Heh. This chapter kinda got away from me here.

Timing and Technical Assistance

A sudden gust of wind sent the rain pattering against the windowpane, but neither Felicity nor Oliver looked up from the photos laid out across the bedspread. He was glad to be in Felicity's apartment, in Felicity's bed, going through the envelope of photos Sandra had given her earlier that day. Despite what he'd said about not being ready, Oliver wanted to do this. It was a step in the right direction, towards understanding his son.

"He looks like me," said Oliver, turning the photo so Felicity could see it around his shoulder. Even to his own ears he sounded surprised.

Felicity's face appeared above his, upside down because his head was in her lap. "The thing about children, Oliver," she said, straight-faced, "is that they tend to look like their parents."

Oliver smiled at her teasing and went back to Connor's photo. It was probably the unfamiliarity — maybe the fact that he'd never had to pay much attention — but there was something quietly remarkable about seeing himself in a child's — his child's — face. A younger, softer version of himself, one with all the edges and scars smoothed away.

There were pictures of him as a child somewhere — Thea probably knew where — and Oliver could have sworn that had they been put side by side for comparison, the two of them would have borne an uncanny resemblance. Even down to the uncomfortably stiff school uniform that chafed his chin. Oliver rubbed at it absently before he realized what he was doing.

"I like this one," said Felicity, showing him a different photo of Connor at the beach. Unlike the other pictures, there was a quiet smile on his pale face as he sat on the sand in a faded t-shirt and shorts. That was probably the one difference between them — Oliver smiled less now, but as a child he'd rarely been able to take anything seriously.

Oliver took the photo with a smile, and looked through the rest, one by one, all while Felicity stroked his hair in silence. He knew without a shadow of a doubt — after what happened in the cemetery with Malcolm and from what Felicity had told him — that the news, the truth…it had been meant to be a punishment, some kind of blow that would drive her away from Oliver. A blow that should have driven her away.

What they failed to understand about Felicity, and what Oliver sometimes forgot, was her heart. The capacity — the drive to love, fiercely, and to forgive, with hope.

Oliver glanced at Felicity, who was studying the photo with a small smile on her face. "Must run in the family," she murmured. "He's as cute as you were."

"Cute," he repeated. "That's generous. Thea showed you my pictures?"

Felicity bent and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Every last one," she said. "Bodes well for us that you didn't need braces."

"I smiled more," Oliver murmured, looking at his son. "He doesn't. I wonder why."

Felicity didn't say anything, because like him, she didn't know. But she did press her lips to the back of his hand, and Oliver knew it was her way of comforting him.

"You know, my mother said something to me once," he said, sitting up to return the last of the photos to the envelope on the bedside table. "About why parents love their children — to excess. Why they spoil them, why they want them to begin with."

Felicity stretched her legs and leaned back against the headboard, her feet crossed at the ankle. "Because of excessive cuteness?" she said.

Oliver felt himself smile. "In a way," he said, sitting at the edge of the mattress. "But my mother said that the beauty of having a child was to watch…a purer — a perfected version of yourself take the chances and learn the lessons you never could. A child is the chance to right wrongs and maybe — just maybe — watch a better person grow from your mistakes." Oliver grew quiet. "That was what my mother believed."

"And what about you?" Felicity asked, softly.

Oliver turned his head, and gave her the answer he knew to be true. "I do…hope."

Felicity's eyes warmed. "It's a good feeling," she said, and her hand slipped to the back of his neck in a gentle caress. Oliver shut his eyes and leaned into her touch, feeling the tensions of the day slip away because of this one simple reassurance.

"Thank you for showing me the photos," he said.

"You're welcome." Oliver felt the covers shift when Felicity leaned in to kiss him lightly on the lips, a goodnight kiss.

Conscious of the fight they'd had earlier, Oliver was cautious not to go too far, even though he did — want to. He wanted to kiss her, and he wanted not to stop. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, and make amends for every single stupid thing he'd done that day.

Maybe Felicity knew it. Maybe she wanted him too.

Her hand was still at the nape of his neck — Oliver could feel the cool whisper of her ring on his warmer skin, the gentle pressure her fingers exerted to pull him closer.

