Summary: Finally, Oliver's first date with his future wife-to-be. Except it's not a date, it's a business lunch. And they're only friends. Except not only does Oliver struggle to hide how he feels about her, but Felicity is a genius and she sees more than he intends her to.

What he hadn't accounted for, however, was the other people. Last time it had been lunch time, a fairly short visit and after he'd been seen in public numerous times. Today is, however, literally the day after his return and TV footage and photos are sparse. He shouldn't be surprised, really.

Right now, sitting beside her in the open space and with limited visibility of people coming and going (all potential threats); everything is just perfectly set to put him on edge. He grimaced at the flimsy plastic barrier protecting his back from vulnerability, the increasingly frequent co-workers passing by and staring into her cubicle – some even using the flimsiest of excuses to talk to Felicity, all so they can step inside the tiny space and instead stare at him. He keeps wincing, grimacing, shifting – sees Felicity's shoulders droop, her head duck, her words fading into a quiet murmur, all signs of a babble absent.

"Look," he starts when her latest female co-worker from several floors away finally leaves (she'd been fluttering her eyes, twirling her hair and given him not-so-subtle signs that she'd be up for some 'welcome-home-sex' – he cringes at the thought that had he still been Ollie, he probably wouldn't have hesitated for very long before following her. Now the only woman he ever wants to kiss, to taste, to make love to, is sitting beside him looking increasingly discomforted), "I clearly need to know this, but I can't say I am currently getting any of it what with all the people dropping by. Sorry about that, by the way. I should have expected it. I would like to propose," he winces the moment the word's out his mouth, eyes pressed shut as he rubs a hand over the bridge of his nose. Exhaling sharply, he opens his eyes and starts again. "Suggest," he corrects, "I would like to suggest that we find elsewhere to do this. I can book one of the meeting rooms or – and this would be my preference – we go somewhere that is not here and talk over coffee. Your call."

There's a smile playing on her lips – has been since his rather unfortunate word choice – and it only takes a moment for her to nod.

"Going out for coffee with you sounds great," she says easily, packing her purse. "Just so long as you confirm with my supervisor that this is company time and I'm not skipping out of work early."

"Promise," he says easily, and her eyes widen.

"Oh – and by going out I didn't mean like a date or anything. I just meant as friends. Friendly acquaintances. Employer and employee. Sitting together. In public. In very platonic circumstances." It's her turn to wince. "Stopping myself in three, two, one."

Oliver barely manages not to chuckle but cannot stop his wide smile. He adores Felicity's babbling. Especially her half-flirtatious subconscious-thoughts babbling and her unintentional innuendos. He can only hope he gets to hear them for an entire lifetime this time around.

"I understand," he reassures her easily, unable to stop himself from resting his hand on her warm shoulder, thumb stroking across it gently. "And I hope we can be friends. At the moment, I only have friends who knew me as Ollie. I… rather prefer the person I've become to the person they remember, no matter how that happened."

There's sorrow in her eyes – but also so much empathy.

"I understand. And… I'd like that. I haven't been in Starling City long yet and haven't found any new friends yet." There's the tiniest of pauses, before she corrects herself. "Not that I'm friendless or unlovable or anything," she babbles, as she gathers her things and shuts down her computer. Her work tablet is easily pushed into her purse as well before she joins him. "I've got a lot of friends, but they're all in Boston and Las Vegas – although two moved to New York, one to Washington and one to Malibu. So, really, I have a lot of friends. All over. Just none of them here."

He laughs lightly, his hand automatically landing on her lower back as he guides her out, ease and familiarity letting make the move before he realises what he's done. It's partly engrained common courtesy from his childhood when Moira insisted, he learn how to be a perfect gentleman, partly for comfort and reassurance and also partly so he can control her movement quickly if there is any danger to protect her when she's so vulnerable and unaware.

"I never thought you unlovable," he promises, forcing his voice to be light as he guides her to the elevator instead of too-earnest and too-loving. "And I could use a few new good friends myself, so I completely understand."

Oliver shrugs easily as he presses the button to close the elevator doors as soon as they're both inside. He doesn't really want to share this small, compressed space with anyone that's not her. His senses are still a bit haywire and on a very, very thin thread. Waking up from a nightmare to find himself choking his own mother didn't help.

