Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen
Week Seven

Week Seven Baking Challenge: A Multilayered Cake Depicting a Treasured Holiday Scene - Sledding in a Winter Wonderland

She was baking.

She!

As in her.

Felicity Smoak.

Felicity Megan Smoak, born in 1989 to Noah Kuttler and Donna Smoak. Jewish. Computer and cyber security expert. Blonde haired (ish) and blue eyed. Mint chocolate chip ice cream and red wine enthusiast. Babbler.

Yeah. That Felicity Megan Smoak.

Where was she?

Oh, yes.

Baking.

She was baking… which meant that she was measuring, and whisking, and mixing, and stirring, and frosting, and decorating.

B - A - K - I - N - G, Baking. (You're damn straight that was with a capital 'B.')

And, no, not with an easy bake oven either, thank you very much.

Now, granted, all of this food wizardry was going down under the strict guidance and supervision of her baking sensei, but, still, she was actually allowed to really and truly contribute. And the most amazing part? No fires! No diced off appendages, no singed off eyebrows, no emergency skin grafts required.

Oh, and did she mention that she was also dating her baking sensei, Oliver Queen?

Yeah.

That Oliver Queen.

And, yeah, her!

Felicity Smoak.

Felicity Megan Smoak.

And, no, Felicity shook her head in self-reprimand. She wasn't falling down that particular rabbit hole again. Pausing in her flouring of the many cake pans she was preparing, Felicity got herself back under control. She took a deep breath, held it in her lungs until they started to burn, and then she exhaled slowing, centering herself. Once she felt calm, she returned to the task at hand.

It was just… Oliver. While she still liked to tease him, withholding the carrot which was her admission that their nightly dinners and cooking lessons were actual dates for as long as possible, the last eight days (and nights!) had been amazing. He was just so sweet. And attentive. And, for some strange, unexplainable reason, he found everything she did to be brilliant. Forget that he was the impressive one. He was the one who survived five years of hell. He was the one who came back and immediately accepted a position within his family's company, a company he had no interest in running but recognized that it needed him. He was the one who made Julia Child look like, well, a child. He was the one that, despite her black thumb in the kitchen, was endlessly patient with and encouraging of her attempts to learn how to bake.

"So, what do you think of my idea for the cake?"

Startling Felicity out of her thoughts as he rejoined her at his kitchen's gargantuan sized island (or was it a peninsula? Felicity needed to brush up on her interior design-speak if she was going to be spending time in such a posh place… and she very much was.), Oliver's question brought her back to the moment. She couldn't help but grin over at him, because in his apron with his sleeves rolled up and his feet bare, Oliver was adorable. (And she kind of wanted to jump him, but baking first; cooking later.) "Is there a way to make two different colored batters without them bleeding together? It's just, usually, underneath the loose, powdery layer of snow, there's a harder, more compact layer, right?"

Oliver's eyes lit up. Felicity wasn't sure if it was the thought of sled riding, her suggestion and interest in what they were making together, or just the idea of challenging himself further in the kitchen. Or, knowing Oliver, it was probably a combination of all three options, the sadist culinary-overachiever. "You want to make both green velvet and white velvet to represent a more realistic hillside?"

"Well, I guess," Felicity shrugged, because, yeah, that was her idea, but was white velvet even a thing? Up until a few minutes ago when Oliver explained his idea for their cake to her, she'd only ever heard of red velvet. Green velvet had seemed strange enough, but at least she knew that green food coloring existed. White food coloring on the other hand…? "Can you even do that?"

"Yes, we can do that." And then Oliver seemed to become even more excited, and she started to worry. Just what exactly had she gotten herself into with this suggestion? "It'll give me the opportunity to teach you how to separate eggs."

"Well, that just sounds unsanitary," Felicity pouted.

Oliver's only response was a deep rumble of laughter.

Just as Oliver was attempting to hand her the first of the dry ingredients, a third voice - one that soooo should not have been there - interrupted their quiet and private date night in. The sharp tattoo of heels against hardwood which accompanied it fell on Felicity's ears like the drum beat announcing her impending execution. "Really, Oliver, the security in this building is atrocious. This is what Mr. Diggle deemed an appropriate place for you to live? You know, I'm really starting to believe that I made a mistake hiring that man. If nothing else, I'm convinced that you should have guards 24-7 and not just during the day when you're traveling to and from work."

