Keeping Faith

"Felicity?" Oliver touched her arm, wondering why she'd frozen without warning, rooted to the ground as if she'd forgotten how to move.

Felicity's hand knocked against his shoulder, but her eyes never left — whatever she was looking at through the gates. "Look," she whispered.

Oliver followed the direction of her hand, looking past the fence, the lengthened shadows under the late afternoon sun, and the tree branches that framed his view of the school.

He felt the breath catch in his throat when he saw it — saw him.

A small shape had appeared from the imposing red brick building, racing silently — almost covertly — towards the trees. It was a pointless effort at secrecy anyway, given the way his son's bright hair caught the ebbing afternoon light. He dropped his bag and school coat at the base of a tall, burnished oak with suspicious ease — the kind of quickness born of habit — and started to climb.

Oliver felt himself take a step forward, moved by some unknown force of nature. Connor's features were still a blur to him from this distance, but he knew — more than ever — that his son was real. Because he never could have imagined it. Not like this. The way he sprang dexterously off the ground, the sureness with which he claimed each knot — each branch — on his way up, inhumanly fast and without hesitation.

He could never have imagined…this wonder. Connor — through no fault of his own — was a child born under unhappy circumstances. Oliver's infidelities, Moira's deception — and Sandra's too. Maybe a part of Oliver had been expecting to see a child that reflected this — this darkness.

But a child was just a child. Connor was…himself. Seeing him, even from afar, Oliver was hit with the realization that nothing he had done — none of his mistakes — could touch his son, or stop his son from being whoever he was, in his own right.

His throat felt oddly tight long after Connor had disappeared into the leaves, and they turned slowly to each other in the silence. Felicity was wide-eyed and breathless.

"That's Connor," she said, as if she couldn't believe it either. "That's your son."

If Oliver had been unsure about Felicity's feelings, towards the idea of him having a grown son in the absence of their own child, he was sure now. Because her face was bright with genuine — joy — that Oliver had seen his son. She trembled with it, her hands coming up to cover her mouth…but her eyes shone as she looked at him.

She was — happy. Happy for him.

Oliver pulled her close and pressed his lips to her hair. There were no words he could have found, to describe seeing his son for the first time, for the unimaginable relief he felt…but Felicity held him, because she knew — she knew.


"No regrets?" Felicity asked, as they passed under the archway of the train station. "We could always stay the night."

Oliver shook his head. "No regrets. We did what we came to do."

"Glad to hear it," she said. "Now, where is that ticket office…?"

"Felicity —"

Felicity stopped — half-turned towards Oliver — their joined hands extended across the space between them. She blinked, wondering at his sudden impulse.

"Everything okay?" she asked. "Did you leave something at STAR Labs?"

Oliver shook his head, watching her intently, as if he was content to just look at her. Felicity was momentarily confused, until she realized what he was doing. Today had been a good day, and he was savoring the moment, committing it to memory.

She walked towards him, until she could feel the warmth coming off his skin, the scent of cold air on his clothes, and she could cross her arms behind his back like it was just them alone at home. Standing together on the platform, they leaned into each other — unnoticed by busy, hurrying people and billowing steam from the surrounding trains.

"Connor's a beautiful boy," Felicity said, tipping her head back to look at him. "Takes after his father."

A smile flickered across Oliver's face, and she knew that he agreed. Maybe not in so many words, but with the fact that Connor was — truly — a beautiful child. Felicity sensed when Oliver moved — even if it was just a small gesture, a slight bend to his neck — and closed her eyes.

A kiss between waiting trains and the colors of a fading day…she couldn't have anticipated it — this unexpected sweetness. But it was — oh, it was. She'd come to Central City with faint hopes, wanting only for Oliver to come to terms with the idea of being in the same city as his son. Never had she intended for Oliver to actually see Connor, with his own two eyes. It wasn't the father-son meeting she wanted for him, but it was a move towards exorcising the ghosts Oliver seemed to think were haunting him and his son, and the thought of Oliver being even one step closer to a conventional life, one he deserved, was indescribably sweet to her.

"One day," she whispered. "You'll meet him. One day."

Oliver nodded, and she knew that he was smiling. Felicity pressed her lips to his, one more time, before she pulled away. They smiled at each other in the twilight, and Felicity held out her hand, knowing in her heart that Oliver would always follow.

They'd made it a few steps down the platform when Felicity spotted someone, standing in front of the ticket office and — for once in the short time she'd known him — actually early.

Felicity smiled over her shoulder at Oliver, who looked as bemused as she was.