"Really?" She asks when the doors are closed. "You?"

He's gratified to find that Felicity turns her head to look at him rather than turning her body or moving away from his hand at her back. Felicity told him off more than once for being overprotective, jealous, caveman-Oliver rather than seeing her as a woman capable of defending herself. On the other hand, however, she loved it when he pulled her chair out for her in a restaurant, held the door for her, opened her side of the car and offered his hand to help her out – or put his hand on the small of her back. Felicity always told him that one made her feel small and weak whereas the other made her feel loved and cherished. He hoped dearly this one fell into the latter category still despite their very brief acquaintance.

Oliver hums in disagreement. "It is easy for me to make friends. Good genetics and being a billionaire – but that's not what I would call friends. They're – well, they're people who want something. Either sell a story to a tabloid, or be given access to my money, or any plethora of things which have very little to do with what I would call being friends."

Felicity nods knowingly as the doors open and they step out into the foyer.

"I don't know if you've heard but I'm good with computers and tech – like, crazy good. I've had more than a few people try to ingratiate themselves with me who were then upset that I wouldn't hack into things for them." She shrugs casually, but Oliver can see the loneliness weighing on her. "That's not my definition of a friend either."

Felicity signs out with security, as does he, before his hand is on her back again and he guides her out, heading towards Jitters.

"A friend is someone you can steal horses with," she tells him firmly just as they step outside.

Oliver is taken by surprise – he doesn't remember her ever saying that one to him before and he cannot help but guffaw, head thrown back and enjoying the sunlight standing on the front steps of Queen Consolidated, his beautiful not-yet-wife at his side, a wide grin on her pink lips, blonde hair glinting blindingly bright. It's so perfect – not that she knows it. But Dig and her are definitely the kind of friends she's describing.

"Steal horses with?" He questions, teasing grin firmly in place, a hand on her back as he pulls her away from the small audience they'd garnered "something you want to share, Ms. Smoak?"

He nearly called her Mrs Queen – he'd loved calling her that, using it with startling frequency post-wedding but he'd loved her old name, too. It had just been a long time since he'd had occasion to use it.

There's a matching wicked grin on her lips as she pulls him towards her current favourite coffee shop – Jitters.

"I don't know if we're good enough friends yet for me to tell you about my secret ranch full of stolen horses," she says mock-seriously, tapping her lips before grinning widely at him.

"Well, I'll have to work hard to be worthy of your secrets, Felicity," he says, eyes a touch too soft and expression too warm, but hoping she will brush it off just like the previous occasions.

Felicity eyes him for a moment longer, a hint of uncertainty and curiosity flitting across her expressive eyes before she gently bumps him with her shoulder.

"It's a German proverb," she confesses. "Means a friend is someone you can rely on to do crazy stupid things with."

Oliver smirks slightly. "Guess Tommy is my best friend for a reason."

It's her turn to laugh. "You must have some great stories, then," she half-suggests, half-demands, and Oliver looks up and tries to recall something not already covered in one of the many newspapers, magazines, online forums or on video.

"Most of it is probably online, to be fair," he confesses after a moment, "but one of the tamer things Tommy and I did was spend several days in the Glades when I was… phew, not sure, somewhere around fifteen years old."

Oliver guides her through the entrance to one of the back tables which will give him an excellent view of the entrance, the employees and far more defensible than the other available options. He helps Felicity out of her jacket and into the chair before taking his own seat, relishing in the slight blush colouring her cheeks and the way she bashfully avoids his eyes at the small courtesies.

"I was a trust fund kid," he admits with a sheepish shrug. "And I was having a big party while my father was overseas, and my mother was due to go away for her own fundraiser. Only one slight snag in my planning – my father had, in a rare moment of foresight, locked his liquor cabinet."

Oliver's lips twitch slightly as Felicity's own grin grows.

