearly made her drop the jacket.

The opening of the suite door interrupted the moment. "Mr. Queen," a man, the earlier attendant, had appeared. "You asked to be notified when Mr. McMartin arrived. The younger Mr. McMartin is here, sir, but I don't believe the elder Mr. McMartin will be in attendance tonight."

"Thank you, Steve."

"Is there anything else you need?" Steve asked.

"No," Oliver replied. He looked to Felicity. "You?"

"No, thank you."

At that, Steve nodded and exited the suite.

Felicity felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. "So this has been for nothing?"

"I wouldn't say 'nothing.' I'm glad we got to do something together that didn't involve business meetings, paperwork, or arrows. Besides," Oliver added with a hint of a smile as he walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Cristal, "we can still…invade."

Oliver wasn't kidding about invading—though he waited until the game was between periods. He reasoned that even if Frederick McMartin wasn't present, there was nothing wrong with making contact with the family, as the McMartin Group was a family-run company. With the Cristal in one hand, and the other hand pressed against the small of Felicity's back, he approached the owner's suite like he, himself, owned the place. The security guard recognized him immediately and opened the door to allow the duo entrance.

The suite was much like the one Oliver and Felicity had just been in—leather and gleaming wood—except this one was full of people, some young, some old.

A sandy-haired man about Oliver's age turned when the door opened. It took a moment for the man to register who his visitors were, but once he did, a broad grin spread across his face. "Look what the cat dragged in!"

Oliver plastered a smile on his face in response. "It was a bear, but in my defense, we were both really drunk at the time."

The man clasped Oliver's hand firmly and, if possible, his grin seemed to expand. "Good to see you, Ollie."

"You, too." Oliver looked to Felicity who stood by his side watching. "Felicity, this is Parker McMartin. He's an old family friend. Parker, this is Felicity Smoak, my fiancée."

Parker's eyebrows shot up. "Your fiancée? It's been awhile, Ollie. Didn't realize just how long." He took Felicity's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet the woman who finally domesticated Oliver Queen."

"Likewise. Not that you domesticated Oliver. Or that you're a woman. Likewise that it's good to meet you. Which…I could have just left at…likewise." Felicity grew flushed.

Parker laughed heartily and pressed his other hand over hers. "I like you." He squeezed her hand before letting her go. He then turned to Oliver. "Where'd you find her?"

"Queen Consolidated. The IT Department. I had some trouble with a laptop. She fixed it for me." A version of the truth was easiest to keep track of, after all.

"I'm really good with my hands," Felicity offered, then paused. "That sounded a lot less dirty in my mind."

Trying to smooth Felicity's ruffled nerves, Oliver pulled her to him and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her forehead. In response, she snuggled closer to his side, fitting perfectly under the crook of his arm, he noted. But when he felt her fingertips press lightly against his abdomen, he drew in a slight breath. She looked up at him and smiled nervously, oblivious to the effect she had on him.

Parker shook his head as he studied the couple. "You're a keeper. I just didn't think my old friend here would ever settle down."

"I get that a lot," she replied with a smile.

"I had just never met the right woman until Felicity," Oliver added smoothly.

"So when's the big day?"

"We…haven't decided yet," Felicity said as she and Oliver exchanged glances.

"I'd take her to the court house tomorrow if she'd let me. Less chance of her getting away."

"You've kind of ruined all other men for me, silly," Felicity chastised as she gently swatted his abdomen. She then turned her attention back to Parker. "It will be awhile. I've always wanted a big wedding. Besides, I think my mom would be heartbroken if she didn't get to hover and fuss over the details."

Oliver groaned jokingly. "Felicity really hates to disappoint her mother. Makes her feel guilty."

"Well, Oliver," said a curly-haired brunette who approached the trio, "I just hope your own mother is available for the nuptials. Maybe you should get married at the courthouse."

"Claws in, Colleen," Parker warned.

"I'm behaving. Mostly," Colleen cooed in response before batting her eyes in faux innocence at Oliver. "I didn't mean to sound so catty. I know it's been a rough few months for Moira."

"I'm confident my mother will be exonerated," Oliver replied to the newcomer, keeping his tone neutral. The tightness in his jaw was impossible to miss from Felicity's vantage point, however.

"Of course." The brunette, about two inches taller than Felicity and armed with killer curves, stood before the blonde, studying her. "Colleen McMartin, Parker's sister. Ollie and I are…old friends."

"Felicity Smoak. And I can see why Oliver has made new friends." As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she wished she could take them back. "Oh," she squeaked.

At that, Parker burst out laughing, and to Felicity's surprise, so did Colleen. "I think I'm going to like you, Felicity Smoak," Colleen finally managed.

"I can't imagine why," Felicity muttered.

"Oliver, we're having a get-together at the house this Friday night," Parker began. "You and Felicity should come."

An in. They might not be making contact with Frederick McMartin himself, but this was a step in the right direction.

"Honey, are we busy on Friday?" Oliver asked looking at Felicity.

