I know I say it all the time but I don't think it will ever be enough: thank you very much for being amazing and so supportive. I'm so delighted that so many of you enjoy this story—and that some of you enjoy it enough to suggest it for an award. The Guide to Vigilantism is nominated in The Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards—and the Vegas-fic, too, which is even more breathtaking. Thank you very much. It's amazing, you're amazing.
Albiona, thank you for everything—but with regards to this chapter: thank you for the little tweaks that make all the difference and things just better. *hug*
And now… time for a party—even if it's a stiff one. Enjoy!
What's with the fancy-fancy?
Workaholism had never been Oliver's goal.
In high school and at M.I.T., Oliver had always worked hard. He studied for tests and exams, he did his homework methodically. Every project, club, and extracurricular got his full attention. Oliver Queen didn't believe in half-assing things. When he put his mind on something, he wanted it to be perfect. He liked solving problems and puzzles and sometimes he had the tendency to get lost in them.
All of that was rooted in interest, in fascination with a topic, in the desire to improve his skills and further his knowledge. It wasn't based on the need for money or power. Oliver didn't want to work 80-hour weeks for the sake of feeling important and irreplaceable, he didn't want self-worth to come from his work, only to suffer a stroke or a heart attack by the age of 55, or to burn out and realize he never spent one Sunday afternoon with his family. Smoak International employed quite a lot of those kinds of suited worker bees. During his time in the IT Department, Oliver had met them in their natural habitat quite often. And in the Legal Department and Accounting. They were probably real assets to SI, but Oliver couldn't help but wonder if they really liked what they were doing. Oliver also wondered if he had it all wrong by considering joy a factor in his work life.
And then he transferred to the Advanced Computer Science Department.
The ACS crew consisted of four other people plus their supervisor Harold Adler. Harold didn't have any leadership experience, he mostly evaded eyes while talking and he was absolutely unable to explain his ideas to people not educated in his field. Still—Harold was the best boss Oliver could imagine. He was a genius in the literal and actual sense. Everybody educated in the field, understanding the terms he threw around all the time, realized his genius instantly. Harold had designed and built his own keyboard to operate with only one hand—and it was a masterpiece. Making this man in his early fifties, who had been born with only one arm, head of ACSD was further proof of Mrs. Smoak-Lance's tendency to boldly go where no CEO had gone before. And to end up with great results.
All six people working at SI's newest department were qualified for and excited about the opportunities offered to them. They wanted to shape the venture, turning SI into a serious player in the field. They had been honestly giddy when Oliver had shown them the coded fragment based on the Arrow's security software (even though they obviously didn't know about the Arrow-involvement), seeing its potential and jumping on the chance to actually turn that into something. It felt like real teamwork, with people he liked and valued, and for the first time ever, Oliver looked forward to going to work.
But none of that made him bury himself in his work. He didn't mind adding an extra hour or two, but he also enjoyed calling it a night and driving to the Glades to spend the next hours with two woman he liked (even if he liked one of them in a different way than the other).
He enjoyed that, even if it meant sitting alone in the Factory, listening to people shooting at those women via com-connection. Even if that meant watching Felicity sew up a deep gash on her best friend's arm because Sara hadn't taken cover fast enough. The Mayor had been arrested (SCPD found him and his lieutenants in a house at Adams and O'Neil, tightly bound, and surrounded by evidence) and the team had gone out to celebrate with a Big Belly burger before Felicity and Oliver caught the midnight showing of the new James Bond (Felicity was completely unfazed by the fact that Bond is blonde now. For a woman so good with details she failed to see the significance of that.)
All things considered, he'd had an almost perfect night. (Sara getting injured was the only damper, really.)
The bottom-line of all that was a simple fact: Oliver Queen was happy with his life, with his work, with this routine that held just enough unpredictability.
Being called up to the top floor to have a look at Mrs. Smoak-Lance's computer, on the other hand, wasn't part of that. It was part of his more miserable work life that he's thought he'd left behind. He didn't feel like re-visiting it, because during the last month Mrs. Smoak-Lance had gone from exclusively being his boss to mostly being the mother of the woman he was spending his evenings with. Nothing good could come from the upcoming meeting, Oliver knew. It was a really crappy way to start his workweek.