At first, Felicity was frozen: dead-cave-woman-carcass-in-a-stadium-sized-sheet-of-glacier-ice frozen. However, as soon as Moira Queen in all her scary, intimidating, formidable glory rounded the corner and stalked purposefully into Oliver's dining area directly across from where they stood behind the island-peninsula-large counter space thing-y, Felicity moved faster than she ever had in her 23 years of life. She dropped it (her entire body) like it was hot. (And the fiery flames of hell which lapped at Moira Queen's heels made a very powerful case that it was indeed quite warm all of a sudden in the loft.) She hit the floor like a ton of bricks. (And, if her desperate actions didn't result in her presence remaining hidden, then those very same bricks would later be tied to her feet before Felicity was unceremoniously thrown into Starling Bay.) She fell down like a dead (wo)man. (And, yeah, Felicity didn't really think that one needed any explanation. The statement kind of spoke for itself. As for her slight change to the expression, even in death - perhaps even more so, because legacy! - one should still remain a feminist.)

"What was that," Moira Queen demanded to know. Felicity hoped she was referring to a mouse, or maybe Oliver gave her some resting bitch face for just showing up, unannounced, or, hell, she'd even take a ghost. Sure, she didn't really believe in ghosts, but one would actually be a small comfort at this point. However, despite her desperate flailing about to hold onto her optimism, Felicity pretty much knew that she was doomed.

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

From her perch beside him on the floor, Felicity cheered on her boyfriend. 'You go, Glen Coco!'

Ha.

Her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend.

And, gah, no! Bad rabbit hole.

Clenching her hands into fists to use the bite of her nails into the fleshy meat of her palms to ground her, Felicity tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear Oliver ask, " … you even get into my apartment?"

"She slipped the doorman $50, Ollie, and then he slipped her your key. It's not rocket science, big brother."

Oh, great, Felicity bemoaned her luck from where she curled herself into an even smaller ball on the floor of Oliver's kitchen. Not only was Moira Queen here, but Thea Queen had crashed her date with Oliver as well - Thea who, Oliver had told her since they started dating, was uber suspicious of Oliver's behavior in connection with Bake for the Funeral of the 19th Amendment. She was so screwed. They were so screwed. And the worst part was that they hadn't yet, well, screwed. However, from this angle Felicity could really tell just how big Oliver's feet were, and, um, yeah. That just made this whole frakked up beyond repair situation just that much worse. And unfair.

"Who was that, Oliver?"

"Who was…," confused, Oliver's words trailed off as he turned to her only to find her not there. Brow furrowed in puzzlement (towards her) and exasperation (towards his mother, Felicity could only assume, because she was right there with him), he asked, "what are you…," only for Felicity to cut him off with slicing motions at the neck and her deadly stink eye. Hey, when one couldn't use their loud voice….

With over exaggerated enunciation, Felicity silently mouthed up to him, "deny, deny, deny! Tell her nobody's here." Hands on hips, puzzlement morphing into amusement, he just watched her… tenderly. Ugh. Her boyfriend was such a maple tree: tall, and broad, and strong, and sappy, and sweet, and hard. Wait, no, Felicity backtracked in her own mind. Not hard. Hard was bad. Well, not bad. In fact, it would be pretty damn great just as soon as she could get rid of his mother and sister. Just… not good now.

With a chuckle, Oliver knelt down beside her. If Felicity's eyes just happened to be drawn to the way his pants adjusted with the movements, she excused their lingering as her reward before what was sure to be an imminent death by mama-matriarch-bear-glare. Plus, angles! "Felicity, she saw you." Although Oliver spoke softly, the loft was otherwise silent, so there was no doubt his family could hear him.

"Oliver, ix-nay on the elicity-Fay. Do you really want them to know about me?"

"I think it's a little late for that now, hon."

