Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen

Week Five

Week Five Baking Challenge: Christmas Cookies Inside of an Edible Gift Box

Felicity wasn't angry anymore.

Now, she was just sad - sad for Oliver Queen and his situation, but also sad for herself, too. And hurt. Did he not think that she'd understand? That she'd, if not sympathize, then at least be sympathetic? Certainly, Oliver didn't think she'd judge him, did he? Because she wouldn't. Never! But, apparently, there was something about her… or, at least, Megan, that he felt was untrustworthy and closed-minded, judgemental. And that's what stung.

Not enough to prevent her from confronting him, but, still, ouch!

After the clusterfrak that was week three, Felicity took the mystery that was her disappearing baked goods and the magically appearing perfect, substitute baked goods into her own hands. The best part? It was a cakewalk… which was fitting, seeing as how her cakes were, in a way, walking off. But, anyway, her plan: rather than waste her time making a yule log, Felicity logged into the Queen Consolidated security system, repositioned the many cameras on the first floor to give her the best sightlines going in and coming out of the what had been the 'tasting room' for the past month, and then sat back and watched the fly walk into her electronic web.

After watching Mr. Diggle, Oliver Queen's personal bodyguard, deliver a decadent dessert tricked out to resemble a ginormous piece of hard caramel candy, Felicity had tried to let it go. She had solved the mystery… well, most of it. She still didn't know who was baking the imposter sweets, but she had at least figured out the why and how which were the most important parts, in her opinion. But then that last little question started to tickle at her brain, and then the distress that, of all people, Oliver Queen didn't feel like she could be trusted started to worry her heart, and she just couldn't drop it.

She had to know more.

She had to know everything.

And she had to confront Oliver Queen.

So, that's why Felicity found herself here - out of breath, slightly frazzled, and about to cause her own termination from her job. Because, after what she was about to do, there was no way Oliver Queen wouldn't have her fired. And probably blacklisted, too. But as long as there wasn't a literal black list, at least Felicity's concerns were alleviated somewhat by the fact that, anything Oliver Queen put in her record, she could take out. (And replace with something way better.)

Slumped against a wall, Felicity took a few minutes to calm down. Or, well, to calm her breathing down, because, after following a woman she discovered to be the Queen family's head housekeeper all over town until she finally led her to Oliver Queen's new den of iniquity (not because of his secret but because he was Ollie Queen), Felicity hadn't wanted to get caught in the homestretch, so, after seeing the Queen family employee take the elevator all the way to the top floor, she had taken the stairs… which, now that she thought about it, made absolutely no sense, because, by the time Felicity realized where the housekeeper was going, she was already there which meant the elevator had been open.

"I really watch too much TV," she mumbled under her breath, grousing.

With one last, deep, fortifying breath, Felicity pushed away from the wall and stood up straight. She ran her hands down her open coat and dress underneath, smoothing out any wrinkles, and she tightened her ponytail like a soldier checking his weapon one last time before going into battle. With shoulders rolled back and chin tilted up in feigned confidence, she marched towards the one and only door on this uppermost floor. The only sign of weakness Felicity allowed herself was to bite her lip, because that could look fierce, too, right? It could look determined?

Lifting her right hand to the door, Felicity wrapped her knuckles against its metal surface three, succinct times. Because '3 is a magic number.' And who didn't love men in three piece suits; and 3D; and tricycles; and Harry, Hermione, and Ron?! Plus, she couldn't forget three sheets to the wind… which was something Felicity very much wanted to be in that moment. But then, just as quickly, as her brain ran through the list of all the good things that came in threes, she couldn't help but remember that it was actually bad things that always came in threes. She was just about to knock one more time… just to be on the safe side when, before she could even fully lift her hand again, no one other than Oliver Queen himself was pulling open the door.

"Felicity?"

And she just stood there - balled up fingers partially raised like in some sad mockery of a fist pump, mouth gobsmacked and hanging open, and speechless. Utterly speechless… for probably the first time in her entire adult life. She just stood there as Oliver Queen did this ridiculously adorable (and wasn't that just unfair?!) head tilt and said her name in a way that no one else ever had - like it was an actual physical caress, and its four syllables were a soft and gentle hand down his back as he stretched luxuriously like a cat.

But, wait. What?! He said her name?

Her name?

"You know who I am?"

And, just like that, there went the silence, no doubt never to be seen or (not) heard from again.

With that one question, Oliver seemed to come back to himself. Felicity watched as he shuttered his face off from all emotion, and the head tilt was replaced with the stiffest, most proper posture she had ever seen. Her own shoulders ached in commiseration. Taking a deep step back, Oliver opened the door further and invited, "I think you should probably come in."