Using the mirrored wall of the elevator, he fixed his tie. It was a little crinkled, because as of five minutes ago it had been stored in the bottom drawer of his desk. Ties weren't mandatory while working at the ACSD, but Harold had insisted they each have one handy… just in case. Oliver's reflection showed him that he had to improve his storing method to avoid wrinkles. And he still hadn't shaved. He had slept in this morning, forcing him to skip his trip to the gym and his stop at the coffee shop around the corner. Considering that, the scruff on his jaw had been the least of his problems—until now.
He sighed and the elevator stopped at its destination. The doors opened, revealing Gerry Conway waiting for him in the hall. Seeing the EA greet him with a smirk, Oliver said, "And here I thought my time as Mrs. Smoak-Lance's personal computer fixer was up."
The smirk on Gerry's face grew. "Is that your way of saying you missed me?"
"No." Oliver exited the elevator and felt the need to soften his very honest answer. "But go with it if it works for you."
Gerry chuckled. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance is waiting." He let his eyes trail over Oliver, walking next to him down the hall. A small smile played around the EA's lips and it left Oliver slightly uneasy, forcing himself not to bring his hand to his unshaven face or to fruitlessly try flattening his tie once more. Wordlessly the two men headed toward the glass office. As they approached, Mrs. Smoak-Lance got up from behind her desk to greet Oliver. "Mr. Queen." She offered her hand just as Gerry closed the door behind them, giving them privacy. Well, as much privacy as a fishbowl of an office could provide, anyway. "How are you?"
"Good, thank you." They shook hands. Oliver glanced toward her desk. "There's a problem with your computer?"
"No, that thing is fine—for once." She gestured to the sitting area and Oliver felt his hands get a little clammy. Uneasily, he sank down on the black leather chair opposite Mrs. Smoak-Lance.
Her smile didn't do anything to ease his worries. Neither did her next words, "Gerry suggested citing a computer problem to be more discreet. I hear the rumors are bad enough already."
Oliver pressed his lips together, struggling for an appropriate answer. The woman fixing him intently beneath her gaze was his boss's boss and his… plus one's mother, and Oliver didn't want to get on her bad side in either function. He sat ramrod straight in the chair, forcing himself to go with plausible deniability. "I don't pay much attention to rumors, Mrs. Smoak-Lance."
"That's a very good attitude," she complimented.
Her hands rested in her lap. Her legs folded neatly to the side, her blonde hair and her blue business suit impeccable, Mrs. Smoak-Lance looked and sounded entirely relaxed. Oliver studied her, trying to figure out who he was talking to, the CEO or the mother, hating the blurred lines and his awkward nervousness. He didn't know which version of Mrs. Smoak-Lance he wanted to talk to less. Or more. Or at all.
"Felicity told me you'll accompany her to our fundraiser."
Oliver nodded and forced himself to add words. "Yes, she asked me to."
"It's a very formal event. I asked Gerry to schedule an appointment with our tailor. He expects you today at five. It's a little last minute, but he assured me he'd get it done."
"Get what done?"
"Your suit. For the fundraiser."
"I have a suit." Oliver felt the need to clarify that. Because he did: he owned a suit. He had bought it for his M.I.T. graduation ceremony and it had been expensive (by his standards, anyway). He had worn it to his mother's second wedding, too, and to Thea's graduation, and he had planned on wearing it at the fundraiser. His defenses flared up without him being able to do anything about it, his back straightened even more. "I will wear a suit, Mrs. Smoak-Lance," he said, his voice probably harsher than was wise. "I know what's expected." He could have left it at that, but his insecurities kicked in higher gear before he could really register them. "I'll shave, iron my tie. I won't embarrass you or your daughter."