Oh god, she bemoaned to herself. Not a term of endearment! Remember a Smoak woman's romantic cryptonite, food and shoes? Well, during the last eight days, Felicity had learned that she was susceptible to something else: schmoopie nicknames. "Just… tell her to get her eyes checked," Felicity whispered in response. At Oliver's doubtful look, she latched on even tighter to her idea. "No, seriously. At her age, cataracts really do become a thing, Oliver."

"I can assure you that my vision is just fine," Moira Queen announced. At the same time, Oliver took Felicity by the arms and picked her up. By the time she was standing on her own two feet beside him, she could have given Mooshoo a run for his money in the red-faced department. Granted, he was a cartoon dragon, but, still, raging drunk with high blood pressure and rosacea was not a good look on her.

"Mom, Thea, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Felicity Smoak."

Before Felicity could shyly wave or even offer a mortified 'hey,' Moira Queen was already chastising her son. "Oh, Oliver." Disappointment dripped from her tone.

"Ollie, please don't sugar coat your manwhore ways for my sake. I'm eighteen. I know what sex is. Trust me. And I know that sex does not equal a relationship. You'll just give mom an aneurysm and this poor girl delusions of grandeur."

Okay. So much for mortification. With just a few sentences, Thea Queen managed to provoke Felicity's quite flinty temper. However, before she could blow a fuse… or, you know, the entire electrical grid of Starling City, Oliver barked at his sister, "Speedy, cut it out." Although his family couldn't see the gesture, Oliver reached over and linked his left hand with her right, tangling their fingers together. The simple, endearing touch helped. "Felicity is my girlfriend. Calling her that has nothing to do with you or with mom and everything to do with her. And our relationship."

"Oh, so now you're in a relationship with her," Moira mocked. And… did she just shake her head in amused derision towards them? What a…!

"Yes. I am." Oliver's answer was pure and to the point, and the squeeze he offered her fingers was heartening.

"Ollie, you're not exactly an unknown commodity in this town." Felicity hated that Oliver's sister saw him that way, that she referred to him in such a way. (And it also tweaked her nose that, instead of having the decency to lob her insults face-to-face, Thea was wandering around the open floor plan of Oliver's loft, lifting items and peering around others… like she was inspecting the apartment or, more likely, sizing it up, despite the fact that Oliver had told Felicity that Thea had purchased most of his furniture for him.) "If you're really dating this girl, why haven't I seen your pictures together on page six or on the gossip blogs?"

"She has a name, Thea, and I would appreciate it if you used it." Rather than acknowledging his request, Thea just raised an impatient brow as she awaited Oliver's answer to her question. "And there's been no pictures of us, because we always stay in."

Deciding she had allowed him to fight this battle for too long on his own, Felicity added, "Oliver comes over to my apartment. We have dinner; we drink some wine. He stuffs me full, and then he goes home." When Thea started to giggle and Moira gasped, taken aback, Felicity voiced her bewilderment. "What?" She turned to Oliver as she started to replay her own words back in her mind. "What did I…? Oh." Voice rising in panic and in frustration, she attempted to defend herself. "I didn't mean…! We're not…!" Letting go of Oliver's hand and throwing her own arms up into the air, Felicity snapped, "we haven't even had sex yet!"

That put the sweaty gym sock in Thea Queen's oh-so-deserving trap, but, instead of giving Felicity a sense of accomplishment in regards to proving Moira Queen wrong, she just became nervous when a gleam of cunning artifice entered the older woman's eyes. Oliver, unfortunately, didn't seem to pick up on his mother's slyness. Then again, did baby boys ever truly see their mommies for who they really were?

Once more holding Felicity's hand, Oliver proclaimed, "we're taking it slow, because… it's been a lot. Coming back. Plus, Felicity and I just met, and I want to do this right. Do right by her. Because… she's kind of remarkable."

"So, the two of you just met," Moira Queen repeated. Unlike her daughter, Moira stood perfectly still… like a soldier only more fearsome and less honorable. Rather than a gun, she wielded a designer clutch, the bag clasped daintily by both of her hands and held at attention in front of her. Felicity had no doubt that, if she felt the need, Moira Queen could launch that purse like a boomerang, its weaponized leather returning right back to her grip upon silent command.