And she did.

To give her hands something to do besides flap all over the place as she talked, Felicity unwound her scarf from her neck and then proceeded to wrap it around her hands and wrists and through her fingers, tightening and then releasing it with the flexing of her knuckles. "Look, I'm sorry for just… showing up here like this and for, um, stalkingyourmother'shousekeepertofindoutwhereyoulive, but I just… I had to know."

She watched as, with brow furrowed, Oliver looked away from her and then towards said housekeeper before turning that puzzled expression back on her with full force. "Know what?"

"Who was baking those desserts switched out for mine. I mean Megan's." Giving up the ruse, she confessed, "I'm Megan - panda mug Megan."

"I know."

"So, okay. Wow. And, um, huh?" Realizing she should probably clarify that, Felicity asked, "how," because that certainly cleared things up. Not.

"That's a long story." When she went to protest, Oliver promised, "and one that I will tell you, but, first, to answer your question: I baked the substitute entries."

And the unexpected revelations just kept coming!

But, on second thought, given the why of the baked good conspiracy that she had previously figured out, this who did fit. "Everything about you is suddenly becoming so much clearer."

Doubtful, Oliver queried, "it is?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, not to be cliched, but of course you can bake." Nodding towards the posh loft, Felicity added, "just like you can decorate."

"My sister bought everything."

"Oh. Well. Still," she reasoned… oh so elegantly.

"I'm afraid I really don't understand."

Felicity was still standing in the doorway, and Oliver was directly in front of her with several feet separating them, while his family's housekeeper was silently yet intently watching them from the kitchen. No one made a move to make the situation any less awkward than it was. And, in the silence that fell on the large space after Oliver voiced his confusion, Felicity felt an intense need to just explain herself as quickly as possible so that she could then leave, disappear, and never see either of the other two adults again.

"It's okay. You don't have to pretend with me. Or lie. Or cover it up. Not with me. I know your secret. I figured it out. And I support you."

"You do?"

"Of course!"

If possible, Oliver started to look even more uncomfortable. With his arms folded across his chest… like he was trying to protect himself, he asked, "what secret?"

"That you and Tommy Merlyn are dating."

Soft laughter from the kitchen pulled Felicity's attention away from Oliver, but before she could glare at the older woman for reacting so immaturely to what was such an important moment for Oliver, the man she was so quick defend started choking himself, and Felicity rushed up to help. "Breathe," she instructed while patting his back. "Just breathe. You're okay." It felt weird - touching her boss' boss' made-up boss, but Felicity Smoak was not a woman to just stand there while someone needed her assistance.

Well, not touching. But touching.

Same word, different meaning. Trust her.

Still sounding like he was wheezing, Oliver questioned, "you think I'm dating Tommy?"

In that moment, Felicity realized the coughing fit was less about a panic attack and more about a laughing jag of denial. Well, Oliver could deny the truth all he wanted; Felicity wasn't going to let him get away with it. After pulling her into this deception without her permission, she felt she at least deserved that much.

"Well, to be completely honest, after I saw your bodyguard, Mr. Diggle, drop off what I now know to be your yule log last week, I at first thought you were dating him. But then I recalled Tommy's performance from the week before, and realized that nobody would react that way towards your unwitting beard on another man's behalf. I'm guessing he wants to go public with your relationship and resents the fact that, not only are you hiding that the two of you are together, but you're pretending for this competition, and you'll eventually go out on a date with whoever you select to be the winner. And, now, since you just revealed to me that you know who I am and who Megan really is, I'm guessing you did some kind of vetting, and we - Megan and I - are about to be the lucky winners in a few weeks." The more she talked, the more Olive's mouth fell open - shocked, no doubt, that she had managed to piece together the mystery that was Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen.

"I'm not… I mean, all those girls! In my past. And, then, yeah, the island, but still…." Compassionately, Felicity observed Oliver as he struggled to arrange his thoughts and spoke in sentence fragments. Usually, that was her, so, despite trying to be supportive, she couldn't help but appreciate someone else flubbing their words. It was a rare respite. But it didn't last for long, because, the next thing she knew, Oliver Queen was rapidly eating up the distance between them, taking her by the shoulders, and leaning down to lock their gazes together so that she couldn't look away even if she had wanted to, even if she tried. All of a sudden, she was being bombarded by the full force of Oliver Queen's intensity and vigor, and, it was, like, whoa! "Felicity, Tommy and I are not dating. I'm not gay. I'm not bi. I never have been, and I never will be." He didn't even look away from her when he asked, "right Raisa?"