Mrs. Smoak-Lance's eyes rested on him; silently, she watched him until she scooped forward in her chair, closer to him. "Okay, real talk. I'm saying this to Oliver, the guy my daughter's seeing. I am saying this as Donna Lance, a woman married to a wonderful man—a hardworking, honest, grounded man who's confident and self-assured anywhere—except places where hors d'oeuvres are served. So let that woman tell you, Oliver: as soon as you enter the gala with Felicity, people will stare at you. They will judge you and they will disapprove, because that's more fun. You're entering a battlefield. And you go to battle in armor—and the right armor for the fundraiser is an expensive tux, tailor-made, fitted to bring out your broad shoulders. That's why you'll go to the appointment Gerry made. You'll be perfectly on time, do everything the tailor tells you, and let me pay for a tux and a suit. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Oliver's heart was beating heavily. He felt caught, chided, and also cared about in the strangest way. And it was a weird combination leaving him uneasy and speechless. He swallowed heavily, longing to flee from this office. "I'll talk to Gerry about the details."
He moved to get up, but Donna Lance stopped him. "Oliver," she said, keeping him in his seat. "As somebody married to a hardworking, honest, good man, I'm glad to find that I passed the appreciation of such qualities on to my daughter." She fixed him with a somewhat softer gaze for a moment. Oliver met her eyes, reduced to looking at the woman opposite him, unable to come up with a reaction to the off-handed compliment that was a surprise in the best way. With a sharp nod, Donna Smoak-Lance ended the connection. Getting up from her seat, she indicated that this conversation was over.
Oliver followed her lead and offered his hand. "Thank you," he said with emphasis, trying to express all the different things he was thanking her for.
The gleam in her eyes told him she understood. She shook his hand. "I look forward to seeing you on Saturday, Mr. Queen." She held on to his hand. "And I personally think that designer stubble suits you quite well." She let go of his hand and smiled. "Have a good day."
He needed his baby sister—and he wasn't the least bit ashamed about it.
Thea Queen was the best pep-talker Oliver Queen knew. And right now Oliver needed a pep-talk. Oliver needed somebody to pull him out of his own head and away from the panicked scenarios he had retreated to.
The familiar sounds coming from his laptop's speakers told him Skype was trying to create a connection. Luckily, it didn't take long for his sister's face to appear on his screen. A towel piled up on her head hid her brown locks. She wore a fluffy yellow bathrobe and had a make-up tube in hand. Knowing his sister, Oliver realized he had interrupted her pre-clubbing ritual. He glanced at the clock. It was only six-thirty, way too early for Thea to get ready to go out. He raised his eyebrows. "Hot date?"
"No," Thea answered, "frat party. I was told we have to be there early or stay sober."
"Sober partying? God! The horror." Oliver tried to keep his voice light and teasing, but the knot in his stomach kept him from sounding believable.
"Exactly," Thea smirked, doing light and teasing perfectly. "What's with the fancy-fancy?" She gestured toward the camera.
"I'm going out," he answered and added, "With Felicity."
"Yeah, I figured since you've been dating her for weeks." The image of Thea shook as she picked up her laptop. "Where are you going? The opera?"
"Fundraiser. To meet Starling's one percent. I need you to tell me it's going to be fine."
"It's going to be fine." Thea sank down on her bed, laying down on her front, upper body propped up, looking at the screen. "I'm serious. You're going to be fine."
"I don't feel fine." Fumbling with his cufflinks, Oliver tugged at his white dress shirt. He stood in his living room, looking at his laptop on the breakfast bar, shifting his weight. "Mrs. Smoak-Lance said people would judge me, Thea. She said people would disapprove for the fun of it. That's why she paid for this tux, called it armor. And I'm freaking out. I'm just a guy from Vegas in a tux paid for by his boss and Felicity's going to—"
"She going to really appreciate you in that tux," Thea cut in. The teasing mood gone, her serious glance reached him through the internet connection. "Ollie, take a deep breath and sit down."
"I can't. I'll crinkle the suit."
"Wow." Thea huffed. "Freak-out, much? Ollie, since when do you care what other people say about you? You never did and you shouldn't start now. It doesn't matter what these strangers think just because they have money."
"This isn't my world, Thea. I don't belong there."
"Okay, you're lucky you're there and I'm here, because otherwise I'd slap you." She sighed. "If you're so freaked out, why did you agree to go?"