On the surface, Moira's rhetorical question could have seemed like she was trying to express an interest in their relationship, but Felicity didn't buy it. She didn't buy it for one second. Instead, she'd bet that Moira was actually fishing for a weakness, something that she could exploit to get what she wanted which was obviously not Felicity. For Oliver. Of course, she didn't personally want Felicity.

And it was official: her brain was actually a mine field. One wrong tangent, and BOOM!

"Pray tell, where did that happen?"

Felicity looked over to Oliver just as he was glancing in her direction. She tried to grin coyly… like the two of them were sharing some precious, romantic memory, but really she just wanted to make sure they were on the same page about their cover story. There was no way they could tell Moira Queen, his mother and her boss, that they met after Felicity stalked Oliver to his supposed to be top secret apartment through the family's housekeeper in order to confront him about his baked goods shenanigans anddeceptions. Not only would Moira Queen probably have Felicity locked up and the key not only thrown away but melted down if she learned of the true origins of their relationship, but she'd also use the revelations to get Oliver back under her gabled and gargoyled roof.

"We met at Queen Consolidated, actually," Oliver answered. It was as close to the truth as they could possibly offer up to his family, and it was simple. Felicity approved.

"Oh, Oliver, do you really think that's appropriate?"

"Yeah, Ollie," Thea joined in, chortling at her brother's expense. "Haven't you ever heard of the expression 'don't shit where you eat?'"

"Thea Queen," the mother turned on the daughter, aghast. Up until that point, they had been quite the classy and trashy tag-team, but, apparently, that had gone too far in the social niceties book of Moira Queen. Not, you know, Thea's many references to and stark mentions of sex. But poop.

Taking advantage of his mother's wrath being directed elsewhere for the first time that evening, Oliver offered up, "QC is a big company. Thousands of people work there."

"Yes," Moira conceded, "but Starling is a big city. There are even more people, more women, who do not work for the business our family owns."

"Felicity and I don't actually work together, mom. We're on different floors, I'm several levels removed from being her immediate supervisor, and we'll continue to be discreet."

"Well, I would hope so considering you're less than two weeks away from being contractually obligated to date another woman." Turning her faux concern onto Felicity, Moira asked, "has he told you about the other women and about the dating competition, dear?"

"Uh, yeah, I know about the contest where you've reduced women down to nothing more than wannabe 1950s housewives and your son into a vacuous playboy prize. Even if Oliver and I hadn't discussed Baking for a Beefcake, it's kind of hard to miss unless, you know, you actually are from the 50s and time traveled here without the proper working knowledge of modern technology."

"And there are no other women," Oliver picked up the defense of their relationship where Felicity left off. "There's just Felicity. Even after Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen is over, I won't be dating the winner. There will be one dinner, and, during that dinner, I will make it abundantly clear to the winner that I have a girlfriend and am quite happily off the market. The only reason I agreed to this contest is to make you happy, mom and Thea. And let's not kid ourselves. Nobody here had any intentions of making anything actually come from this charade. Mom, you'd be horrified if I ended up with a woman I met through a local reality show. After all, that's far too crass for a Queen."

"And you think some silly girl who plays games and makes sexual innuendos is a suitable partner for you, Oliver?"

"No, I think a smart, funny, beautiful woman who graduated with dual masters degrees from MIT at 19 and who ranked second in the National Information Technology Competition is far too good for me, but, for some reason, she's agreed to be my girlfriend anyway."

As a mumbled aside so only Oliver could hear, Felicity groused, "and we were calling me the stalker?"

Moira sighed, shaking her head in sympathy, in dismay. "My poor boy, I see what's going on here, and it's all my fault."

Confused, Oliver asked, "what are you talking about?"

"By asking you to take part in this public relations campaign for Queen Consolidated, I made you feel inadequate, like you weren't good enough just the way you are, like I wasn't proud of the man you've become, but that couldn't be farther from the truth." Moira took a step closer to them, but she didn't round the countertop. Danke schoen, Wayne Newton; danke schoen! Because, if Moira Queen would've seen that Felicity and Oliver were still holding hands and that, sometime during the hot mess that was Felicity meeting his family, they had started to play footsie behind the counter, too? Well, she would have had baby demons… which were otherwise known as kangaroos. "I love you just the way you are. You don't need to… settle for someone you think the board will approve of, and you certainly don't need to… stifle yourself to present a perfect facade to the public. That's what image consultants are for, sweetheart."

