Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen
Week Six

Week Six Baking Challenge: A Christmas Tree Made of Cream Puffs with a Chocolate Tree Topper

"Mr. Diggle!" Felicity's voice was so bright, so cheerful, Oliver stopped in his tracks, looking up. Unfortunately, he was met with nothing but the broad shoulders of his bodyguard, John having gone to Felicity's door first. "Happy holidays!"

"You…," before finishing his thought, Digg turned around and glared at Oliver. The dark look spoke of fear and worry. "She knows who I am, man?"

But it was Felicity who answered. "Of course I know who you are: you're John Andrew 'Digg' Diggle, born 1977. After three tours in Afghanistan with the Army, you were honorably discharged as a Master Sergeant. You have a black belt in jeet kune do, and you're proficient at boxing, tae kwan do, kickboxing, weaponry, and you can also pilot a helicopter. Rather you than me," she added as an aside before returning to her summation. "You have black hair… when it's not shaved, brown eyes, you're 6'2'', and you weigh approximately 210 pounds. You're brother to the deceased Andy Diggle, brother-in-law to Carly Diggle, uncle to A.J. Diggle, and ex-husband to Lyla Michaels… whom you met during your second tour in Afghanistan but separated from after returning stateside. You re-enlisted for your third tour; she joined Argus… which I realize, technically, I'm not supposed to know about, but whoops! That cat's out of the bag. Sorry, Amanda Waller. Anyway, back to you. Your drink of choice is whiskey, though you're also known to enjoy a nice, cold beer, and you always order a Big Belly Buster when you visit your sister-in-law at her place of work. You…."

It was at this point that Oliver elected to interrupt her, because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure how much more Felicity knew… or how much more Digg could handle before he had an aneurysm. Or a panic attack. "You never told me that you were married before, Digg."

But his comment went unnoticed, unheard. "Miss Smoak…."

"Please, call me Felicity."

The invitation also fell on deaf ears. "I do not have the same kind of pockets as Merlyn Junior. You hack me - for charity or not, and you'll bankrupt me."

They were still standing in Felicity's doorway - Felicity holding the door open, Oliver and Diggle stacked up out on the stoop like sardines weighed down with a ridiculous amount of shopping bags. "Hacking is such an ugly word," Felicity protested, cringing as if John's comment physically stung her.

"That's not the denial I was hoping to hear."

And then, with one liquid, light, and sunny peal of laughter, Felicity eradicated any and all tension. "You're a good man, John Diggle." The statement said more than any denial ever could. "Now, please, come in. You're letting all the warmth out, and I'm dressed for heat." Digg hadn't even made it two steps passed the threshold… which meant Oliver was still outside... before Felicity was pausing, spinning around in a rush, and clarifying, "I meant because of all the cooking. Of food. In the kitchen. Because that's where one cooks. Well, not me. But Oliver. I presume. We won't be doing anything else hot. Or cold. Anywhere else. Or doing. Except cooking. And oh my god, this might be worse than accusing Oliver of having an illicit, secret affair with Tommy Merlyn. And then Raisa."

Diggle practically choked on his laughter, and, if Oliver shut Felicity's front door with a little more force than necessary, he felt it was justified. "Really, Felicity? You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that."

The woman in question sidled up to Oliver's side. Any and all animosity he was pretending to feel disappeared at the sight of her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he'd be a liar if he failed to admit, at least to himself, that the little, spaghetti strapped, fuschia tank she had on didn't hurt her case either. Out of the side of her mouth, she faux-whispered, "Oliver, he thought I was talking about cooking in the bedroom."

"No, he did not," Digg answered for himself. "At least he didn't until you just mentioned it." And then John laughed some more before making his way through Felicity's apartment without invitation. He stopped in the kitchen, unceremoniously dropping all of his bags onto the counter before retracing his steps back towards them. "As fun… and as disturbing as these last few minutes have been, I have a date with that whiskey you mentioned earlier, Miss Smoak, and you two have a date with each other."

"It's not a date," Oliver and Felicity simultaneously contradicted. Oliver then glanced over at her… only to find Felicity's eyes already on him. While he was hoping to gauge her feelings towards the idea of them dating, of them possibly becoming something, something more, maybe even a couple, he wasn't sure what her reaction, looking at him, meant, though it did buoy his hope.