"Because Felicity asked me. Unlike her mother, she made it sound like it wasn't a big deal, like it was lame. She mentioned good food and classical music and said I'm the only one she wants to be her plus one. And I like being her plus one."
"Then be her plus one."
Great. Oliver pressed his lips together and glared at his sister. She wasn't helping him at all by reciting his words back at him.
Thea sent him a look of her own. "I mean," she clarified, "go there with Felicity, eat good food, listen to classical music, and ignore the rest. It's what you're there for. You're there with Felicity: she's on your side, she thinks you belong there. And apparently so does her mother. After all she paid for your tailored armor—which is looking pretty good. I mean as good as you can look, anyway."
The last sentence was typical of his sister; it was also meant as a teasing mood lifter. It worked. That and everything Thea said before made him inhale deeply, the truth of her words ringing in his ears. He nodded, affirmed. And he managed to bring a smirk to his face, some of his nerves dissolving, his spirit feeling a bit lighter. He opened his black tux jacket, presenting what was underneath to the laptop camera and his sister. "I'm wearing suspenders, because you can't wear a belt with a tux."
"I think you're wearing them wrong. The old fart from across the street always wears suspenders and his pants are way up higher than yours." Thea winked.
Amused, Oliver shook his head. He was about to show her the new shoes he bought for the occasion when his doorbell sounded. He flinched and his eyes snapped to the door. His nerves flared instantly—but now it was too late to back out. Standing Felicity up was unthinkable. He took a steadying breath. "Time to go," he told his sister and added a heartfelt, "Thank you."
"Anytime, Ollie." She gave him a fond smile. "You're gonna be fine. Have fun. I want details tomorrow."
He promised to call and tell her everything she wanted to know. After a hurried goodbye, Oliver raced to the speaker, letting Felicity's driver know he'd be right down.
The black Bentley parked in front of his building and made Oliver's nerves flare up again. This wasn't anything like the casual dates he'd shared with Felicity; being stared at in a movie theatre had been bad enough. He tightened his hands into fist as he headed toward the car, the driver in a blue uniform moving to open the door for him.
Meeting Felicity's eyes through the opening door, seeing the gleam visible there match her beautiful smile, chased all negative thoughts away.
"Hey," she greeted, scooting over.
"Hey," he answered and slid into the backseat next to her. The driver closed the door. Oliver leaned in and pecked Felicity's cheek, not daring to kiss her lips, colored a brilliant red, in fear of ruining her makeup. "You look beautiful," he said softly and meant it wholeheartedly. Her blonde hair flowed around her face in big waves, the black dress she wore had a high collar and long sleeves, but the flared skirt was short, showing off her perfect legs, contrasting her ridiculously high red heels.
"Thank you," she said, just as the driver got behind the steering wheel. "You look very handsome yourself." She reached for his bowtie. "Like a blonde James Bond." Her eyes sparkled as they met his. "I hear that's a thing now."
A breath full of amusement escaped him, but before he could say something, Felicity reached for his hand and gave a slight squeeze. "Are you okay?"
"I'm nervous." The answer was past his lips before he could really contemplate it—and only as he said it did he realize that most if the nervous energy making his stomach turn had vanished the moment he had seen her.
Felicity tightened her hand around his. "I promise you—five minutes with Starling City's elite and all you will be is bored." She sent him a look that was a silent promise. "Don't worry. We got this."
He nodded, remembering his sister's words and grasping how true they were: all that mattered was Felicity being by his side. Who cared who else was there?
There was a string quartet. There always was a string quartet. Playing Haydn. Of course, they were playing Haydn, the inventor of the string quartet. Next up would be Beethoven. Mozart, too. Probably some Schubert. Oh, and there was the polished marble giving the whole gathering an even colder atmosphere and a hollow sound. There were the waiters making rounds with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, the high tables covered with white tablecloths, the over-done flower-arrangements and the well-dressed, bejeweled people clustering, waiting for the signal to flood the adjoining room and see how close they were seated to the hosts for dinner.
It was strangely comforting that the rules of such social gatherings hadn't changed in the previous five years.