Although Oliver had admirably maintained - quite frankly, Felicity was in awe of his control, and she had no idea how he hadn't lost his temper several times over already - a calm composure the entire time his mother and sister had been present that evening, she watched as the threads of his self-restraint started to unravel. It was subtle, but it was also obvious if you knew how to look. If you knew him. Oliver's jaw ticked, his nostrils flared, there was a small vein in his temple that began to throb, and his gaze narrowed just slightly. "I… that's not… I'm with Felicity because I want to be, because I like her. It has nothing to do with you, QC, the board, or anyone else for that matter."

"Oliver, please," Moira beseeched him. "I know you."

"Apparently, not as well as you think," Felicity huffed under her breath so that only Oliver could hear her. In response, in thanks, he ignored his mother for just a moment and turned to place a gentle kiss upon Felicity's right temple.

Moira scoffed at the embrace, seemingly blind to any emotion or meaning behind it. "You've confirmed that you're not sleeping with this girl, yet you insist she's your girlfriend and that there's no one else. That's not you; that's not my son."

"Maybe it is now."

"What…," Moira started to ask, but Oliver talked over top of her.

"And maybe it should have been all along."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, the past is just that. We can't change it. But the present, the future? We can very much make both of those better. You've been so worried about showing the world that I'm a new man when it comes to Queen Consolidated and my professional life," Oliver challenged his mother. "But you've completely ignored the fact that I'm different. I'm more serious about QC, about my place in the company, and fulfilling my role as dad's heir, because I'm not that selfish, shallow, stupid kid who got on that yacht five and a half years ago.

"More importantly, I'm also not that guy who believed his self-worth was measured by how many fast cars he owned; by how much he could drink; by how he had more money than anyone else; by how he could do anything he wanted, legal or otherwise, and it didn't matter, because his money, or his power, or his parents could make anything disappear; or by how many women he could sleep with, use, and then throw away like yesterday's garbage. That guy was an asshole, and I'd rather return to the island and live there for the rest of my life than ever be like him again. And, if that's your son, if that's the man you want me to be, then you're going to be sorely disappointed in me… just as, right now, I am disappointed in you." For the first time since his family arrived, Oliver stepped away from Felicity. She watched with pride as he moved across the loft towards its entry, stopping only to open the door. "I think we've all said enough for one night. It's time for you to leave."

"I disagree, Oliver," Moira argued with him. "You know, I came here with a specific purpose. We need to talk. As a family. Alone. Perhaps you should tell your friend to leave instead."

Felicity watched as Oliver snorted at his mother's audacity, shaking his head in disbelief. "Felicity was actually invited. You weren't. She can stay; you need to go."

It was then that Felicity realized, during the majority of the confrontation, Thea had been rather quiet. When she looked over at the younger woman, she found her no longer snooping but instead a curious observer… except, her gaze was not on either her mother or her brother but upon Felicity herself. That was rather (translation: SUPER) disturbing.

"I hardly need an invitation when it is my money which pays for you to live in this loft," Moira proposed, undeterred.

"I haven't touched my trust fund, mom." A weary, exhausted sounding Oliver lifted a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "My salary covers rent and any other expenses I have."

Sounding so superior, so smug, so… snotty, Moira mocked, "yes, and who pays your salary, sweetheart?"

"Using that logic, you pay for me to live in my apartment as well, Mrs. Queen," Felicity said. "But, if you ever let yourself into my home or bribed my super into giving you a key to my place, I'd press charges faster than you could condescendingly call me 'dear.'"

Sniping back at her, Moira asked, "and why would I ever want to come to your home, Miss Smoak?"

"Well, if this past week is any indication, it's where your son is going to be spending the majority of his nights."

Boom.

Mic. Dropped.

If the affronted look on Moira Queen's face was any indication, this is where Felicity would have inserted some sort of boasting, bragging sports metaphor. Her closest equivalent was Ms. Pacman, though, so suck it, Blinky, Pinky, Inky, AND Sue! It took every ounce of her restraint not to fist pump.