John huffed, rolling his eyes. "Sure, it's not."

"No, really," Felicity said. She used a reassuring tone, though whose mind she meant to put at ease, Oliver wasn't quite clear on. "This is just a part of the plan… you know, so Oliver doesn't have to go out with a stranger."

"See, I always looked at it as the plan to make sure that Oliver went out with you."

Following in his guard's footsteps, Oliver went to the kitchen, wanting to diffuse the awkward tension but, at the same time, allow his guard's words to sink in for Felicity. However, unlike Digg, he unloaded his arms in a much gentler manner. Baking supplies and equipment needed to be treated with care. "It's cooking lessons, Digg." Nobody responded, so Oliver rejoined them in the living room, coming to stand next to Felicity… as if he was pulled to her. They never touched, though. So, when Oliver felt the hair on his arms lift and rise, he excused it as the weather. It was dry, and it was cold - the perfect conditions to promote static electricity. The fact that he inhaled deeply to breathe in Felicity's green apples, lime, and… was that spearmint?... scent was just a coincidence.

Refocusing on the room and people in it, Oliver looked up to meet his bodyguard's knowing smirk. "Right," John agreed. However, his tone spoke of everything and anything but acquiescence.

Luckily, Felicity didn't seem to notice. As she went to open the door for Digg, she asked him, "are you sure you don't want to stay? It looks like you two brought enough food for my entire neighborhood."

"That's not all food, Miss Smoak," Digg corrected her. "Yes, Oliver brought some ingredients with him, but most of those bags are full of kitchen appliances and tools. And, yes, I'm positive about leaving. I left my tricycle days behind me many, many years ago." Although John made an effort to lower his voice, Oliver could still hear him clearly. "Be careful with him, Felicity." The blonde looked up into the guard's face, obviously curious as to his meaning. "He moved out of his family home, because he felt trapped there by his mom, by his sister. He tenses every time they try to hug him, yet he chooses to stand close to you. And he enjoys it."

Before she could question his words, object further, or even react, Digg was gone, closing the door himself behind his fleeing steps. Oliver watched as Felicity turned to him, bewilderment crinkling her brow. "I don't get it. What does biking have to do with food?" Obviously, she was pretending like the private words Diggle shared with her had not been said. And Oliver was alright with that. "And I'll have you know, I can at least ride a two-wheel bike, Oliver. I might not be Mr. Diggle levels of athletic, but I'm not completely… Oh." Realization dawning, Felicity's skin - her cheeks, her neck, the roundness of her delicate shoulders - flushed a soft shade of pink. Her lashes fell to shutter her gaze from him as she looked down at her feet, the toes of her left foot scuffing against the hardwood floor. Oliver noticed her nails were painted a blinding shade of electric blue… which was just another example of her vibrancy. "Third wheel."

It was then in Felicity's embarrassment and bashfulness that he realized, if one of them didn't say something - and Felicity was making it quite clear that she wouldn't be the one to broach the topic, they'd persist in this limbo of denial. Felicity would continue to claim they were spending time together for the plan, for Oliver's peace of mind, to protect her job; and Oliver would go along with it, perhaps elevating their interactions to cooking lessons… as he had just a few minutes prior. But if he wanted it to be more - and he did, if he wanted to go on a single date with Megan but an unlimited amount with Felicity, then he was going to have to risk her rejection. By her reactions towards others proposing they should go out with each other, Oliver knew that, if nothing else, at least his physical attraction was returned. Now, he needed to find out if, for her, it was anything else. If it could be anything more.

"You know, it could be - I mean, only if you wanted it to be, of course…. But I'm open to the idea. Of it… being a date. Of tonight being a date. A first date. For you and me."

"Wow. Five minutes in my presence, and I've already corrupted your speech patterns and ability to form a complete sentence."

Sighing in both amusement and exasperation, Oliver good-naturedly chastised, "Felicity…."

"Right." She shook her head, apparently in an attempt to focus. "The date. Our date. You, Oliver Queen, and me, Felicity Smoak. Tonight. In my apartment… while I'm wearing yoga pants and a cami. Without a bra. Holy frakking frak."