"Oliver," she whispered, a rush of breath against his lips, "it's okay."

Emboldened by her words, Oliver gathered her in his arms and lifted her against him. Felicity's body was fluid and supple and she clung to him, her mouth opening in a wordless gasp under his because in spite of everything it all still felt right — so right —

It was a single distinct action, and everything all at once. Oliver laid her down on the bed, conscious of her hands sliding the shirt from his shoulders, the heat of her breath fanning across his bare chest. Felicity lay flat but not still, her arms thrown above her head as he opened her robe with one hand and gently moved her knees apart with the other.

"It's okay," she repeated, as his hands splayed out on either side of her head, bracing to take his weight. "It's okay." Oliver felt the light scrape of her nails against his sides before her arms came around to embrace him, and the tremor in her lips when she pressed them to the pulse in his throat. She was small, so much smaller than he was.

"It's okay," she said, one more time.

And then —

"Ah."

Felicity tugged the duvet up over Oliver and herself before snuggling back against him. With his arm draped protectively across her chest — a solid, sleepy weight — Felicity had never wanted to leave her bed less. His bare chest against her back was warmer than any duvet could be (as hot as a furnace, regardless of the season) and she was starting to think that it deserved to be advertised as one of the best pillows in the world.

Right, because when Oliver was naked in bed with her, the first thing she could think of was advertising him as a pillow. Good God, she was glad that some thoughts didn't make the transition from brain to mouth.

Oliver's fingertips stalled in their unhurried progression through her hair.

"You called me a complete ass," he said, as if he'd just remembered.

Out of impulse, Felicity dropped a kiss on his bare forearm. "And I 100% meant it. You are a complete ass," she said, turning her face sleepily into his chest. "But you're my ass."

Oh frack.

Oliver was silent, but Felicity knew that he was laughing (inside, hopefully on the inside) as he gathered her close to him. She covered her face with a groan, adding to the list yet another incident of her linguistic capabilities ruining the moment.

And it was (had been?) a nice moment too. After all the truth-telling and running around and pretending to be deadly assassins…the two of them in Felicity's apartment, naked in her bed after doing some stuff — that was by definition a nice moment.

Until the You're My Ass debacle of 2015.

"Felicity?" said Oliver, and she tilted her head back to look at him.

"Yes, Oliver?"

"Happy to be," he said, and smiled down at her in a way that forced Felicity to elbow him in the ribs, leading to some highly immature antics of the rolling-around-under-the-covers variety.

Said antics ended with her triumphantly pinning Oliver to the bed by his wrists, and being naked, with her hair in a complete mess around her shoulders — she was as close to being sexy as she could get. She could tell from Oliver's expression, and one other thing (she was sitting on top of him, after all) that he appreciated it too.

"Is this how we make up after fights now?" she said, breathlessly. "Because I'm not complaining."

Oliver licked his lips, and Felicity almost lost all sense of self-control right then and there. "Fights," he said, in a murmur that made her cheeks flame, "and every time I do something stupid."

"Mm." Felicity wanted to savor her power, and without relinquishing possession of his hands, she guided them in a tortuously slow progression up her body. "Because if you think about it…" she said, watching Oliver's expression as they traveled up the soft skin of her thighs.

"I had to bail you out of trouble —" over her hips, his thumbs fitting neatly into the indentations of her hipbones "—and put on a disguise —" Oliver was definitely breathing hard now…was that his hand splaying across her belly? "— so really, I think I should get something…extra."

Oliver gave her a heated look that went straight to the base of her spine, and she knew without a doubt that she was going to pay for the torture in an exquisite way. But it didn't mean she had to stop toying with him just yet.

Felicity stopped their entwined hands just shy of her breasts, and released him. "Now what are you going to do?" she asked, and laughed when she got the answer she wanted.

Oliver came up to meet her halfway, his hands — oh, his hands — broad palms and strong fingers very adept at making her want to submit and squirm away. Suffice it to say that if she blushed based on indecency alone, she wouldn't be able to look Oliver in the eye — ever.