"Mom, just tell me what you want."

"As I already said, Oliver," Moira turned back towards her son. "This is a family matter that does not concern Miss Smoak."

"Whether you think it concerns her or not, whether you tell me now in front of her or you wait until you can corner me some other time when we're alone, I'm just going to tell her anyway."

For the first time in some minutes, Thea spoke, "if it's any consolation, mom, if she hasn't spilled the beans to the press about dating Ollie, I highly doubt she's going to tell them you're going to be the next CEO of Starling City."

And the shade just kept coming from the Queen matriarch. Glaring at her daughter, Moira snarked, "yes, thank you, Thea, for risking my entire campaign on a hunch and your impatience." When the younger woman just shrugged her shoulders without repentance, Oliver's mother effected a grand air and announced to her son, "as your sister just implied, I am indeed running for mayor of Starling City. I was approached several months ago… right around the time when you returned home, in fact… by a concerned group of influential citizens, requesting that I consider running for office. After significant discussion, Walter and I decided that this is something I need to do for the people of this city. We, as a family, are so fortunate. It's the least I can do, and we feel it's time for us to start giving back even just some of what Starling has given to us."

"So, that's really what Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen is about," Oliver realized. Felicity put two and two together and came up with 51% or more of the vote, too, but, thankfully, Oliver was the only one who voiced those suspicions.

"I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're accusing me of now, Oliver."

And, yep, there it was: the folksy colloquialism. Apparently, practice for the campaign trail started before one even announced their candidacy.

"You know what, mom," Oliver chuckled, gesturing for her to leave. Surprisingly, Moira actually followed the silent command, striding regally across the loft and out of the door Oliver still held wide open. "I actually think that you will make a greatpolitician."

"I expect you to drop this attitude before the formal announcement, Oliver. You have eight days to adjust to the news. When you name the winner of Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen, I will name my candidacy."

As she started to track her mother's steps towards the door, Thea questioned, "speaking of your little reality baking/dating show, Ollie, what exactly is going on in your kitchen?"

"We're just making dinner, Speedy."

"Um-hm." While the sound was typically used to express affirmation, upon Thea Queen's lips, it sounded like anything but. And that was before she looked over her shoulder at Felicity one last time. Starting at Felicity's feet, running all the way up her body, and then falling back down to finish the searching glance where it began, Felicity felt like she had just been studied thoroughly in only a matter of seconds. However, to Felicity's shock (and kind of awe, too), whatever Thea found in her search, she kept to herself, walking out of the apartment without another word.

It was only once Oliver had shut and locked the door behind his mother and sister (not that locks, apparently, served a purpose where the Queen family was concerned) that Felicity finally took a deep breath. It had felt like a woolly mammoth had been dancing a jig on her chest the entire time the mother and daughter pair had been there. The pressure had been more than just the heaviness of an elephant; it had been smelly, too, because of the long, wet, dank hair, and it had been ominous, because, well, extinction was no joke, and, if anyone seemed powerful and scary enough to eliminate an entire species, it was Moira Queen.

"Oddly enough, that was not my worst 'meet the family' experience." Yeah… meeting your college boyfriend's parents at said college boyfriend's funeral kind of set the bar pretty darn high. Or low. Depending upon one's viewpoint. At Oliver's incredulous expression, Felicity insisted, "no joke. Trust me, it can actually be more unpleasant than that."

His long legs made quick work of the distance that separated them. "That sounds like a story."

"It is. And I'll tell you about it. Someday. But, for now, you and me, mister, we have bigger fish to fry. Or, well, in our case, bigger cakes to bake."

Gesturing defeatedly, Oliver asked, "at this point, should we even waste our time? I know I told my mother that a winner would be named, and that I'd tell her about you, and this would all work out, but my mom and Thea saw your face, Felicity. Originally, I thought I'd go on one date with Megan, appease the rules of the competition, and then, after my family had enough time to unjustly dismiss Megan from their memories, I'd introduce you to them. But there's no way our plan can work now. I just… didn't want to give in to her. Not yet. But Megan's cover is blown, Felicity."