They were rules Felicity knew by heart. But Oliver didn't, Felicity reminded herself. The people waiting for them on the marble floor three steps below didn't faze her, didn't matter to her. They couldn't blind her with expensive smiles and jewelry. Felicity had grown up among them, knew them and their tricks, knew everything that money couldn't buy for them. Making an appearance like this, making the rounds was a chore forced upon her since she was a young girl.
But this was Oliver's first time. (God, she had to make sure she didn't phrase it like that out loud.) He had never been to such an event, and she knew that tonight equaled pushing him into the deep end. But she would make sure he'd keep his head above the water. Far above it. She'd guide him through this, turn this into an at least a decent experience for him.
Felicity's hand rested in the crook of Oliver's elbow, closing in a comforting gesture, as they walked down the stairs leading to the ballroom. The buzz of voices mixing with the music didn't falter, but the tone changed, turning a bit more hushed, a bit more heated, while eyes followed them through the room. She brought her other hand to Oliver's arm, too, adding a gentle squeeze.
They made their way over the polished floor across the room. She was glad Oliver was here with her, she wanted him by her side—while she wished he didn't have to be. She could feel his uneasiness and discomfort. She couldn't fault him for either: nothing about this was easy or comfortable. But it was a public outing, it was a statement—one she wanted to make and maybe people would get the message.
She leaned in to him, making him bow his head to her slightly. "Anybody who gives you a hard time will have to answer to me."
The corners of his mouth ticked upward, but he was too tense to actually smile. "Will you be with or without your hood?" he whispered back.
"Your choice." She winked.
Together they took the last steps to Donna and Quentin Lance. The spouses stood nearly in the center of the room. The Chief of Starling City's fire department (the uniform was unmistakable) and his wife excused themselves with polite pleasantries.
"Mom," Felicity let go of Oliver's arm to greet her mother with a hug.
"Felicity," Donna Smoak-Lance smiled and Felicity could tell how happy her mother was to see her from how tightly she wrapped her arms around her. "You're on time," Donna said, surprised. Yes, that was new. Before the island Fe Smoak had turned being fashionably late into an art form.
Letting go of her daughter, Donna sent Oliver a small smile. "Mr. Queen, always good to see you."
Oliver was all stiff tension, but he was trying. He shook the CEO's hand. "Please," he said, following a suggestion Felicity had made in the car, "call me, Oliver."
The smile on Donna's face turned brighter. She nodded and reached for her husband's shoulder. "My husband Quentin Lance. The mastermind behind this fundraiser."
The detective snorted. "No, you can't blame all this on me. I suggested a donation, you turned it into this hoo-ha." He grabbed Oliver's hand in a firm grip and said, his voice equally firm. "Quentin Lance. I'm a police detective," his eyes jerked to Felicity, "so you better not do anything stupid."
"Yes, sir." The words practically flew from Oliver's lips.
Donna gave her husband a look that was part annoyance and part amusement. "I see the evening's off to a great start," she said, teasingly. Something behind Felicity caught Donna's attention. Her face fell visible and she added in a hushed tone, "And it's about to take turn for the worse. Starling's biggest gossip is on approach."
"Oh," Quentin said a bit louder than usual. "There's the Police Commissioner. I probably should—" His sentence not even finished, he hurried away from the group.
"Traitor," Donna hissed after her husband, but already had a fake smile in place to greet the small woman appearing next to Oliver. "Doris, how good to see you." The women kissed the air left and right to each other's faces. The woman was in her early fifties, impeccably styled in classic Chanel, accessorizing with big chunky earrings dangling past her neatly cut bob. Donna gestured to her. "Felicity, you remember Doris van Sutton, don't you? Her husband's the director of Starling City Bank—and she's the life of every party."
Doris giggled, delighted.
Felicity faked remembrance. "Of course, Mrs. van Sutton."
"Dear," Doris said, her voice a bit theatric, "it's so good to see you again. The news of your return left us overjoyed. My son Gregory's especially looking forward to seeing you, but sadly he's in South America on a business trip."
Unlike his mother, Felicity remembered Gregory van Sutton perfectly—the pompous ass. "Oh, I haven't seen Greg since our trip to Aspen." Where he puked all over the Smoak family's snowmobile—after being neither invited nor welcome in the first place.
