I don't mean to go all sentimental on you, but being part of this amazing fandom certainly made the ending year special. It's been amazing getting to know so many of you. Thank you very much for your support, trust, and overall awesomeness. I wish you nothing but the best for 2016.

A tight hug for Albiona who made sure to get this chapter to me before going on a well-deserved vacation. Thank you for everything you did and do.

Have fun, however you celebrate into the new year. Love, Jules



Happily, I mean

What were the chances of coming back from the dead—twice?

Probably not much smaller than coming back from the dead once. Second time's always easier, right?

Felicity blinked, trying to chase those weird contemplations away. She knew her thoughts were a jumbled mess, but she needed a second to process this, to accept that this was really happening, that Sara was really here. Sara, who had been sucked into the ocean when the Smoak family's yacht went down. She had been pulled out of Felicity's grasp, through a breach created by a gruesome storm, and Felicity had mourned her drowned best friend, only to find her on a dirty, cold, inhospitable freighter one year later.

Destiny had revealed its sick humor another year later when Sara had been sucked into the ocean through another hole in another boat. That time it had been created by a torpedo, and Felicity hadn't had much time to actually dwell on the awful irony of Sara's death because Slade Wilson had been hopped up on Mirakuru, ready to kill her. And then Felicity had somehow woken up in Moscow and… there just hadn't been enough time for grieving.

And now history was repeating itself, with Sara popping up most unexpectedly. It was a miracle, shocking in the best way possible. Felicity realized that she was staring at her best friend. Her mouth was opened slightly; after whispering best friend's name in awe she had never closed it.

Sara Lance stood on the stony doorstep of Smoak Mansion, looking entirely unfazed. "Hey, Fe."

"Sara?"

Quentin Lance managed to breathe that question in complete disbelief. Hearing the doubt and awe infused in just that one word ripped Felicity out of her stupid staring. She stepped to the side, revealing the threshold to the huge eyes of Sara's father. "But," he stammered, "how's this possible? You're dead."

That finally got a reaction from Sara: her stony face slipped, her eyes softened, and her voice cracked a little when she said, "Dad."

"I can't believe this." Quentin Lance sounded completely overwhelmed, unable to process.

"It's really me," Sara assured. Felicity heard the tremble in the other woman's voice, saw the slight shaking of her hands before Sara closed them into fists.

Two heartbeats of heavy silence followed. Donna Smoak-Lance took one step toward the door. Having experienced her own daughter coming back from the dead, she was probably best equipped to handle this situation, but Quentin Lance shook of his shock off one moment before his wife could say something. "My girl," he breathed and practically ran the few steps separating them to engulf Sara in a tight hug.

Felicity stepped back, away from the door and to her mother whose eyes were moist with unshed tears and whose lips were curved into a moved smile. Donna placed an arm around Felicity's shoulder, squeezing and sending her own daughter silent support.

Felicity's heart was equally heavy and light as she watched father and daughter. Sara was wrapped up in Quentin's arms, nearly disappearing in the embrace. Her face was pressed against his chest. Her hands fisted the back of her father's shirt. The way her body shook told Felicity that her friend was crying silent tears. The only thing audible was Quentin's steady whisper of "My girl. My Sara." His voice was hoarse as tears spilled out of his eyes. There was so much desperation in the way they clung to each other, creating a quivering bundle of nerves. Fear to accept this as real coated the air.

Felicity remembered this. Her mom had held her like that. Too tight. As if Felicity would've disappeared if she let go.

A lump grew in Felicity's chest, created by the memory of her own homecoming, fed by the joy that her best friend was alive and here but there was also a shadow darkening the positivity, fueled by questions Felicity couldn't stop from assaulting her mind: how could Sara be back? How had she survived? Where had she been? What had she done? And—most of all—why was she back?

Her own experiences triggered those questions, Felicity knew—and hated it, hated the shadow she cast over her friend's return. But five years taught her to be wary: there wasn't such a thing as coincidence, and happiness never lasted long.