Placing one hand on his heart, while using the other to cup his jaw, she told him, "you leave Megan, and your family, and our plan, and even this entire, offensive contest to me. I think we both can agree that I'm the brains of this partnership."

As if in despite of himself, Oliver smiled. "And what does that make me?"

"The Betty," Felicity was quick to reply, grinning smugly. "As in… Crocker."

He might have chuckled, but he didn't concede. "Alright. I can accept that… except, I seem to recall that you thought, first, that Tommy was my secret lover and, then, that Raisa was my submissive mistress."

She rolled her eyes. "Nobody's perfect, Oliver."

"Come on, hon, those were two pretty big brain farts."

Scowling at him and using the hand that was cupping his jaw to pinch his cheek, Felicity allowed, "alright, fine, you're also the more emotionally attuned one in this relationship… so help us both, but, to pull this off, I don't need to be aware of other people's feelings; I need to be calculating. Cunning. I need to get my Machiavelli on."

"Yeah. I have no idea what… or who that is."

"Not the point," Felicity was quick to dismiss. She pulled her palm off her chest, tucked all but her index finger into her hand, and then prodded that remaining digit into Oliver's sternum. With every declaration and every poke, Oliver took a step back until he was leaning up against a floor to ceiling support column. "Who made Tommy Merlyn cry like a little bitch baby? Me. Who Sydney Bristow'd a former army officer and a Russian housekeeper? That's right: me again. Oliver, I was made to do this," she stated as plainly as she could. "Will you let me handle this?"

"Well, I don't see as though I have any other choice, because I trust you, and you trust that you can pull this off, so, do your worst, Miss Smoak."

She grinned impishly. "Oh, my worst is the best, Mr. Queen."

He leaned forward, kissing the very end of her nose, her chin, both of her dimples which were on full display, all the while chuckling. "Of that I have no doubt."

Felicity wrapped her arms around Oliver's neck and then moved onto her tiptoes to kiss him softly, once and then twice. Just as he was about to deepen the embrace, his hands sliding dangerously low along the small of her back, Felicity pulled away. "So… cake."

"Right." Oliver sighed, disappointed. She couldn't really blame him. She was pretty damn kissable, especially when plotting.

"And then kissing," she relented. On second thought…. "In fact, cake's have to cool before they can be frosted, sculpted, frosted again, and then finally decorated, right?"

Smirking (her smug maple tree probably knew where she was headed with this), Oliver agreed, "yeah…?"

"I mean, like, completely cool."

That cheeky smirk turned into a supernova smile. (No, really. Oliver should totally hand her a pair of sunglasses before he unleashed that blinding beam upon her.) "It'll take hours."

"And we're already considerably behind schedule because Lucille and Lindsay decided to stop by unannounced and unwanted." Felicity could tell that Oliver did not recognize the reference, but she wasn't surprised by that. Instead, what she really wanted to see was what his reaction would be when she made the suggestion she'd been leading up to now for quite some time. "So, maybe I should… spend the night?"

"Yes," Oliver adamantly stated, shaking his head in agreement as well. "Yes. One hundred times over. That is a great plan. The greatest plan. You are definitely the brains of this partnership."

As they both turned back towards the undetermined land mass of a counter space before them and, without discussion, started working perfectly in tandem to begin making the cake batter, Felicity hip checked him. "So, that means, if I were to suggest that this cake would undoubtedly taste better if you made it without pants on, you'd listen to me, right?"

In response, Oliver just leered, stripped, and then passed her the flour.

As Felicity measured out the dry ingredients, there was just one thought… okay, so one dominant thought… going through her head: back off, Barefoot Contessa, because her Pantless Boyfriend was in the kitchen.

Oliver Queen.

The Oliver Queen.

Oliver Jonas Queen, born in 1985 to Robert and Moira Queen, big brother to Thea Queen, and best friend to Thomas "Tommy" Merlyn. Rich white dude. Playboy, turned castaway, turned vice president. Blonde haired (legitimately) and blue eyed. Exercise and cooking enthusiast. Brooder.

Yeah. That Oliver Jonas Queen.

Wait, where was she?

Oh, yes.

Pantless Baking Boyfriend.

Man, rabbit holes were so dangerous!