He chuckled, and he did everything within his power not to verify her lack of a bra with his own eyes, but he failed, so then it was Oliver's turn to blush. "So, uh, is that a yes?"

Although Felicity crossed her arms over her chest, it had nothing to do with protecting her modesty and everything to do with scheming. Standing a few feet away from her, Oliver could see the mischievous wheels turning in that brilliant brain of hers. Then, her full, bubblegum hued mouth curved into a moue, and Oliver knew he was in trouble. "I'm not sure. I think I want to see what you can do first." He quirked his brows, smirking, and Felicity shouted, "in the kitchen! With food! And so not in a dirty way, because, ew, sticky." A little shudder punctuated her latest, leading babble.

It wasn't an outright refusal. In fact, it felt more like a flirty yes than a gentle no, so Oliver decided to let Felicity off the hook. Nodding over his shoulder towards the aforementioned kitchen, he requested that she follow him… which she did. Once they were standing at the counter piled high with shopping bags, shoulder to shoulder, Oliver asked her, "have you ever made sufganiyot before?"

In answer, Felicity tilted her head and glared at him over the top rim of her glasses.

"Well, I hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and decided we'd fill them with raspberry jam. Because of the powdered sugar dusting, I thought we'd go with white chocolate for our topper and tree decorations, and white chocolate is best paired with a tart fruit. Normally, I'd use either a gooseberry or a cranberry jam, because they're not as sweet as raspberries, but I didn't have the time to order the gooseberries, and Megan already used cranberries for one of her desserts."

"Megan's lucky that she didn't cheat and look ahead, because there's no way I'd put anything named after a bird in my mouth." He watched her as she seemed to pause for a second, considering her proclamation. "Well, other than chicken. And turkey. But they're supposed to be food. Who wants to eat something that reminds them of their first trip to the beach when they unceremoniously sat in goose poop and then had to immediately leave?"

"Felicity," Oliver chuckled. "People roast geese, too, you know."

"Not my people. And, by that, I mean Smoaks. Not Jews. I have no idea if other, possibly less stomach-sagacious Jewish people eat roasted geese." After making a gagging face, Felicity continued on, "granted, we Smoaks are a rare breed. There's just my mom and I, but, clearly, we have better sense than these people you speak of." While Oliver laughed, Felicity pressed on, "and I don't want to rain on your round jelly donut parade, Oliver, but the challenge calls for cream puffs."

"It does, but I'm the judge, and you were right when you said the challenges are too focused on Christmas. There are other holidays to honor with our desserts. So, we're going to compromise. Megan will still submit a tree, but it will be a sufganiyot tree instead of a cream puff tree, and we're going to decorate it with molded, white chocolate ornaments in the shape of dreidels, candles, menorahs, and gelt."

Teasing him, Felicity asked, "so, did Wikipedia sucker you into donating to them when you looked up Hanukkah?" After a giggle, she sobered. "Seriously, though. Thank you, Oliver… for taking what I said - and my heritage - to heart."

He paused in his unpacking, met her gaze, and smiled. "You're welcome, Felicity." After a moment, he suggested, "now, let's get to work. We have a lot to do tonight."

"Plus, you need to feed me," Felicity reminded him.

"Plus, I need to feed you."

"And I'll be grading - you know, evaluating your dating skills." A beat passed before she said, "yeah… whatever. I let that statement stand, alluding or not."

"Alluding. Definitely alluding," Oliver requested much to Felicity's habit of blushing's distress and his own delight.

Despite the flirting, they did settle down to their work, and Oliver refused to allow Felicity to be a mere observer… or just a taste-tester as she had proposed. While he would explain, demonstrate, and even physically guide her actions, there was no sitting on the counter for her. After organizing their supplies and running through how to use the stand mixer, Oliver had Felicity measure out the flour, the sugar, the yeast, and the salt, making sure she didn't over or under pour and that she leveled their measuring cups and spoons. Using the whisk, they mixed the dry ingredients, and then switched out the whisk for the hook and started adding the egg yolks, one at a time, and the milk. Then, Oliver had her put in the butter. As the dough started to really come together, as it became smooth, and shiny, and elastic, he watched as a little pride started to bleed through in Felicity's avid gaze. Because she practically refused to blink while the dough mixed, Oliver started on another task, turning around to the opposite side of the kitchen to oil a large bowl. It was just about five minutes later when a metallic clanking noise followed by the mixer coming to an abrupt halt alerted him to the fact that his attempt to multitask might have been a terrible idea.

