Chipped Blocks
An Olicity Flash Fic Story

Flash Fic Prompt #30: You have the right to remain silent.

Chapter Two

He was running late – not that such a complication was a rarity in Oliver Queen's life, but this just felt worse, because of what he was running late to.

Parent-Teacher Night.

Three months ago, it wouldn't have just been a laughable idea – that he would be expected to attend a series of meetings with his kid's educators; it would have been impossible. Because three months ago, Oliver Queen didn't even know that he had a kid. A son. A teenage son at that – one who resented him and the fact that they were suddenly forced upon each other all because a woman Oliver couldn't remember having sex with eighteen years prior decided that it was what was best. For the child they shared.

Even now, even with Connor living with him, even with Connor's birth certificate amended so that Oliver's name was listed responsibly as his father, even with the knowledge that his mother had paid Sandra Hawke off with two million dollars because she didn't believe Oliver ready for parenthood, that – that he shared a child with someone – was a sobering and terrifying thought. And not just as Oliver Queen but as... well, the other, not-so-public part of himself, too. Neither role he filled was cut out to be a parent, but a parent he was nonetheless.

Or, at least, Oliver was trying to be a parent. Which was why he had his assistant put Connor's parent-teacher night into his calendar even though his kid never said a word about the evening. Maybe it wasn't quite the father-son bonding experience that they needed. Hell, forget bonding. He and Connor just needed to figure out a way to get to know each other. But it was something. It was a start. And, looking back at his own childhood, Oliver knew it was important, because it was something his own parents never attended. While he loved his parents, and he could now remember them with only fondness rather than the bitter animosity that had tinged his grief after their initial deaths, he also recognized their faults. In fact, those faults were the driving force in how he was attempting to figure out this whole dad thing.

Seemingly pushing open his car door, opening his umbrella, and standing up all in one motion, Oliver quickly made his way towards the looming, gothic structure that was Starling Prep – the school Connor now attended and Oliver's own alma mater. Despite the unrelenting assault of rain pelting down upon him, he couldn't help but notice how desolate the parking lot looked. While a few stray cars remained, he'd be lucky if the doors were still unlocked. Despite his best intentions, the day – and then the early evening – had gotten away from him. It was an excuse Teenager Ollie had been quite familiar with, having heard it fall from his own father's lips more times than he could possibly recall. Now CEO of their family company himself... just as his father before him, Oliver had never wanted to use the same justifications to explain his failures. Yet, here he was. Though he knew that Robert had often lied about his work responsibilities and while, even when they were true, had been motivated by greed rather than a genuine concern for his employees, it was cold comfort for Oliver as he finally stepped inside of the dark foyer of his newfound son's prep school.

He could have just left. He probably should have. As Oliver shook out his umbrella and closed it, he questioned why he was still there. Wouldn't it be better to, instead of continuing with this fruitless endeavor, just go home and actually spend time with the kid he was trying to be there for by attending parent-teacher night? Instead of talking to Connor's teachers, he could talk to his son – something that sounded so simple in thought but was rather unachievable in practice. Connor wanted nothing to do with him. He was only in Starling because he was a minor, and it had been made clear to him that he had no other choice. He resented Oliver for not knowing about him for the first seventeen years of his life, and he resented Oliver for now being there. Well, as much as occasionally seeing each other in the kitchen could be considered being there. So, it wouldn't matter to Connor if Oliver actually managed to track down a real life person to confirm that he at least attempted to make it to parent-teacher night.

But it mattered to Oliver.

With shoes that squeaked on the impeccably polished and waxed marble floors and clothes that, despite his umbrella and hasty sprint from car to entrance, dripped a trail behind him, Oliver made a beeline towards a beacon of light that could be seen from the multi-storied, grand foyer. It was coming from a side hallway, and, no matter how much Oliver tried to wrack his brain for memories of that particular passage, he had no idea what was located down that particular wing. Perhaps that had something to do with the more than twenty years that had passed since his own attendance at Starling Prep, but it was more likely that his faulty memory sprang from his own less than impressive attendance record. His luck? It'd just be some hard-working janitor who had to pull overtime because of the mess such open house nights created, or it would be some display of achievement the school was pompously highlighting with a ridiculously overbearing and too bright spotlight. Either way, Oliver had zero to no hope that his efforts would actually yield a teacher to talk to...

… until a teacher was standing right there.

And she was threatening him.

"Come one step closer, and I'll... well, I'll probably just injure myself. But know that I will go down swinging, and there is an of-chance that I will hurt you in the process. So, yeah. You've been warned.