Minutes passed until Quentin dared to let go. Sara's hands untangled from his shirt and she stepped back, instantly avoiding his eyes. Felicity noticed, because she knew first-hand the difficulty of meeting the eyes of somebody you fear might see right through you. But Sara straightened up in the next moment, stiffening her posture, squaring her shoulders, making herself as tall as possible. Again: that was a trick Felicity, being smaller than many women and most men, knew first-hand.

Quentin didn't seem to notice, though. He needed a moment to wipe tears away and gather himself. Inhaling deeply, he placed an arm around his daughter and finally allowed her past the threshold of the mansion, directing her into the huge foyer. "Come in, come in," he urged with an audible, emotional quiver. Closing the door, he led Sara toward the two women standing in the hall. "Sara, you remember Felicity's mother Donna?"

"I do." Sara's voice was small, smaller than Felicity remembered it to be.

Donna Smoak-Lance ignored Sara's offered hand and instead went in for the hug. It was a little too much, Felicity thought, but this was her mother—Donna often went a little over-the-top when emotions got the best of her. Thankfully, she only embraced Sara for a moment. She beamed at her husband's daughter, holding on to her shoulders. "Sara, I'm so glad you're here with us." She let her hands sink and turned to Quentin. "It's a miracle." She looked at Felicity, tears swimming in her eyes, "The second one."

"Yes," Quentin agreed, his voice breaking again. The sound made Sara's eyes snap to the marble floor while her father brought his arm around her, pulling her closer to his body and kissing her temple.

"Since you found your way here, I take it you know about your father and me." That was typical Donna Smoak, too. It was one of the reasons why this woman was CEO of a multi-billion dollar company: she could look at things and draw the right conclusions.

Felicity had concluded the same thing. She had also noticed that Sara must have somehow slipped past the extensive security surrounding Smoak Mansion. Felicity filed that away for later analyzing, because right now her whole attention was caught by the fact that Sara's eyes landed on her while she said, "Yes, I heard about your wedding. Congratulations."

"Sara—" Her father started, but his daughter shook her head quickly.

"No," she said somewhat forcefully. "I'm really glad that you found somebody you're happy with." Taking her eyes off Felicity, she glanced at her dad. "I mean it."

Felicity's heart was speeding up a little bit. There wasn't any hostility in her friend's even voice, but she was trying to tell Felicity something, and there was an accusatory air to all of this and it rubbed Felicity the wrong way. She met her friend's eyes, struggling to find the right words when Quentin Lance spoke up again.

Tightening the grip on his daughter's shoulder, he asked, "All those years…. Sara, where were you? All those years?"

Immediately, Sara's eyes fled from Felicity's, once more taking huge interest in the floor. The calm challenge she had thrown Felicity's way vanished as awkwardness took over. "I—" she stopped, swallowing heavily.

Seeing her friend (who was technically her stepsister) struggle, Felicity finally found her voice back, "Were you on an island, like me?"

It was an alibi, a story to stick to, but Sara swatted it away. Her tired eyes landed on Felicity again as she asked, sounding tired, "Is that where you were? On an island?"

"Yes."

"The whole time?"

Felicity's heart beat heavier once more. "Yes."

Thoughtfully, Sara nodded. "Okay."

"Sara, baby," Quentin urged again, "whatever it is, you can tell me." Hearing that, Sara gave a negative head-shake that seemed entirely unintentional and also like a rejection of her father's assurance. He didn't let that dissuade him. "Where were you?"

Donna Smoak-Lance had never urged her daughter to talk about her five years away. But it seemed like Quentin Lance wasn't so willing to let things slide.

"I—" Again Sara stopped. She visibly gathered herself to finally settle for, "It's a long story." That statement sounded like both a dismissal and an admittance that she wanted to share her story.

"I have time," Quentin said.

Uneasily, Sara shifted her weight away from her father, his hand finally falling from her shoulder. "I don't feel like getting into it tonight."