"And yeah, could've smashed it, hired someone to break in or a thousand other things. Naturally, that is not what we did. Instead, we paid the pickpockets and, presumably, thieves in the Glades half a fortune for getting us a lock-kit and teaching us how to unlock – and lock – something. Admittedly, I was much more proficient at it than Tommy. But it's come in handy – I don't even know how many times. It's a very good skill to have."

There's a moment before he recalls another memory and finds himself laughing – he'd almost forgotten these things over the years but she'd always been good at making him recall the smaller, the happier moments.

"Tommy found out just how useful the skill was about four years later when we were in New York and he'd gotten himself handcuffed to bed while his date for the evening was robbing him blind."

"No," she breathes, and Oliver nods, grinning widely.

"Oh yes," he assures her, "promise, it's all true. Only reason you didn't find it all over the tabloids is because he escaped on his own."

She giggles and he grins at her for a moment, relishing the light, joyous atmosphere between them. Somewhere, his Felicity is happy with a version of him, he knows that. He likes the idea of building a new relationship with this Felicity, though, and getting to know her all over again.

"You okay if I quickly place our order?" He ends up asking, standing up and she nods, telling him her own order. Oliver puts his hand to cover her own and she stops mid-reaching for her purse – and wallet.

"I've got it," he tells her.

Her eyes narrow. "I can pay for my own drink," she tells him sharply and he smiles at her, helpless to stop himself from adoring her, indignant at his perceived slight or not. She's beautiful and never shies away from pushing back when he crosses a line.

"I know," he reassures her easily. "I, however, have spent five years not spending any of my money. And I am the one who asked you out for coffee. Raisa would slap me if I didn't at least try to persuade you to let me pay." He can see the hesitation written all over her face.

"Please, Felicity," he entreats her softly and watches her gasp slightly, her hand relaxing under his as she lets go of her purse.

He takes it for the silent concession it is. "Thank you," he acknowledges softly.

Before he can press a kiss to her lips or her forehead, or tug her against him, he takes a step back, then two and finally turns around to join the queue at the checkout. Part of his attention is always trained on her, noticing her fumbling with her bag, her jacket, before her eyes land squarely back on him.

There's curiosity in her eyes as she glances at him, admiration when her eyes trail across his torso (he knew wearing the blue slightly tightly fitted shirt would work in his favour today) and confusion.

Oliver knows Felicity is struggling with what to make of him. He's not what people are expecting – what people who remember Ollie expect. Nor what they think of when they hear trust fund kid. Or playboy. On top of that, he's revealing far too much while he's around her – not just in what he says, but also the way he's talking to her, saying her name. Most of all, in the way he looks at her, the way he's always looked at her.

This Felicity doesn't have blinders on when she looks at him, hasn't seen him with other women, hasn't heard him tell her he couldn't be with someone he could really care about. She could – and probably has already seen that his admiration for her is far beyond mere appreciation of her physical appearance. But he never could change the way he looks at her, tries and fails to bring up walls and masks – she just has to look at him and he can hide nothing from her.

He ends up ordering sandwiches and muffins as well, ordering the staff to make sure nothing with nuts goes anywhere near their food and drink and gives a hefty tip (for them, not for a billionaire) in gratitude before joining her back at their table.

"Thank you," she tells him and when he looks confused, she rolls her eyes, nodding towards the counter and he chuckles lightly.

Only Felicity would thank a billionaire for spending a few small dollars on a coffee for her.

"You're welcome," he says, nonetheless.

"So, can I ask, who is Raisa? Because as far as I knew your mother's name is Moira."

"Ah," Oliver acknowledges, leaning back slightly so he can make sure the other nearest occupant is far enough to share this with Felicity without it ending up in tomorrow's newspaper. "Well, you know what they say about rich people," he starts, leaning back closer and focussing all his attention on the beautiful blonde in front of him. "It's unfortunately rather apt. At least for our family. There was a lot of travel to branches and subsidiaries overseas. Or business partners. My mother – Moira – was at a lot of fundraising events, galas, charities and they both were just generally absent. A lot."

He huffs out a breath, thinking for a moment before shaking his head lightly. "In the end, rather cliché, but Raisa did most of the raising for me and Thea. Although I helped a bit with Thea when she younger. Although when I became more of a teenager and wanted my space and my little sister kept trailing me and Tommy everywhere, it got annoying real quick."