"Oh," Felicity sighed in disappointment. She hated being wrong. Then, stepping away from Oliver in order to move more between the other people in the room and looking between them, she sighed in realization. "Ooohhh! I get it." Wagging a finger back and forth between Oliver and the woman she now knew to be named Raisa, she said, "you two."

The housekeeper didn't respond, looking puzzled. Meanwhile, Oliver, sounding as confused as ever, queried, "us two what?" Without giving Felicity a chance to respond, he again beseeched the older woman to back him up by prompting, "please, Raisa. Please tell her that I'm not gay."

"Of course you're not, Mr. Oliver."

Was it just Felicity, or did the housekeeper say that in a way that was… obedient?

So, it was like that. "Kinky," she remarked under her breath.

But, apparently, it wasn't quiet enough, because Oliver heard her and questioned, "what?"

Holding up her hands in self-defense (Hands that were suspiciously scarf-free, so she'd have to find that. Later.), Felicity reassured, "hey, don't worry. No judgements here."

"No judgements," Oliver asked.

"Nope. This is a judgement free zone."

"Judgement about what," he still pretended like he didn't know what she had assumed (rightly, of course) from what they, Oliver and Raisa, had (not so subtly, in her opinion) implied.

"You know…." When Oliver still didn't relent, give in, and admit she was right, Felicity expanded, "while I've always been more a 'Vogue' girl, myself, you're obviously partial to 'Human Nature.' And that's fine. To each their own, and you do you. See. No judgements."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about, Felicity."

"But I guess this means I'm not your beard but your, what?, backpack? No," Felicity immediately shot down her own suggestion. "That's a little too Teddy Bagwell for comfort. But, clearly, we need something youthful - no offense, Raisa, because you're dating someone who is as old as your mother, Oliver. But, again, no judgements. I mean, daddy-kink is a thing, right? So why not BDSM mommy-kink as well? And it makes sense, I guess. Moira Queen always indulged your every whim, and then you were gone from all the comforts of hearth and home for five years. Of course you'd want something maternal, yet you'd still crave the control of being a dom. And, oh, I got it!," Felicity announced, snapping her fingers to emphasize her spark of genius. "I'm your wig, because," and she pointed towards her ponytail, "no gray hair."

It was Raisa who actually spoke first. "Oh my! You, Miss Felicity, are not nearly as innocent as you first appear."

"Oh, no!," she immediately objected, backing away from the housekeeper. "No, no, no, no, no! While I'm all about keeping an open mind, and I would be the last person to question anybody's relationship given that the only meaningful one I had was with a guy who stole a computer virus I wrote, committed an act of terrorism with it, went to jail, and then hung himself, count me out! I'll be your wig, but I will not be your third."

"Felicity." This time, when Oliver said her name, it was less like a caress and more like a reprimand but certainly not any less expressive. She heard censure and disappointment, regret and dismay, even a smidgen of humor. He waited until she turned to face him before he continued talking. "Raisa and I are not in a relationship either. In fact, I'm very much single right now. By choice. The reason Digg and Raisa have been helping me switch out your baked goods is because, after everything that has happened to me, I don't feel comfortable going out on a blind date - both out of my own sense of self-preservation and in concern for the woman. I struggle with seeing people as… well, people now. Everyone looks like a threat. Everyone, that is, except you."

When she went to say something, when she went to ask a question - there were so many questions!, Oliver gently prevented her from doing so by calmly, even soothingly continuing his explanation. "Before this all began, I went to your office one day to ask you for help. I wanted you to research the women in the competition for me, see if you spotted any red flags, and help me figure out which contestant might be the safest option. However, before I could even say anything, before I could even walk into your office, I heard you talking on the phone. With your mom. And I found out that you were one of the contestants.

"Just listening to you, you made me smile. You made me laugh. And you made me feel comfortable. There was just something about you that made me feel like you'd be safe, that you wouldn't judge me, and that maybe you could even be a friend. Since the island, that had never happened before you, and it hasn't happened since you either. So, I decided that, no matter what, you as Megan were going to win Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen."

"Until you tasted my food."

"Even then," Oliver admitted, chuckling. "I just… needed to make it more convincing for everyone else."

She sat with that - and everything else he had told her - for a minute, digesting all of the information. Eventually, Felicity admitted, "okay, I guess I get it, but the thing I don't understand…" At Oliver's challenging, raised brow, she amended, "one of the things I don't understand is why you agreed to this stupid reality competition in the first place?"