"That's no—"

Donna Smoak-Lance stopped her husband from finishing that sentence, cutting in, "That's okay." Pinning Quentin down with a stare, keeping him from snapping at her as everybody knew he wanted to, she repeated, more pointedly, "That's okay." She turned back to Sara, a sad but comforting smile around her lips. "You're with us now and that's all that matters." Another unspoken objection by Quentin Lance was already coating the air. Donna, again, stopped it before he could even start, "It's all that matters tonight."

Quentin pursed his lips and swallowed all the words dancing on tip of his tongue. "Fine," he finally said. "For tonight, I'll let it go." He smiled fondly at Sara, "I'm just glad you're home."

Donna smiled at her husband. "Quentin, it seems like we raised survivors."

"Yes," he agreed, his gaze never wavering from Sara. "We did."


The Smoak-Lances were early risers.

Quentin always got up at seven to sing Frank Sinatra tunes while shaving (it turned into mumbling when the razor came close to the mouth area), enjoy a hefty breakfast while reading the newspaper, and complain about the major or the DA or the Police Commissioner. ("What do those paper pushers know about the situation out in the field? Nothing! All they care about is their next election!") He left the house at eight to drive his wife to work in his well-kept but well-used car, and was sitting at his own desk at the station at 8:30.

Donna always got up at 6:30 to welcome the day with thorough stretching that turned into Yoga. She'd join her husband's singing while in the shower and then take over the bathroom to do her make-up and hair. During her breakfast, consisting of fruit and green tea, she'd check her calendar, sometimes already sending her EA notes from her phone (she could work that like a pro—unlike her computer), and listen to her husband's complaining with one ear. And she was listening, because she always asked when she heard something that might impact Smoak International.

Felicity usually got up around 5:30. She had trouble sleeping most nights. Nightmares ripped her out of her sleep regularly, and in the previous five years she had gotten used to little sleep. Sleeping was time spent unconscious, which meant unprotected. Sleep was a luxury she couldn't dare to indulge if she wanted to stay alive. Even though she knew she was safe in Smoak Mansion, she hadn't been able to break the habit. And Felicity enjoyed the quiet mornings in her childhood home. She enjoyed jogging through the grounds stretching out behind the house, witnessing the sun rise while the birds sang and a new day started, bringing familiar sounds, smells, views that couldn't differ more from Lian Yu, Moscow, and Hong Kong. With all of it came the knowledge that she was home. It was a peaceful hour. Even though her solitude regularly turned into loneliness during the day, starting the day like this gave her the strength to get through the up-coming hours.

Turns out Sara got up even earlier.

Or maybe she hadn't slept at all.

Felicity couldn't blame her; during her first night home she hadn't been able to find rest either.

Sara stood by the counter, a mug in both hands, as Felicity entered the kitchen. The women's eyes met briefly. A certain uneasiness lurked behind Sara's gaze. She tried to hide it, but it was unmistakable, and awfully familiar, to Felicity. But finding it on Sara's face, finding her so strangely guarded, threw Felicity. Why did Sara feel like she had to pretend with her? With the person who was her best friend since high school. Who she had failed math class with. Who she had laughed, partied, and grown up with. And who she had spent one year on (and in, very much in) Purgatory with. Tentatively, Felicity continued into the room, deciding you could never go wrong with most basic politeness. "Good morning."

Sara nodded. "Morning." She took a sip of her coffee, lowering her head, making sure her blonde, wavy hair fell around her face and shielded her from Felicity's eyes.

The island stood between them—or islands. In the most literal form the kitchen island separated them. Metaphorically the despicable piece of earth, forest, rock, and horror called Lian Yu might be a creating a gap as well, even though Felicity didn't really know why. Before Sara had been swept away from her the second time, they had been good—as good as you could be when you are struggling to survive in a hostile environment and fighting a battle against super-strength crackpots you aren't equipped, trained, or ready for. But back then they had been a team.

Now they were just awkward.

Resting her hands on the marble worktop, Felicity looked at her friend, trying to come up with something good to say, but all that came to her was, "What happened?"