He breathes out sharply. "I didn't really always handle it well. I tried to keep my temper in check around Thea, but it alienated me further from my parents because they were raising her the same way they did me – by not being there for large parts of it. And while I'd been sad and lonely when they did with me – now I was angry all the time. Then they send me off to colleges and I kept failing and flunking out partly so I could come back home to Thea. And partly because I had no interest in what they wanted me to study. Or studying in general."

Oliver shrugs. "Not that I was thinking that clearly about my reasons. Before the last five years I spent most of my time in a haze of drugs and drinks and generally poor impulse control, just doing as I pleased for no other reason than that I wanted to. But I've had some time to reflect on my poor life choices since then."

He pauses, blinks when he realised for probably the very first time in both his lifes, Oliver Queen overshared.

He overshared his feelings.

Unprompted.

Wow.

Being married to Felicity really had changed him – but he never really realised how much.

He clears his throat, cheeks flushed, embarrassed and avoiding her eyes as he speaks back up.

"Sorry, you didn't really need to know all of that. Or any of it. The short version is Raisa is our housekeeper, makes our food and generally takes care of the Queen family. In this case, she helped raise a younger me and Thea."

Her hands find his left one at the edge of the table and he can't help but watch as she stretches across the table so she can wrap her tiny, dainty, pale hands around one of his larger ones. Her hands are unscarred, uncalloused – a stark contrast to his own ones, much larger and darkened by the sun, intersected by small, silvery scars. Her hands are soft and warm as they try and encompass his left hand, a perfect representation of everything Felicity was compared to himself – rough, worn, and calloused.

"Hey," she says softly, leaning forward until his eyes are trapped by her own once more. "I liked listening to you telling me about yourself."

Oliver furrows his brows, eyes flitting around her face, trying to discern her tells, to see if she is lying to make him feel better about his own momentary word vomit.

"Really?" He asks and she nods easily.

"I promise. I mean, don't feel like you have to, but I really like hearing about you. And, I mean, if we're going to be friends who steal horses together," there's a smile playing at her lips now as she looks up at him uncertainly, "then we really should get to know each other better."

Oliver relaxes.

"You're absolutely right, we should."

Before he can ask Felicity about sharing a childhood story, their food and drinks are brought to them and he tries – and fails – to hide his smile at her wide eyes when she finds the amount laid out on their table.

"Is this all for us?" She hisses at him under her breath as if the staff somehow wouldn't hear her despite them standing just beside their table with the platters.

"Yes," Oliver says to both and leans back so the employee can place the food on their table. Felicity's eyes are still wide, but she taps the waiter on the shoulder before they can leave to fetch their drinks.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I've got a severe nut allergy. Is this-"

"Oh, don't worry about it, Miss. Your boyfriend already warned us – everything here was prepared separately and safely."

The staff member smiles widely, nodding, and leaves to collect their drinks – and Oliver finds himself confronted by a very suspicious Felicity.

"So… How did you know I have a nut allergy?" She asks and Oliver opens his mouth only to snap it shut again.

"I-… Your… HR file?"

It is a rather sad attempt, he knows, but what else can he say. That she told him? Yeah, no. But he doesn't want to lie either, which makes the situation rather complicated.

"Really," she repeats disbelievingly, "you're going with my nut allergy being written in my HR file?"

He winces.

"…yes?" he attempts, but even to himself it sounds more like a question than an answer.

"Why are you lying to me? How do you know about my nut allergy?" Her brows are furrowed as she stares at him, refusing to touch either the food or her drink, suspicious as she takes him in again, this time with a far more clinical gaze rather than admiration, as if trying to spot him as a liar – or stalker.

"I promise," Oliver says, "I will never lie to you."

It will be one of his more difficult promises to keep, because, frankly, his life has always been riddled with lies – small ones to larger ones.

But it's one of the easiest, too, because it's Felicity. And the alternative is losing her – and that was never an option, and never will be.

"I did not read it in your HR file. I don't know if it's in your HR file, to be honest, or if it even would be. Doesn't seem like something an employer would keep track of."