"He works too hard and doesn't have time for spontaneous short trips anymore. He really grew up. We're so proud. Sadly, that leaves little time to find a suitable wife," Doris said and instantly zoned in on Oliver. "I'm sorry," she stated, clearly not sorry at all, "I didn't catch your name."
"Oh, of course," Donna cut in, "Doris, this is Oliver Queen, Felicity's boyfriend."
Involuntarily, Felicity stiffened and felt Oliver grow equally rigid next to her. A hot sensation rushed through Felicity. 'Boyfriend.' The word seemed to hang in the air between them, demanding attention, explanation, clarification. Felicity felt words gather at the tip of her tongue to add to her mother's so natural use of the label they hadn't officially added yet. But at the same time, Felicity didn't know what to say, how to correct her mother. Because: what other label made sense? How else could she name what Oliver was to her? Scrambling for words, Felicity realized that her mother had summed up their relationship status perfectly. The hot sensation rushing through her left a tingle behind, a certain happy excitement that made it impossible for Felicity to deny it to herself: she enjoyed the idea of Oliver being her boyfriend. She liked the idea of introducing him like that, of people knowing they weren't just here together, but that they were together—here and everywhere else.
The moment of silence following Donna's statement lasted a second too long and was about to turn awkward when the rigidness fell off Oliver. He tipped his head to the brunette studying him calculatingly. "Mrs. van Sutton, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Doris raised a calculating eyebrow. "Are you related to the Coast City Queens?"
"No," Oliver answered. "Not to my knowledge." He sounded very collected, entirely unfazed by the horrible woman visibly scrutinizing him, wondering how he could be a better catch than her son. Pride filled Felicity and she slipped her hand in Oliver's in a silent connection.
"Good for you," Doris stated. "James Queen's a drunk. Wastes his money on promiscuous women and overpriced booze." She sent Donna a glance. "You don't want those genes in your family." Her eyes snapped back to Oliver. "What's your father's first name?"
"Robert, ma'am."
"Never heard of him. Are you from the East Coast?"
"No."
"Oliver's family is from Vegas," Felicity clarified, in hopes to shut this woman up.
Of course, it didn't. Instead, it caused Doris to frown. "Las Vegas?" Felicity could practically see images of the sunset strip, gambling, and whatever else she deemed inappropriate about that city play in front of her inner eyes. The brunette fixed Oliver with a hard glare, asking with a voice full of suspicion, "What does your father do?"
"Last time I saw him he was leaving to buy cigarettes." Oliver met Doris' eyes. "What he's been up to since then… I can't tell you."
Doris mouth opened without any words escaping.
Felicity couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy the sight, the shock on the woman's face whose questions and statements had been much more outrageous than anything Oliver had said. She tightened her hold on Oliver's hand.
Donna visibly bit back a smile, too. But her voice was calm and apologetic, "Doris, I have to steal them for a moment. The Castles just arrived and I want Felicity and Oliver to meet Celina."
The surprise on the brunette's face switched from shock to disbelief. "You're supporting her?"
"We are," Donna confirmed. "Quentin and I believe she'll be a great mayor." Stopping Doris before she could say anything else, she reached for Felicity's arm and stepped back. "We'll talk later."
Felicity was glad to leave that woman and that conversation behind. Both came with something she definitely hadn't missed during her time away: the judgment poorly masked by basic politeness, the calculation underneath practiced phrases, the narrow-mindedness justified as tradition. Doris van Sutton was the kind of person to whore her son out to further her status and get access to the Smoak family's money. Felicity felt a strange satisfaction that that woman now knew that Oliver Queen, son of the Vegas Queens with an absentee father, was closer to the Smoak family's connections and money than her well-bred, overworking son. Not that Felicity believed Oliver cared about her family's status, but Doris cared and that made all of this really sweet.
Oliver's hand closing around her own brought Felicity out of her silent musing. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I said I wouldn't embarrass you. But that was inappropriate."
"Are you crazy?" Felicity looked up at him, stunned. "That was perfect."