"Barry!" Felicity called. "Over here!"


"Oh, thank God," said Barry, nearly doubled over his CC Jitters carrier tray. "I thought you guys were taking the seven-thirty…" He glanced at his wristwatch and winced. "…which left eight minutes ago."

"So what you're saying is," said Felicity, "that you're actually late."

Barry scratched his head sheepishly. "Little bit." He held out one of the cups. "But I brought coffee."

Felicity laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "My hero. Give me two minutes — I just need to pick up the tickets for the train we're actually taking."

Barry gave her the thumbs up and like Oliver, watched her disappear inside the ticket office.

"How can you have super speed and still not be on time?" Oliver asked, with a smile.

Barry shrugged, playing along with the long-standing joke about his punctuality. "Super-tardiness kinda neutralizes the superhuman speed."

Oliver laughed. "But you always make it in the end."

"Of course — I wasn't going to let you guys leave without saying goodbye," Barry said, preoccupied with poking around the carrier tray. "Before I forget, this one's yours." He handed Oliver the paper cup marked with his name and more exclamation points than a simple coffee order seemed to require.

"Iris says hi," Barry explained.

Oliver took the cup, finding it inordinately amusing that Barry had delivered them all the way from across the city. "I can see that. Tell her I said thank you."

"So did you guys do the thingy?" Barry asked, as Oliver took a sip.

Oliver raised his eyebrows at the wording.

"I mean, not that thingy — thingy as in whatever you came to Central City to do. I mean, the 'sight-seeing'." Barry's face changed, as if he'd had a sudden thought. "You guys didn't elope or anything, right? Because I have a bet going with Iris that you guys are going to stay engaged for another year before getting around to the whole wedding thing, and I really don't want to lose my Playstation-in-the-bedroom rights —"

"Barry," Oliver interrupted. "Still not married. You can keep your Playstation in the bedroom."

Barry let out a breath of relief. "So what was it?"

Oliver inclined his head, turning to look at the waiting train. It was out of Oliver's depth, seeking Barry's advice on — well — anything. But for this, Oliver did want to know, ever since he'd had his first real glimpse of Connor. The fathers in his life — Robert Queen not being exempt — had been imperfect. Malcolm Merlyn, Felicity's father, Roy's…all unhealthy relationships that poisoned more than they cured. Barry was one of the few exceptions he could think of, a son who loved his father — dearly.

"What would you do," he said, "if you found out that your dad was a vigilante?"

Barry was immediately wary. "Is this a Luke I am your father moment?"

Oliver only looked at him, and Barry's expression shifted — from confusion to surprise, then back to confusion again.

"Does — does Felicity know?" he asked, with a glance over his shoulder.

Oliver nodded. "She was the one who told me. It's a really long story."

"I'm sure," Barry said, looking a little faint. "Is that why you came? To see…your kid?"

"Something like that." Oliver inhaled, searching for the words to express what he was feeling. "I'm not ready to see him — not yet. But I do want to. There's just…this fear, at the back of my mind, that he won't understand. He won't accept what I am — what I do — and that he'll hate me for not being there for him."

"Because you only just found out?" Barry said, pointedly. "What about the fact that you're working overtime to save a city? Trust me, Iris says I still have the mental age of a twelve-year-old, but if I found out that my dad was a hero — I'd be pretty psyched."

"What kind of hero isn't there to see you grow up?" Oliver asked, flatly.

Barry looked at Oliver for what seemed like a long time before he spoke again. "Look, I know you have a real close relationship with guilting yourself, and I can't speak for your son. But I can tell you what my dad told me, when he found out who I was."

Oliver waited.

"My dad told me two things. He warned me first that the world was a dangerous place, and that he wanted me to be careful. The second thing —" Barry took a deep breath, his gaze never wavering "— was that he couldn't be more proud of me. Earlier today, you told me to keep faith in others. Well I'm telling you to have faith now — in your son."

Oliver — I know.

There's nothing more to say…except that I could not be more proud.

A faint smile crossed Oliver's face at the thought of his mother's words — and his sister's — when they'd found out about him, and who he was. So full of forgiveness, and —

"— faith," Oliver repeated.

Barry nodded. "Faith."

After a beat, Oliver nodded too. He briefly considered shaking Barry's hand, but somehow, a hug felt more appropriate. And that was what he did. He stepped forward and hugged Barry, without preamble or explanation, because it wasn't needed.

"Thank you, Barry," he said.

Barry grinned. "Anytime."


"You sure you guys don't need a ride from the train station?" Diggle asked.