Oliver hopes she can see his earnestness, read his honesty in his face, his body, despite only knowing her for less than an hour.

Felicity's eyes are fastened on his but after a few moments she leans back, exhaling slightly.

"It's fine. I knew you were a mystery." She shrugs, but her eyes are still on him, more analytical than admiring, gauging the way he reacts to her – the way his shoulders slump in relief, the way his face slackens, softens, the way he can't help but react to her.

"What do you mean?" He asks hesitantly, not sure if he wants to know the answer but watching her with avid curiosity as she finishes a bite of one of the sandwiches, eyes still on him.

"You just are." She says easily, brows furrowed. "The way you talk to me, the way you look at me, the things you share with what should be a complete stranger but then you know things which a complete stranger shouldn't." Oliver winces. Yes, definitely terrible at this. He knew he hadn't been truly covert, but he hadn't realised just how bad he was.

"Don't worry," she reassures him, her voice and eyes softer again, "I'm not gonna press you on it. It makes no sense, and I really shouldn't, especially considering I met you like an hour ago, but… I trust you. I feel like I can trust you." She breathes in deeply, offering him a half-smile. "Plus: mysteries bug me and they are not half as satisfying if you don't figure them out yourself."

He chuckles, the last of his tension draining from him.

"You can trust me," he promises, "I will do my best to never let you down."

"See?" Felicity says, pointing her spoon, still dripping slightly with coffee, at him. "There it is again – way too earnest and laden with meaning..." She looks at him, eyes narrowed, head tilted, before continuing slowly, "meaning I'm not quite sure I'm getting."

She shakes her head. "Mystery," she mumbles, slightly forcefully, before sending him another glance. "I will figure you out, Mister."

Felicity is stunningly beautiful and clever and so, so very much herself.

He can't help that his smile softens, his eyes warm and he wants nothing more than to tell her just how much he adores this part of her, how much he loves her. Oliver knows she's seen it, read him, understood it, when she blushes, her eyes wide and shuffles in her seat, refusing to drop her gaze and lose sight of what is written all over his face.

But, true to her word, she doesn't press, and he doesn't explain. They just – sort of move on with their impromptu lunch on the silent understanding that billionaire Oliver Queen is helplessly in love with Felicity Smoak within an hour of officially meeting her.

"So, childhood stories," she starts, trying to divert attention away from the unspoken thing between them and back onto their original topic. "Should I tell you any or do you know them all already?" She asks, looking genuinely curious.

Oliver feels another smile pulling at his lips. Things have been difficult since his return yesterday; being confronted with the rather angry ghosts of his past by way of the Lance family and his very secretive and recalcitrant family on the other side, but he's not smiled this frequently in a very long time, he thinks. There is nobody to fight. Not right now, at least. It's a welcome reprieve from the insanity their life usually descends into. Just him and Felicity. Like Ivy town. Just being them without the danger, the adrenaline, the injuries, the loss and grief and constant fighting.

"Well, you could always tell me the story of when you tried that pot brownie again," Oliver offers without hesitation and amused at how quickly Felicity becomes flustered.

"See?" She reiterates, "Just how can you possibly know that?"

He laughs quietly and can see her eyes darken as she takes him in. Attraction, this time, rather than anger, at least and he can't help but preen a little under her gaze, flexing when he knows he shouldn't be pushing.

"I thought you said you wanted me to keep quiet so you can figure out it yourself," he asks, smirking at her.

"I changed my mind," Felicity says, complete with a wave of her hand as if to erase what she said earlier. "Mysteries, Schmysteries, I need to know how you can possibly know any of this."

And why you look at me like that – he can see it's on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't complete the sentence and Oliver just smiles softly.

"Not yet," he says gently. "I would like you to get to know me better, to trust me more, before I do. But I will tell you. I promise. I will tell you everything."

He means it, and Felicity can read him as well as she could from the beginning, sighing heavily but dropping her enquiry once more as they ease into less fraught topics and Oliver gets more childhood stories – some of which he hadn't actually heard before.

He ends up asking her for another date – sorry, business lunch, the next day to discuss technological advancements which they never managed to get to tonight.

Notes: Please review and let me know what you think.