"The last thing I remember about my sister is her bugging me to watch High School Musical with her. Again. In my mind, Thea's still that pigtails wearing little girl with braces. The angry, bitter seventeen year old woman she is now? I don't recognize her. Yet, when my mom suggested this competition, for the briefest of moments, I saw my mischievous, precocious sister again, my Speedy. And my mom, Walter? The first night I was back, I crassly insulted their marriage and nearly killed my mother when she tried to comfort me while I was having a nightmare. Taking part in this PR stunt to repair my image is the least I can do for them."

"One last question," Felicity requested.

"Sure."

"If you thought I was someone who could be your friend, why didn't you just… ask for my help? I would have given it."

"Felicity, I heard what you thought about the contest and about me," Oliver offered in way of an explanation. She winced, recalling that… colorful phone conversation with her mother. "While I hoped that I could trust you, I wasn't there yet. Plus, you were already nervous about what would happen at QC if anyone figured out that you were Megan."

"Well, that's just stupid," she snapped, sleep-mode glaring at him. She wasn't mad exactly, but Oliver Queen's logic train wasn't fully hooked up and on the track. "In keeping this from me, you've only made it worse, because, now, if someone were to find out, not only would they think I was intentionally deceiving them about my identity but that I was also deceiving them about my baking skills and defrauding the other women."

Seemingly to ignore her reprimand, Oliver asked, "would have given?"

"What?"

"You said that you would have given your help. If I had told you, asked for your help. Before." He swallowed roughly, and she should not have found the simple movement of his throat muscles as… captivating… as she did. "So, does that mean you're going to tell everyone the truth?"

"Hey, do I look like a tattletale to you," Felicity snapped rhetorically. "Of course not." Before Oliver could get too excited, she warned him, "but I have four demands."

"Whatever they are, yes," Oliver was quick to agree, though the naive, sweet idiot really had no idea who he was dealing with or what he was so easily agreeing to.

"First of all, if we're going to do this, if we're going to pull this plan of yours off, we need to KISS it."

Oliver smirked. "Kiss it?"

"No, KISS it," Felicity corrected him. Because, obviously! "Keep it simple, stupid. Cut out the middleman and middlewoman." With a glance towards the kitchen out of the corner of her eye, Felicity offered, "sorry, Raisa, but, if we're not going to get caught, I actually need to be involved. I need to know what's being baked, I get a say in the ingredients…."

"Oh, don't worry," Oliver reassured her. "I've been careful about that. No nuts… just in case. Your mom made sure Megan had a nut allergy as well, so I've honored that in what I've baked in her… or, well, your… name."

Felicity continued on as if Oliver had not interrupted her. " … I'll be in charge of presentation from now on, and, in order to avoid suspicion, I really should be the one to deliver the baked goods to the judging room."

"Good. You will bake, then, with Mr. Oliver," Raisa announced.

Ugh… say what?! "I will?"

"Yeah. I can teach you how to cook," Oliver offered. "It'll be fun."

Felicity actually thought it kind of sounded like the housekeeper was attempting to set them up and that Oliver was just going along quite willingly for the matchmaking ride. But that was crazy talk. Or, well, thinking. So, pushing forward, she moved onto her second demand. "Two, enough with being such a Christmas-homer. There are other holidays this time of year besides Thanksgiving and Christmas. A dreidel or two won't kill you."

"You're Jewish," Oliver asked, sounding surprised.

"Is that a problem?"

"No. Of course not." And the accompanying grin proved as much. "We can certainly bake with Hanukkah and your heritage in mind."

"Third, I want my panda mug back."

Rather than verbally replying, Oliver shot towards the kitchen and returned to her with said coffee cup in hand, holding it and presenting it to her like it was the finest piece of china from the Queen family's collection.

Rich people were so weird.

Taking the mug back from him, Felicity listed her fourth demand. "And, finally, you better have some of those lemon bars and gingerbread cookie pieces left, because I'm starving." And she really was. But that's what she got for, while waiting for Raisa to finish at the butcher's, actually watching that night's Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen segment. Those clips were like torture… for her appetite. One glance at Oliver's frosting decorated gingerbread gift box filled with ooey-gooey lemon bars, and Felicity was a salivating, starving mess. The least Oliver owed her was some of the mouth-watering nosh he'd been taunting her with for weeks now.

"Even if I didn't have any left over - which I do, I'd bake a fresh batch now, just for you. In fact," Oliver added, "you name it, and I'll make it for you, Felicity Smoak. Anytime."

Oh, no.

She was in so much trouble.

Because the way to a Smoak woman's heart was through her stomach. (Well, actually, first it was through shoes, but food, especially sweet food, ran a very close second.)

And like Oliver Queen couldn't bake for her and buy her shoes.

Oy.

So. Much. Trouble.