Sara swallowed the sip of coffee and carefully set the mug down onto the counter next to her. Only then did she seem ready to raise her head again and answer the question. "I was rescued by another ship. It belonged to a secret agency. I stayed with them until now."

That sounded so familiar to Felicity. Realization clicked, "You decided to come home."

Something flared in Sara's blue eyes. Her shoulders squared. "I would've never dared to, but then all of a sudden you did it."

Felicity felt like the sentence slapped her in the face. The angry gleam in Sara's eyes told her that that had been the intention. Still, Felicity was too stunned, too shocked to do anything but whisper in realization, "You heard."

Sara nodded. "I thought if you came back after Hong Kong, so could I."

The shock multiplied, freezing the blood in Felicity's veins. Her face hardening, she stared at the other woman, more force creeping into her voice. "You know about Hong Kong?"

With another nod Sara crossed her arms over her chest, shielding herself before adding, "The Triad, Fe. Really?"

Shame filled Felicity, because… yes, that was the darkness she could never shake, the ugly she couldn't cover up, the guilt that weighed her conscious down like lead. But suddenly a totally different thought popped up, shining a light on what was left unsaid. "How do you know about that?"

Instantly, Sara avoided eye-contact, her arms tightened over her chest.

The frozen blood within Felicity started to boil. "You knew where I was?" The expression ghosting over Sara's face told Felicity everything she needed to know. "You let me believe you were dead, for years!"

"It's not that simple," Sara defended. Offense turned into defense within a heartbeat. All accusation left her posture, her voice, chased by a distant hint of pleading.

It was lost on Felicity. Anger had a tight grip on her. It grew along with her volume as she said, "I thought I lost you—again! When it was my idea to get on that boat to begin with. I was so—" The anger tearing at Felicity made her lose her voice. Her hands clenched into fist, balling up at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. For a few forceful heartbeats, feeling like a heavy drum within her, all she could do was stare at the woman she had fought for survival with, who had been like a sister before becoming a stepsister. The betrayal and anger still collecting inside her made her breathe heavily. "You should've let me know you were alive! Instead of judging me!"

"Felicity," Sara openly pleaded, then tried to soften her friend by adding her pre-island nickname, "Fe, it wasn't like that. Really, it wasn't."

Sara took a step toward her, but Felicity stepped back simultaneously, shaking her head, the high ponytail she always sported while jogging swinging behind her. She needed distance. The anger clawing at her was familiar. It made her even more furious and she nearly shook with rage. In a helpless attempt to let off some of the pressure, Felicity's hand swung out and hit the fruit bowl standing on the kitchen island. The delicate glass fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces with a loud burst, apples and oranges rolling over the tiles, spreading out.

Didn't help. At all.

The anger hadn't dissolved. All she had done was fall into her old habits of awful anger management. Felicity tried to control her breathing, get a grip, but she couldn't do that here with Sara standing there, looking at her like that. Forcing out, "I need some air." With heavy steps she headed toward the huge glass doors leading to the grounds. Sara didn't try to stop her.


Oliver Queen was late. He mostly was, because he had a tendency to get lost in his work and his thoughts and forget the time.

Today his lateness was absolutely not his fault. In fact, he had kept a very close eye on the clock, because being late for this wasn't an option.

It wasn't, until Mrs. Smoak-Lance tried to operate her computer.

Reinstalling her audio software had taken Oliver thirty minutes.

Ten minutes late, he ripped the door to the Thai restaurant open. Dark wood greeted him, covering the walls with delicate carvings of flowers and females. Glancing around the room, he searched for a sign of Felicity. She wasn't by the bar. Maybe she was already seated at one of the tables, covered with red tablecloths, embroidered with gold. Oliver didn't know if he wanted her to be there or not. Because as much as he didn't want to have made her wait, he hated the thought of sitting in this fancy restaurant all by himself—only to be potentially stood up.