Felicity rocked against his chest, her fingers curling into his shoulders as they moved in tandem, all restraint forgotten in favor of shuddering breaths and the gloried exploration of each other's skin. Oliver's hand glided up the small of her back and the bumps of her shoulders until it curled at the base of her neck, gently tugging her head back to bare the hollow of her throat to his lips, and it was suddenly all Felicity could do — to hold onto him as each movement took her more and more precariously towards the finish.

Until Felicity's phone started ringing.

And went on, and on, and on.

With a noise of frustration, Felicity broke off to attempt a grab for her phone.

"Leave it," said Oliver, his breath coming hot in the base of her throat.

"Wait —" Felicity fumbled with the buttons, which in hindsight wasn't the best idea, given her state of preoccupation, "— I'm just going to turn off the — ah!"

Whether accidentally or on purpose, Oliver thrust into her and Felicity arched backwards with a gasp, dropping her phone with enough force for it to smack against the floorboards. Which should have been the end of it.

Except it wasn't.

"Hello? Hello?"

On speaker. Holy frack, the call was on speaker. The phone signal (or lack thereof) made the voice sound tinnier than usual, but Felicity could have sworn that it was —

"Felicity? Honey? Helloooo?"

It was actually funny how the both of them froze — all but glued together in a highly inappropriate position, sweat on their bodies and not a stitch of clothing between them…with Felicity's mom on speakerphone.

Due to the delay in answer, Donna Smoak, with all her technological know-how, evidently assumed that it was a problem with volume instead of circumstance. "FE-LI-CI-TY IT'S YOUR MOM CALLING — CAN YOU HEAR ME?" she yelled, and Felicity imagined her hanging out of the window, shouting her conversation into the general neighborhood.

Oliver started to reach for the phone, breathing hard. "Maybe we sh—"

Felicity slapped her hand over Oliver's mouth, her eyes wide with desperation. If Donna figured out that she was in bed with her boyfriend — sorry — fiancé she was never going to hear the end of it. That and the TMI medley of sex stories she'd be highly tempted to call Child Services on.

Oliver (quite sensibly) put his hand over the mic, and removed Felicity's palm from his mouth with the other. "You should probably answer," he said, very helpfully.

"Stall her," Felicity said, lurching off the bed in search of her clothes. "Frack. Robe — I need my robe."

"Why?" Oliver said, evidently of the opinion that it was all right to take calls while being naked, because who could tell? God — did that mean he took calls naked? Even before they started —

No time for that.

Felicity grabbed something at random — Oliver's discarded work shirt — and started to put her arms through the sleeves. "It's bad enough my mom called while we were having sex — I am not talking to her without any clothes on!" she hissed.

Oliver laughed, and put the phone to his ear. "Hi, Donna," he said, in his perfect future-son-in-law voice. "Sorry about the wait — Felicity's just coming."

Felicity winced at the unfortunate phrasing, given what they'd just been doing, but Oliver didn't seem to hear it.

"She was in the shower…and dropped her phone into the sink, where I picked it up for her." He nodded at something Donna said, looking pleased with himself despite Felicity's expression of wordless horror, both at his awful lie and the even-worse delivery. "Yeah, she's just coming out of the bathroom."

Felicity whacked him with the back of her hand. The shower? she mouthed. Oh good, so instead of the plain old bedroom, her mother would think that she and Oliver were having shower sex. Sometimes she forgot how Oliver wasn't any better than she was at cover stories.

Oliver covered the mic again. "What?" he asked, completely oblivious. "It's just your mom."

"Oh ha, ha, we'll see who's laughing when you're sleeping on the couch," she said, pinching the open folds of Oliver's shirt together with one hand and taking her phone — the little telecommunications grenade — with the other.

As if things weren't bad enough, Oliver's tie had contrived to tangle itself around her ankle. Felicity slapped the phone to her ear while she reached down to dislodge it, upon which it stuck around her heel, forcing her to hop out of the bedroom in a highly undignified manner, watched by a very amused — and very naked — Oliver.

When she got back, she was going to find the tie and do something he wouldn't like with it.

"Hi mom," she said, trying not to sound like she'd just had sex, if that was a thing. "Sorry about that, I was just in the shower —"

"You just had shower sex, didn't you?" said Donna. "Oh my God, honey, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt — was it good?"

