Paris is even better than she thought it would be.
In times past she's read books, watched documentaries, seen pictures. When Google added Street View she spent time navigating through twisting streets, following routes from guidebooks or just letting her mouse take her where it would. So it's not completely new to her.
But it is better than she ever thought it would be.
Or maybe that's just the company.
She thinks that if Oliver were here by himself he would be a lot more dour. Instead he's constantly grinning, seemingly delighted by her reactions to the city.
She's probably losing cool points by being so unashamedly enthusiastic, but this is Paris. How can she not be?
And besides she never really went for the hipster thing.
What's the point of loving something if you can't fangirl all over it? And right now she is Paris' number one fan.
Oliver escorted her onto the plane with a hand on her back and she felt like a movie star. Everything screamed opulence, from the cream leather seats to the crystal cut glasses filled with champagne offered to them by a smiling attendant.
"Wow," she breathed. "This is... I don't have words for what this is."
Oliver laughed and showed her how to work the controls for her chair, which seemed to do everything but take off by itself. Lights, air, recline - even a massage function.
Felicity's mind immediately went to the dirtiest possible interpretation of that, and Oliver laughed at the look on her face.
"It's not like that," he said, then paused. "Well maybe it's a little like that."
She blushed and he laughed and they drank champagne - despite all the advice she had read about sticking to water she found she couldn't not drink the champagne - and as the miles fell away beneath them they watched movies Oliver had missed on the island and talked about pop culture, college, childhood memories and avoided all topics related to the Hood and his vendetta.
She fell asleep somewhere into the second or third movie - she wasn't so much watching them as watching him watching them - and awoke covered with a blanket as the plane descended into Orly airport.
And then there was Paris.
Diggle had stayed in Starling City but there was another car and driver waiting for them on the runway. Oliver greeted him like an old friend and introduced her to Jacques, who apparently was the caretaker for the Queens' Parisian properties.
"Properties?" She asks and it's Oliver's turn to blush. "I thought you said an apartment. An. As in one."
"Technically there are three," he admits, "a townhouse that my mother uses, an apartment which is technically on loan to the company as accommodation for visiting execs and my place."
"Your place?"
"It was a 21st birthday gift," he says, scratching his head in an embarrassed way. "It's the one I told you about - the one in Montparnasse."
"You own an apartment in Paris? You, not your family?"
"Technically when I was 'dead'," he says, "it passed back to my mother."
"Technically."
"Technically."
She eyes him.
"Was this some sort of attempt to seem like a normal person?" She asks, "because I have to say, whether the deed is in your name or your mother's most people don't own property in Paris."
He shrugs and she smiles. Other men might snuffle their feet here but that's not him.
She holds a hand out to him and he takes it.
"C'mon Oliver," she says, "show me Paris."
She dozes on his shoulder in the car - morning traffic into the city is worse that she's ever seen in Starling City, but she supposes that's to be expected.
He touches her on the shoulder and she opens her eyes to see ornate buildings with shutters and metal window boxes.
"I thought you might want to see this," he says, and she follows the gesture of his hand to see the banks of the Seine and Notre Dame cathedral on its island.
After that she doesn't speak for a while. At least not in words. There's a lot of incoherent squeeing which Oliver is surprisingly tolerant of.
She knows enough about Paris' layout to know Jacques is taking them on a long scenic route through the city but she doesn't care. She's seeing things she always dreamed of. She holds tight to Oliver's hand, possibly crushing his fingers once or twice in her excitement, and watches as he points out notable buildings or squares.
They leave the sights behind, turning into smaller streets until the car pulls over beside small restaurant on the corner or two streets.
"Are you hungry" He asks, "you slept through breakfast."
"Is it lunch time?"
"Not quite yet," he says, "but Jacques arranged this, so it's open if you're hungry."
"I'm hungry," she says, and he smiles and escorts her to a table.
Unsurprisingly French Onion Soup tastes even better in France.
He offers her choices at lunch. The entire city is open for them and he wants to show it off. Does she want to climb the Eiffel Tower or visit the Louvre? He's got a boat standing by for a trip on the river or Jacques can drive them out to Versailles.
"This is too much," she says.
"No," he replies.