He had hurried the whole way from Smoak International. It wasn't that far, because he had told Felicity he couldn't drive across town during his lunch break, but the five minute very fast walk was proof that he wasn't exactly in great shape. He was out of breath, a little sweaty, and flustered—which was just not good for a non-date-date with a girl he found… fascinating.

A woman wearing a long, green dress caught his attention, greeting him with a polite smile and a small bow. In his slightly unsettled state he mimicked the bow before he knew what he was doing. He took a deep breath. "Smoak," he said, since Felicity had reserved the table.

The hostess spared him from having to say anything else with another smile. "Yes, Miss Smoak is already here. Please, this way."

He followed her to a quiet table in the back of the restaurant, away from the windows, shielded from most prying eyes. Oliver always enjoyed sitting by the windows in restaurants (or burger joints, or whatever), getting some natural light, being able to glance outside, but he could imagine why Felicity Smoak preferred secluded privacy. She glanced up from her phone when the hostess neared her table; she looked relieved.

"I'm sorry," Oliver said quickly, sinking down on the chair opposite her. "Something came up at work."

"It's okay," Felicity sent him a smile that looked a little pressed to Oliver; it was just the barest lifting of the corners of her mouth, no traces of it visible in her serious eyes. The waiter replaced the hostess, handing them menus, and nodding to their request of "Just a water, please". Nodding, the waiter slipped away.

Hiding behind his menu, Oliver realized that he hadn't properly greeted her—belatedly he was kind of glad about his lacking manners, because he didn't have the slightest idea what an appropriate greeting was: a handshake was too formal and a hug much too personal. He decided that simply plopping down in his chair was probably impolite but the best option to start a casual lunch meeting between two not-yet-friends.

"I think I'll try the Kaeng khiao wan," Felicity stated and the way she pronounced the Asian words made him look at her over his menu. That sounded very… legit. Not at all how he'd say it, but probably how it was supposed to be said.

Noticing that she had noticed his staring, he hurried to say, "What's that?"

"Coconut curry with green chili."

He contemplated that choice. "No, doesn't sound like me."

"It's very good if you like spicy food."

"Oh, you've eaten here before?"

For the barest moment Felicity hesitated. "Yes."

"So, what can you recommend?" Oliver placed his attention back on the menu. "Something not too spicy."

"Try the chicken curry."

"Sold." Without any further thought, Oliver closed his menu just as the waiter returned with their waters. Felicity ordered for both of them and then reached for her glass.

Oliver couldn't help but feel like something was different, off. Felicity seemed distracted, like she might be here physically but not mentally. Maybe, Oliver reasoned, she regretted inviting him to lunch, being seen with a slightly sweaty, out-of-shape guy. Or, maybe, she was mad at him for making her wait.

He cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry. There was a last minute computer problem." In an effort to lighten the mood he said, "I should add 'personal computer fixer of Mrs. Smoak-Lance' to my job title." Realizing that this might not sound too good to the daughter of Mrs. Smoak-Lance, he hurried to add, pushing up his glasses, "Happily, I mean."

Finally a real smile showed on her face. Before she had been faking, just lifting of the corners of her mouth, but this was a smile that made his heart beat faster. Her shining eyes rested on him. "I doubt it."

Deciding it was safer not to comment any further on all of that, he chose to switch directions. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm transferring to a new department. Applied Computer Sciences. I'm really excited about that."

"That's great," she said sincerely, "congratulations."

"Thanks." He smiled.

"So," she sat stiffly in her chair, "tell me about your new job."

He opened his mouth to inform her in great detail about the wonders he planned on coding in the name of technological process when another thought hit him. He smirked. "Look at you, nailing the small-talk. That was a nine out of ten."

"Come on! That's worth ten out of ten."

"No," he objected, "because you've opened up the potential for a long rant about stuff you don't care about."

"Maybe I care about it when you say it," she challenged.

A flutter rushed through Oliver's chest. She had just said that, hadn't she? It left him kind of speechless, but luckily Felicity kept on talking.