"Mom!" Felicity said, horrified. "Boundaries."

"But your boyfriend — sorry — fiancé is so pretty! Let me love how pretty he is!"

"Mom." Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose, standing in the freezing kitchen with gooseflesh on her bare legs. "Did you call just to be Mrs. Robinson?"

Donna laughed. "Oh honey! I just want to know that my daughter's having a complete — fulfilling experience —"

"—mom—"

"— life experience!"

"My experience — experiences — are fine, thank you for the inappropriate motherly concern, by the way. Look, mom, it's late, can I call you tomorrow?"

"Wait! I haven't talked to my baby girl for so long, and you never call —"

"What are you talking about? I call you every week."

"How are things with Oliver?" Her mom always said Oliver's name like it was some kind of prayer, an all-encompassing cure to her daughter's terminally single state. "He's such a sweet boy, so — so handsome, I didn't know billionaires could be so nice —"

"— things with Oliver are fine —"

"Have you set a date yet?"

Felicity hesitated. "No."

"You can't keep pushing back the wedding, honey. I mean, what if you get pregnant? By the time you get everything together, you'll be too big to fit into your dress, and trust me, Felicity, a pregnant bride is not something to joke about."

"Yes, mom, I still have your wedding photo in my drawer. And you were, like, barely showing."

"A-ha! So you are pregnant!"

"No!" Felicity had lost track of where and when the conversation had first started, or the exact point at which it had taken a steep nosedive. "Mom, you called about something?" she said, interrupting Donna's soliloquy about the joys of birth control "meant for her" (Ew. A thousand times ew).

"Oh, right, I was just getting to it." She could hear the rustle of something papery in the background. "Oliver's sister called earlier to check if I got my invitation."

"What invitation?" Felicity said, blankly.

"To your birthday party, honey! Oh, it's so sweet of Thea to check in person, she's such a sweetheart for making sure I have my ticket and hotel room —"

"Wait — birthday party? Oliver never said anything about a birthday party. Are you sure this is legit? The last time you got a plane ticket in an email it was my evil ex-boyfriend trying to lure you into town."

"Don't be silly, I told you Thea called," Donna said, breezily, as if being kidnapped and having a gun to her head was just a plain old family visit. "Black tie, fancy hotel, oh honey, you're going to have such a nice time!"

"Black — black tie?"

"Oh, don't worry, honey, I'll get you a dress for your birthday. You have such pretty hair — I was thinking about something gold…sparkly, of course it has to be sparkly, and maybe some lace…"

Felicity sighed, and submitted herself to Donna's very detailed description of her party dress…which in all honesty was starting to sound like a very ostentatious and very tattered piece of lingerie.

The only thing getting her through the call was the dark thought that a certain Queen family billionaire was going to meet his maker.

But only after they finished what they'd started. Every man deserved a last meal, after all.

"One week until your birthday! Oh, I'm so excited to see everyone and spend some time with my baby girl. You have such sweet friends, I'm so happy for you, Felicity."

Felicity smiled at that, because her mother — while being her mother — loved her to a fault, no matter how far she moved away, no matter how embarrassed Felicity looked at something she did. "I love you, mom," she said, and meant it.

"I love you too, honey. Now you go on back to Oliver — it's not nice to leave a man waiting for you in the shower —"

"— goodbye, mom."

"Love you—!"

Felicity hung up, shaking her head like it could dislodge the whole conversation from the fabric of her brain. Funnily enough, her mom's lack of boundaries and unfiltered speech (ha, wonder why that was familiar) had a stubborn way of making an imprint…in the emotionally scarring type of way. So when she made it back to the bedroom, she was pretty sure that her expression was still on the traumatized side.

Oliver was propped up against the pillows, reading by the light of the bedside lamp (disappointingly, he'd decided to put on clothes since she left). He shifted inward to make room for Felicity when she climbed onto his side of the bed, still wearing her shell-shocked face.

"How's your mom?" he asked, as if it wasn't already apparent from her facial expression.

In lieu of an answer, Felicity plopped down beside him and yanked the front of his shirt up to cover her face. "Mmffffffff," she groaned.