"I think we're free," Felicity replied, the opportunity not lost upon her, though she was still stunned at the turn of events.

"Good. Dinner's at eight. I look forward to seeing you both."

"I'm so sorry," Felicity groaned when she and Oliver returned to the Queen family's viewing suite.

"For what?" Oliver asked.

"I almost ruined things. Lucky for me Parker seems to think that everything is funny. I wonder how much he's had to drink."

"Parker is easy-going. Colleen is…"

"Just easy?" At that, Felicity slapped her hand across her mouth. "You should break up with me now. Like, right now. I can't imagine that I am doing anything to help your cause. All I'm doing is embarrassing the both of us."

"Hey, mission accomplished. You were perfect."

"How can you say that?"

"Because you're so guileless."

Felicity did a double take. "Except that I'm not. I'm a lying liar. Thankfully my pants aren't on fire."

"If that old saying were true, I wouldn't have any pants left to wear." At that, Felicity's eyebrow shot up, intrigued. "And you heard what Parker said. You're a keeper."

"You know, there are going to be a lot more questions about our wedding plans—plans that we don't actually have."

"We were doing fine."

She crossed her arms. "Yeah, well, I was halfway afraid you were going to announce a taco bar at the reception, seeing as how I hate to disappoint my mom."

Felicity was the one who mentioned her mother first, so why wouldn't Mrs. Smoak be fair game? "Are you upset with me?" Oliver asked incredulously.

"Frequently, but right now, I'm just a little freaked out. Word is going to leak; I don't know how we'll keep it all quiet."

He took a deep breath. "If you want out, say the word. I'll find another way."

She ran her hand through her hair. "There is no other way, and believe me, I've thought about it."

"So have I."

Walter had come through for him when all else had failed. With much of the Queen fortune tied up in investments and Queen Consolidated itself, Oliver didn't have enough liquid assets to fully head off the hostile takeover, only to stalemate it. And now that the bank backing was likely to be rescinded, he was back to square one, or at least would be soon. He had investigated the possibility of surreptitiously purchasing controlling interest in the bank itself, but he ran into the same problem: that still required more liquid assets than he had. With his mother's accounts frozen and Thea's lack of interest in Queen Consolidated, he was running out of options. He had been working on building his own business reputation, but getting his father's old friends to see him in a different light wasn't easy, particularly in light of his history and divided attention.

"Isabel is on my father's list."

Felicity knew that already, knew that the list was a connect-the-dots for those who had in some way failed Starling City through greed and corruption. But she also knew Isabel was relatively young compared to others on the list and thus didn't entirely fit the list's profile. "Why?"

He pinched his lips together and shook his head slightly. "She's shadowy. With the others, I could follow the breadcrumbs, uncover their corruption. With her, there's nothing."

"I have a theory."

"Surprising," he replied drily.

"You're probably not going to like it, though."

"Even more surprising."

"Whatever this is with Isabel is personal, but it's not about you. I think it has to do with your dad."

"Felicity," he began to protest.

"No," she replied holding up her hand. "Hear me out. When I ran into her earlier today…"

"You ran into Isabel?"

"Well, more like she cornered me in the elevator—"

"You didn't mention it to me."

"I don't tell you everything that happens to me or everything I think. There's too much squirrel! going on."

"Squirrel?"

"Right. You weren't back yet when Up came out. You should watch it sometime. Good movie. Though I had a college professor that looked just like Mr. Fredericksen right down to the brown pants, bow tie, and tweed jacket, I mean, if a person can look like a cartoon character."

"Felicity, focus."

"Okay. So Isabel was being her delightful self. According to her, there are two types of women a Queen man marries: a golddigger or a fool. Because of my sneakers, she said I obviously wasn't a golddigger, which left the fool. She thinks you cheated on me, and I'm an idiot for agreeing to marry you. Which, for the record, if we weren't pretending, that would have been a deal breaker."

"I'm sorry."

Was he sorry Isabel cornered her or sorry he slept with her? Felicity wouldn't tell him it was all right because it wasn't. So she continued with her theorizing, "As Isabel spoke, it was as though she was personally offended that I would put myself in the position of playing the fool. And that got me thinking. Why would she care one way or the other? But she said kept referring to 'a Queen man,' as in a pattern of behavior. How many Queen men are there?"

"Just one."

"One doesn't constitute a pattern for an entire family. I don't think that was a slip of the tongue."

"My dad wasn't a saint, but—"

"She's beautiful, articulate, smart. She goes after what she wants. You didn't resist. Why would he? Theoretically speaking, of course." She swallowed hard. Was it tacky to accuse a dead man of having an affair with his son's one-half hour stand? Probably. "So why was she on his list? And—"

"Can it help us to stop her now?" Oliver finished. And suddenly it made sense. His mother had warned him not to trust Isabel. He had dismissed her warning because of course he wouldn't trust the woman leading the Stelmoor takeover attempt. But in the process, he'd overlooked something else. "I think my mother knows."

To be continued in Part 5: You Always Remember Your First Time (on TMZ)