"What happened?"

Felicity's back was towards Oliver. "Nothing," she mumbled.

Or, at least, he thought she was mumbling… until she turned around, swallowing nervously, thickly. Oliver's gaze went from her throat, to the counter where he found a mangled spatula, and then back to Felicity's mouth where, despite her best attempts to erase the evidence, a small smidgen of dough was stuck to the corner of her lips. "Nothing?"

"I think the mixer might have given up the ghost."

"It's brand new."

"Well, maybe it's a lemon."

"And the spatula?"

"What spatula?"

"The spatula on the counter beside your hand that looks like someone - or something - took a bite out of it."

"Oh! That spatula."

When Felicity refused to say anything more, just nodding her head like they were in agreement in solving the spatula mystery simply by acknowledging its existence, Oliver decided to try another tactic. Without saying a word, he mimed wiping food from his own mouth. "William Fudging Shatner!," Felicity exclaimed under her breath. She lifted a hand to wipe her lips so forcefully that Oliver could hear the skin of her fingers slap against that of her cheek. "Alright. Fine. You caught me," she finally admitted, making him grin widely. "I was really hungry, and the dough smelled so good, and you never said that I couldn't taste it or that I shouldn't put a spatula in the mixer while it was running… which, granted, in retrospect does not sound like a well-advised course of action. But me? Super hungry, remember? So, I… tried to get a little taste. An… appetizer, if you will."

"And succeeded from the looks of it."

"Yeah. But not before breaking your mixer."

"This isn't my mixer, Felicity." She scrunched up her face in puzzlement. "It's yours."

"Uh, no, it's not."

"It is. This," he gestured around them. Quite frankly, it looked like a department store's homewares department threw up inside of Felicity's kitchen. He might have gone slightly overboard. "This is all yours. I bought it for you. For our cooking lessons… and date nights in."

"That's just nutty as a fruitcake. (Ha! Baking reference!) And kind of (which by kind of I actually mean definitely) weird. Normal people do not do that on a maybe, iffy, it's technically up-in-the-air, my decision is still pending first date, Oliver."

He just shrugged his shoulders, because what else could he do? The mixer… and other assorted kitchen equipment… were already out of the bag.

Oliver watched as Felicity's expression went from bafflement, to consternation, to dismay. Finally, she settled on unplugging the mixer and, wordlessly, handing him the bowl while taking the rest of the appliance with her out into the living room. It was Oliver's turn to be confused as Felicity carefully deposited the Kitchenaide onto her coffee table, temporarily disappearing down the hall which, he assumed, led to her bedroom, only to reappear moments later with a small tool bag (of course, it was the color of a ballet slipper) and a box of odds and ends, all mechanical looking. "Uh, Felicity? What are you doing?"

"Do you have any idea how expensive these things are? Oh, what am I saying," she answered her own question with sarcasm. "Of course you do! You just bought me one… as a first date gift."

Oliver wanted to point out that she had just admitted and accepted the fact that they were on a date, but Felicity seemed too distressed for gloating. So, he refrained. Instead, he repeated, "yes, but, again, what are you doing?"

"I'm staying in my wheelhouse, and you're staying in yours. You make the donuts, and I'll rebuild the mixer's motor."

"You'll… rebuild… the… motor?"

For the first time since caving and admitting her guilt, Felicity met his gaze. "Oliver, a gear is a gear is a gear. A nut's a nut. Wires are wires. If it is powered by electricity, I can build it. Apparently, I can break it as well, but that also means I can fix it. So, that's what I'm going to do: I'm going to fix the mixer."

Not capable of keeping a straight face any longer, Oliver broke out in a huge grin. "You, Felicity Smoak, are remarkable."

"Yeah, well, you better hope your food tastes as remarkable as it looks, because I've been known to get hangry, it's passed my dinner time, and I do not grade on a curve, mister.

"Challenge accepted, Miss Smoak."

Oliver had never liked nor cared about school. In fact, he'd failed out of four colleges, and barely skated through high school by cheating off whatever girl he was 'dating' for the week, but this was one test he was determined to ace.