He could hear the rattle of the train in the background, the raspy phone signal that inexplicably went hand in hand with railway travel. "No, we'll meet you and Roy back at the Foundry," Oliver answered. "Did we miss anything?"

"Your sister didn't burn down the Foundry, if that's what you're asking."

Oliver laughed, shortly. "Very funny."

Diggle looked around when he heard the front door open. He mouthed a greeting to his wife, but she didn't seem to hear. As he watched, Lyla moved silently towards the dining table, pulled out a chair with methodical calmness, and lowered herself into it as if she was trying not to shatter.

"Oliver?" he said. "I'll call you back."

Diggle hung up and approached his wife. "Lyla," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Lyla stared at him with her hand over her mouth. "You need to be sitting for this, Johnny," she said, softly.

Diggle pulled out a chair opposite from her and sat down. "The meeting?" he guessed.

"The meeting," she agreed. "Except it wasn't a meeting, because everything was already decided long — long — before I'd even walked through the door. Damien Darhk —" Her hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist on the table. "I knew he was a snake like Waller but I still let him bite me."

"You're not making any sense." Diggle slid his hand around Lyla's, gently working her fingers loose. "You said the surveillance initiative hadn't even gotten to planning stage —" he trailed off at the sight of Lyla's face.

She shook her head, slowly. "I didn't know — Trevor didn't know — the higher-ups must have given Darhk the green light months ago. It was one of Amanda's projects, top secret, something I should have seen and shut down if I'd had her Alpha drive. But I didn't — and it came back to bite me. Today was just a progress update, because the Sentinel Initiative already has its first prototype — hidden God knows where — and Darhk's heading it up." A humorless smile flickered across her face. "Five of the highest-ranking officials in ARGUS command and the United States Government — and they all told me that I was either with them or against them. No in-betweens. Funny — I thought being ARGUS meant we dealt in the gray, but suddenly it's all so black and white to them."

Diggle went very still. "So what happened? Did you quit?"

Lyla shook her head. "I don't trust Darhk. The man's a genius with computers and risk assessment, and he's been with ARGUS for almost twenty years, but there's something about him…"

"Cold," Diggle said, because he knew. He knew what Lyla's gut was telling her because his had told him the same. That Damien Darhk wasn't someone to be trusted. "You don't trust him because he reminds you of Amanda."

"With more of her failings than her strengths." Lyla nodded. "Which is why I have to stay on…for as long as possible. I still outrank him, even if it's only on paper."

"What's his endgame?" Diggle asked, already thinking ahead. "What does this — Sentinel Initiative mean?"

"For everyone?" Lyla said, flatly. "The truth. ARGUS wants to watch over the United States of America from above. The Sentinel Initiative isn't just a surveillance ship — it's a fleet of carriers launching prototype surveillance drones on a larger scale than we've ever seen. The higher-ups are so paranoid because of what happened — what keeps happening — on US soil that they want the planes constantly in the air and on the lookout for threats. They told us that the aircraft won't exceed recon purposes, but I don't believe that's true. ARGUS already has one of the most comprehensive surveillance systems in the world — covert systems — without an army of those goddamn ships in the sky."

"ARGUS never shows the weapon in their hand," said Diggle. "This doesn't feel like ARGUS talking, not anymore."

Lyla nodded. "I'm starting to think that the real ARGUS — good or bad — died along with Amanda, and whatever it is today…whatever it's going to be…is something even more dangerous. The specs are one of the reasons I'm staying — I need to know that those planes won't be armed. But I think we have to be prepared, Johnny."

"For what?"

Lyla lifted her head from her hands. "ARGUS isn't a friend anymore," she said, heavily. "And when it turns on us — I won't be able to stop it."


Felicity's mind wouldn't shut up. Despite a pretty exhausting day trip and a healthy dose of crime-fighting after said day trip, Felicity still couldn't sleep. There was no reason why she was still awake. Even Oliver — who apparently never slept — was dead to the world.

She tentatively raised her head off his chest, peering at him in the darkness. Comatose, and she didn't want to wake him.

Maybe it was Cisco's helpful contribution to the ORACLE riddle — unhackable passwords and whatever that meant. Maybe it was the residual excitement of her nefarious reunite-father-and-son plan going off without a hitch. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Felicity scrubbed a hand across her face and sat up. She didn't know what she'd planned on doing, and she sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like ages before deciding — on some unknown impulse — what she wanted to do.

Her bare feet sunk into the rug as she padded over to her dresser and flicked on one of the old lamps. The bulb was tiny and sepia-yellow enough not to wake Oliver from his sleep, but enough to see by as Felicity crouched in front of the lowest drawer. She rooted around in the pile of sweaters she never wore until she found the edges of an old tin box, near the back of the drawer.