"It is," she says, "you didn't need to do all this."
"I wanted to," he says, "I wanted to show you Paris."
"What's the second date?" She teases him. "London? Rome?"
"If you like," he says, and she stares at him.
"No," she decides, "our second date will be at my place. I'll attempt to cook something and then when it's all burned we can order in pizza and watch a movie, maybe."
"I'd like that," he says.
"You don't have to take me around the world," she says, taking his hand. "I just want to spend time with you."
He smiles but there's an edge to it. She can't quite figure out what it is, so when he guides her towards the car she shakes her head.
"Jacques can drop our bags off," she says, "right?"
"Yes."
"You asked me what I want to see," she smiles, "I want to see Paris with you."
She slips her arm through his and tugs him away from the car. "Let's just walk," she says, "which way to the river?"
Jacques points them in the right direction and they walk together, sometimes arm-in-arm, sometimes hand-in-hand, but always together, walking and talking through the streets of Paris.
Later he has Jacques pick them up near the Champs Élysées and drive them back to the apartment.
"We've got a reservation for eight," he says.
She looks at her watch.
"It's barely five," she points out, raising an eyebrow.
"I know how long Thea takes to get ready," he replies.
"And you thought I'd be the same?"
Oliver blinks and then looks not unlike a deer in the headlights.
"I didn't-" he starts.
And she laughs.
"You are so easy," she laughs. "All girls are the same. All women."
He blanches and she laughs.
"Too easy."
Oliver mock glares at her.
"I'm trying to be considerate," he says and she sticks her tongue out at him.
They make out in the back seat of the car for the rest of the journey.
He had her things put in the spare room of his apartment. Which she thinks privately is faintly ridiculous. Frankly there is no way she's not going to sleep with him tonight.
Which is to say that's she's not planning on jumping him but she's not going to enforce a separate bed rule just because they haven't had the requisite number of dates.
She's sewed up gashes in his skin. She thinks that puts them ahead in intimacy terms.
But so far he's been seemingly careful not to push her. All of his kisses are careful - passionate but measured. His hands stay above her clothing and do not stray.
She never would have thought she might have to be the one to push things further. After all, he is Oliver Queen. She's sure she remembers rumours of a sex tape back in his pre-island days.
But right now he's being so respectful
And she feels respected. Very respected.
And she remembers yelling at him about boundaries and not just taking what he wants and she now wishes he hadn't paid quite so much attention.
So she curls her hair and does her lipstick and dresses in her best underwear and her favorite dress.
It's green. She knows he likes green.
And when she walks out of her room she sees him sitting on the tiny metal balcony, dressed in a sharp suit and sipping wine.
The sun is setting behind him and she's in Paris and he brought her here and she feels her heart thump and knows she's done for.
"Felicity," he says, turning and smiling, "you look beautiful."
She feels herself blush.
And he stands and pulls a jewellery box from his pocket and offers it to her.
"I got you something," he says, "I know I probably shouldn't have but I saw them and I thought of you, and... Anyway, here."
She open the box and finds a pair of earrings. Gold settings and tiny green stones, delicate and stunning.
She looks up to see him hovering, almost nervous.
"Oliver."
"Are they too much?"
"Yes," she says honestly, "but I love them anyway."
She slips out the plain gold hoops she's currently wearing and puts in the emerald studs.
"Where are we going?"
"L'Atelior de Joel Robuchon," he says, "for the tasting menu."
"Was it hard to get a table?"
"Jacques did it," he says, "but I think there were bribes offered and favours exchanged. It's supposed to be one of the best in the city."
"So," she says, running her hand up the front of his shirt, "would you be really disappointed if we didn't go?"
"I don't understand."
Even though these shoes give her three extra inches of height she still has to go up on her toes to kiss him.
"Felicity," he says, "I promised you Paris."
"Yes," she says, "and you delivered it."
"Felicity," he says, somewhat plaintively.
"Oliver," she says as plainly as she can. "I'm offering you a chance to skip dinner. Today has been amazing. But I'd like to get to the night part of the date."
"Oh," he says. His hands come up to cup her face. "Oh."
"Yes," she says between kisses, "oh."
Paris really is better than she ever thought it would be.
And so is Oliver.