"It was," Donna agreed and Felicity felt Oliver's grip relax around her hand. Donna looked at Oliver. "If you can handle that woman, the rest of the night will be a piece of cake."
The metaphorical cake wasn't the tastiest one, but it wasn't the worst either. Sitting at one of the circular tables in the dinner room, the ceiling dotted with the chandeliers high above her, the white tablecloth freckled with red wine, Felicity couldn't help but think that the last four hours had gone rather well. Oliver sat next to her, finally more relaxed, taking a sip of the Scotch he had ordered after Felicity had told him he deserved a treat to celebrate surviving his first official Starling City function. She placed her hand on his thigh, bringing his attention away from the string quartet that had switched rooms after dinner. She smiled at him. "So. You're my boyfriend."
"It appears that I am."
"Do we need to…" Felicity waved her hand through the air, "talk about that?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"If you're my girlfriend, too."
"I'd like to think that I am."
"Good, then there's nothing left to talk about."
A soft laugh escaped Felicity. "Good." She tightened her hand on Oliver's leg and brought her face closer to his.
To Felicity's surprise, Oliver leaned away. She was even more surprised to find insecurity in his eyes. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Is public kissing okay? I mean this is a very fancy event an—"
"Oliver, it's okay to kiss your girlfriend at this fancy party," she told him. Gently, softly, she touched her lips to his, kissing him tenderly. Parting, a smile danced on her lips. "See," she said teasingly, bringing her thumb up to brush some traces of red from his lips, "perfectly appropriate for all audiences."
He inhaled deeply, nodding his understanding and agreement. They shared a comfortable quiet moment. Oliver ended it by motioning to the musicians. "You said there'd be a string quartet."
"There always is."
"I don't know anything about classical music, but I think this sounds nice."
"That's Beethoven."
Surprised, his eyes snapped back to her.
She shrugged and answered his unasked question. "My dad forced me to play the violin. A good musical education is suitable for girls of my social standing."
Oliver stared at her, then he tilted his head. "Guess you've always had a thing for bows and strings."
A chuckle escaped her. "Guess I have."
She didn't get to say anything else, cut off by Sara letting herself drop onto the seat next to her. "Thank God," Sara sighed, "we have the official okay to leave. I never minded dad marrying your mom—until tonight. This had been the longest four hours of my life—and that includes that stake-out in Siberian winter without auxiliary heating."
"You came an hour late," Felicity reminded her, "and you hid in the ladies room for at least forty-five minutes."
"I couldn't stand people staring at me for one more second." The sentence simply fell from Sara's lips, and she looked unhappy that she'd let it escape.
Felicity had just turned to her friend, digging her brain for something comforting to say (a quip about people always staring at the returned un-dead didn't seem to fit that category) when Sara dismissed everything she knew her friend wanted to say with a wave of her hand. Another sigh followed. "Plus, it was enough time for my dad to lecture me about family quality time. He scheduled a family dinner tomorrow night and made it very clear that you and I, but mostly I, have to be there."
Suddenly Felicity felt a pang of guilt for neglecting her best friend. She had been so focused on Oliver and making sure he was comfortable that he forgot about Sara and this being her first official outing since returning, too. Sara had accompanied Felicity to a few functions like this, enjoying the opportunity to get dressed up and drunk, using it as pre-gaming before switching venues to start the serious partying. None of that had applied tonight—and Felicity should have noticed sooner. "I'll make sure to be there, too," Felicity promised. She caught Sara's eyes, emphasizing, "I will be there."
Thankful, Sara nodded, but their connection only lasted a heartbeat. Avoiding eye contact, Sara put her attention on her black pants. (They were high-wasted with wide, straight legs, combined with the black high heels and the white blouse opened maybe one button too many. Sara looked amazing—Felicity had made sure to tell her that, at least. that) "God, this evening was such a waste."
"Not entirely," Felicity said and gave Oliver a smile. "I think this can count as a good first time." A jerk went through her. She groaned at her own wording. She had been so good until now.
Sara smirked. "Good to know at least you two had a good time."
"I meant it was a good first official outing for Oliver."
He huffed in amusement. "Yes, guess it could have gone worse."