"I think the main problem might be that I won't understand a thing."

Maybe he had read too much into that sentence, Oliver realized—it was a very disappointing realization. He nodded. "That's why I keep from telling people about that stuff. It drags any conversation down."

She nodded understanding. He could practically see her dig her brain for an answer to keep the conversation going, and he could see her failing. Oliver realized that his attempt to hide the level of his nerdy-ness from her had backfired. His determination not to drag the conversation down had killed it. She looked somewhat lost and reached for her water again, sending him another one of those fake, barely there smiles, and suddenly the feeling that there was something off about her was back. He couldn't place it, couldn't name it. He didn't know her well enough to do either, but it was a suspicion tugging at the edge of his consciousness.

He gathered all his courage and asked, "Felicity, are you okay?"

Surprised, for a moment she simply looked at him and, finally, the stiff tension left her body. She shrunk on her seat, her shoulders slumping forward a little. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not very good company today. I mean, I guess I'm mostly not, but today is worse."

"Why?"

"It's a family thing."

"Oh." Now it was him straightening up. Yeah, that was probably something she didn't want to discuss with her mother's personal computer fixer. And he didn't have the slightest idea what to say to that—he wasn't really good with the emotional stuff. His ex, McKenna, had reminded him of that very often until she had accepted the new job in Gotham's Police Department. The only comforting thing he could think of to say to Felicity was lame, but for the lack of better options, he said it anyway. "I'm sure it'll be okay."

Her answer was a nod and silence. Her pale blue eyes rested on him. There was something visible in them Oliver couldn't place and he didn't have the slightest idea what she was thinking. How could he? He didn't know her and what he knew turned her into an even greater mystery, but somehow it angered him that he couldn't read her better in this situation.

He was about to offer to tell her about his new position in the ACSD, just to get a conversation going, when she leaned forward in her seat. "Do you know who Sara Lance is?"

Oliver swallowed; everybody in Starling City knew. There wasn't a rock big enough to live under not to know. He nodded.

Felicity's tongue darted out to wet her upper lip (and he needed to stop noticing that!). "She's alive."

"What?" He blinked. "But she was on that boat with you."

Felicity nodded. "I thought she was dead. For years. I was sure she died. And then she rings our doorbell last night." Her eyes snapped to his and he saw how sincere she was about her next words, "And it's good that she isn't dead. Of course. Very good. But this whole thing's thrown me for a loop—and I just realized that it's really inappropriate to dump all this on you."

"I don't mind," Oliver said and found that he honestly meant it.

"That's good, because being inappropriate with you seems to be my thing." She gave a little jerk of her head, closing her eyes for an instant. "As proven by that sentence."

Oliver bit back a smile because she was so distraught that smiling seemed… inappropriate. "Your stepfather must be happy," Oliver offered to get back to the topic at hand.

"Yes," she smiled, emotion softening her face. "Very."

He returned the smile, but turned serious quickly. "Where was she all those years?"

"She didn't say last night and this morning we—" A certain sadness seemed to take over, but she fought it back, squaring her shoulders again. "One would think we'd bond over returning from the dead. Turns out we really didn't. And it's my fault."

"Why?"

She scratched her forehead, uneasily. "I—" She searched for words, settling for, "I didn't want to talk."

"I think you should," Oliver offered. "You both came back from the dead. That's a lot to deal with. I'm sure you both just need time. Plus, she might be the only one who can grasp what you went through on that island."

"Yes," she said carefully. "That's true." They fell silent, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. He could sense Felicity mulling his words over in her head and it was actually kind of nice that she considered his advice with such seriousness.

This time when she looked up and their eyes met, he was sure he saw honest appreciation in them. "Thank you for listening to me."

"Of course. I'm thankful that you trust me with such personal things."

She smiled, honestly. "You're really good with the emotional stuff, Oliver."

He didn't get to answer as the waiter stepped to their table, serving food, but he honestly thought that that last sentence was the most outrageous thing she had ever said to him.