Felicity sat with it in her lap for longer than she probably should have, especially since there was no lock on the box. But she needed to. There was no lock because the contents were enough to make sure she rarely opened it — unless she was having a night like this one. Those nights when there was something ineffable preventing her from slipping into oblivion, a gripe that her subconscious was being cagey about sharing.

With a silent nod, Felicity set the box on the floor and curled her legs beneath her. Off came the lid, and she sifted through the miscellaneous contents, going slow at first like she was testing the waters. A faded plane ticket, Vegas to Boston (her first time out of home), Boston to Starling (her first, terrible job interview), a rusted copy of her apartment key (the first crappy apartment that she'd called her own). Felicity made a face at her first QC photo ID, which was purely terrible, smiled at a ticket stub from the Starling-Central express train (one of the many from Barry's comatose days), and rolled a wine cork around in her hand — from the first-ever bottle of wine Oliver had given her.

The cork was still in her hand when her fingertips brushed against glossy paper.

Ah.

Felicity had reached the bottom of the memories, the beginning of everything. She bit her lip as she extracted a shuffled pile of polaroids, turning them towards the low light. The photo at the top of the pile was of herself, probably fifteen — still dark-haired, wearing clothes that didn't fit because she couldn't afford to care, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table with a bulky (God, did computers even come that big anymore?) laptop that had more duct tape on it than surface area. The photos went in reverse order, so Felicity watched herself shrink down, from awkward teenager to slightly-less-awkward child. Donna was in most of them, surprisingly unchanged, both her smile and her manner of dress. There were photos of the two of them in strobe-bright bowling alleys (she remembered those nachos drenched in orange cheese)…at the swings (Donna cuddling her daughter as another parent held the camera)…Felicity (wearing her first pair of glasses) sitting on that awful lumpy couch with a slice of yellow birthday cake on her knees…

One by one Felicity went through the photos just as intently as she'd gone through the photos of Connor with Oliver, studying them as if to understand…why she was — who she was. It was always a shock to her when, at the bottom of the stack, she'd come across the last photo. Always at the bottom, a little surprise even though she knew it was coming.

It was her parents' wedding photo. Well, a faded what-was-left version of it, anyway. Felicity had studied the photo of her parents so many times that it was a wonder she still found new details to look at. It was a full body shot, so Felicity could see that they'd were standing in front of a church that no longer existed (it'd been torn down after Donna moved away with Felicity), a small, spur-of-the-moment thing because Donna had been three months pregnant with her daughter. Still, a small baby bump hadn't stopped Donna from wearing a skintight white dress, all lace and bare arms, heels that made her ability to stand still nothing short of amazing.

Her mom was beaming wide enough to compensate for the solemn bridegroom. Sometimes Felicity wondered if he'd already decided to leave, if the wedding hadn't meant much to him because he knew that it wasn't going to last. The dark-haired man in the photo was nothing short of a stranger to her, no matter how many times she tried to make out his features. All she could tell was that his hair was the color hers used to be (a brown so dark that it was very nearly black), that he was tall (taller than Donna), broad-shouldered (again, based on an estimate), and wiry. Nothing like a Disney prince, more like a spy — disappearing easily into whispers and mystery. The fading and the distance made looking at the photo feel like peering through a dusty glass at a pencil sketch, like barely anything at all.

She heard Oliver stir, and quickly returned everything to the box, pushing it into the pile of sweaters she never wore.

"Felicity?" said Oliver, sitting up on one elbow, his voice husky from sleep.

Felicity turned out the only light and climbed back into his arms, pressing her cheek to his pulse like a child desperate for reassurance.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stroking her face, her hair.

Felicity shook her head. Nothing — because it was. The photo was nothing, nothing at all.


Madly scattering plot confetti all over the place.

*For those of you who watch Outlander*: DID JAMIE JUST START A FIGHT USING A "YO MAMA" JOKE? DID THOSE EVEN EXIST IN THE 18TH CENTURY?! Oh Claire, so silly. Tsk Tsk. Never underestimate a teenage girl who made out with your husband ONCE and now thinks she has permanent rights to his disco stick.

Another one of my fun sister stories: So we're sitting on the couch contemplating what to watch next, and I tell her that the latest Outlander is out, and she says: "Wait what that's so quick — how come the wait seems so much longer for Arrow?"
Because it's damn addictive, that's why.
I have successfully converted my sister. *happy dance*