Oliver laughed and gathered her close to him, kissing the inch or so of her forehead left exposed above his shirt collar. "Your mom loves you," he said, as Felicity writhed from embarrassment in his arms.

"She thought we were having sex in the shower, Oliver. The shower. My mom. Shower. My mom —"

"— well, it's not as if we haven't —"

"— Oh my God, Oliver!"

"All right, all right —" Oliver pried Felicity out from the mound of pillows she was trying to bury herself in. "Look, your mom's only coming next week. Thea made sure she has her own hotel room, so she doesn't have to stay with us if you don't want her to."

Felicity poked her head out from his shirt, her gaze suddenly sharp. "Her own hotel room," she said, turning on her side so they were looking at each other across the pillow. "For the birthday party, you mean. The birthday party I didn't know I was having. The black tie one."

"What party?" Oliver said, blankly.

"Oliver…" Felicity said, dangerously. "You know about the party."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "No, I don't. I know you — you hate big parties. I made reservations at Clos Maggiore for seven people. The four of us, plus your mom, my sister and Lyla. Thea said she'd help with the hotel reservation, that's probably why she called your mom."

Felicity clambered on top of Oliver, planting her legs on either side of his body and pinning him to the mattress for the interrogation. "My mom said Thea called about her party invitation. Like a real — paper — invitation. Are you seriously telling me that you knew nothing about this?"

Oliver gave her a look. "You know how good I am with lying."

Felicity glared at him for a second more before relenting. She released his arms with a sigh. He was right. Terrible liar.

"Frack." Felicity shook her head in disbelief, that Thea — in the middle of vigilante training and running a nightclub — could still find the energy to plan and execute a social function of unknown proportions, all without roping her older brother along as an accomplice. "How big are Queen family parties?" she asked, still hoping that a murder trial, a brief period of bankruptcy and general laying-low-ness had diminished the projected party turnout.

Oliver started to stroke her bare thigh with his thumb, looking thoughtful. The gesture was briefly distracting, but not much. "Optimistically, I'd say around seventy-five — maybe a hundred?"

"What-am-I-marrying-into?" Felicity whispered.

Oliver's hands slipped beneath the rumpled hem of his shirt and caressed her hips, gliding languidly across her belly…

Felicity belatedly remembered that she hadn't had time to put on any underwear, and caught her breath when Oliver's thumb — just his thumb was enough — slid between her legs.

"Is this your way…of making me…not-regret this — ah — family madness?" she said, unable to concentrate on anything but the slow circles he was making with his finger. "Because it's working…unfairly."

"Maybe," he answered, but Felicity felt his free hand spread wide the base of her spine, holding her still as he did what he was very, very good at.

"Felicity Queen," Oliver murmured, looking up at her like he was utterly content to be there.

Felicity sighed, tipping her head back to the ceiling as Oliver touched her. "Has a…certain ring to it," she said, grudgingly.

"At least we'll be together," he said. "I'll help you with your mom — and all the party guests you don't know…it'll be good practice."

"What — for social situations?"

Oliver laughed and shook his head. "For being a Queen."

Felicity groaned and looked down at the ring on her finger. "I'm a Queen now."

"You are," Oliver said, reaching up to help her undo the shirt buttons. "You are."

Before things could heat up again, Felicity bent over — panting and half-dressed — to search for her phone among the sheets. Oliver raised his eyebrow at her when she powered it down and tossed it under the bed to boot. "Wouldn't want a repeat of that debacle," she explained. "It's bad enough that I'm going to have to keep an eye on you at the party, in case Donna Smoak tries to steal you away in her Jessica Rabbit party outfit — no joke, I've seen it — because my mother loves you, Oliver, and when she loves someone, she gets very affectionate. Like TMI affectionate. Like shares-inappropriate-stories affectionate."

"Felicity," said Oliver. "I love you, and I will love your family — no matter what."

Felicity smiled and leaned over her fiancé, brushing her hair behind one ear. "You have no idea what you're marrying into," she said, playfully trailing her fingertips down the side of his face.

Oliver kissed her full on the mouth. "Try me," he whispered.

Donna's so fun to write. I love her so much.

Aren't you glad that Oliver and Felicity made up? (And that they did it in spades) (pun intended)