The slip of a woman was holding up a small, portable heater, the cord dangling down towards her own feet posing more of a threat than the chosen weapon itself presented. While Oliver smirked, he heeded her warning and stopped, not wanting her to trip. Between the floors that were no doubt slippery because of the monsoon outside and the gallons of water everyone would have brought in that evening and his lack of faith in her fighting abilities, that seemed like a real risk. To further pacify her, he held his hands up in surrender, waiting for whatever came next from the petite educator.

And a teacher he had doubt she was.

That was not meant to be a slight either. The woman was attractive – not schoolmarmish in any stretch of the imagination. Yes, she wore glasses, and, yes, her hair was pulled up, but the sass she had displayed in threatening him belied her reserved attire, and her prim appearance could do nothing to disguise her beauty, because she was stunning – all blonde hair, and big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Even with the distance between them, Oliver could see that she just... shined. The woman looked nothing like any teacher he had ever had in school – maybe if he had, he would have left with a much higher GPA, but she was a teacher nonetheless, checking off so many boxes from his hot for teacher...

Her voice snapped him out of his inappropriate thoughts. "I'm, um... can I help you?" Heater still held poised to be thrown at his head, she was nevertheless polite... almost like she couldn't help herself. And that just made Oliver feel worse about objectifying her. This wasn't who he was anymore; he didn't judge women by their looks, and he wasn't at his son's school to pick up chicks. Hell, he didn't even use the word 'chicks' anymore, yet there was something about this woman that had captured his attention from the moment he first spotted her. For a man who lived such a private, isolated life, that was... startling.

"I'm sorry," he immediately apologized. That seemed to be Oliver's go to move these days. He was constantly apologizing – to Connor, to Sandra, to Thea, to the people at work. Even when he didn't understand what he had done wrong, Oliver just apologized. Even when he was just trying to do the right thing but screwed up somehow anyway, Oliver apologized. Even when he didn't do anything wrong, he apologized preemptively, because, with his recent track record, it was only a matter of time. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm running a little late." In pausing to gather his thoughts, Oliver realized how dark the school was, how quiet. "Really late. I'm just... I had an emergency meeting that then ran over, but my kid, my son, goes here, and I..."

"Oh," the woman interrupted him. She smiled. And then she casually put the heater down by her feet before nervously twisting her hands together. In turn, Oliver realized that he himself was running his thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together in agitation and forced himself to stop. "You're here for parent-teacher night." And then the educator frowned, and, for a moment, Oliver actually found himself regretting that there was something he did that made her disappointed. She had a face meant for smiling. Nothing should ever dim that. "But there are no teachers here now. Well, I mean, I'm a teacher, but what are the chances that your son is actually one my students? And, besides, I just teach technology. While I tell the kids how important it is – and it is, don't get me wrong, especially in today's marketplace, most parents don't see it that way. They see technology as an elective, and they dismiss it, and they dismiss me... which I have now done to myself, albeit unintentionally, by not allowing you even a chance to speak with me about the son I probably don't have in my class without first marginalizing my subject area for you."

He frankly had no idea how to respond to that. So, instead, Oliver just stumbled through an introduction. "Um, my son's name is, uh, Connor. Connor Hawke."

Making the moment even more surreal, the teacher moaned dramatically, her head falling back in what Oliver assumed was frustration. "Of course it is!"

"I'm sorry." Again with the compulsive apologizing. "Has Connor... done something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not," she reassured him, taking a step forward and stubbing her toe upon the portable heater. Softly, he heard her curse, "stupid Hephaestus!," before glaring at the now offending pseudo-weapon and making a point to step wide around it. Once more addressing Oliver, she explained, "he's only, like, the most talented and intelligent student I've ever had. And I really wanted to talk to you tonight." In his interest, Oliver started walking towards her, but then he watched as she seemed to clam-up, her lips pressing tightly together as she actively avoided his gaze. "For reasons," was squeaked out, before the once bubbly, once brilliant, once babbling educator refused to speak another word.

But Oliver wasn't deterred – confused but not deterred. "Felicity Smoak?," he addressed her. At the surprised 'eep' she emitted upon realizing that he now knew exactly who she was, Oliver explained, "I looked up the names of Connor's teachers today during my lunch hour. Unfortunately, the school's website doesn't include pictures for all of its faculty members, but I wanted to at least memorize which classrooms I needed to visit... you know, if I actually had succeeded in making it here on time." Her startled expression morphed into confusion... which still didn't make any sense. But Oliver continued, apprehensive but no less determined. "So, Felicity." He should have called her Ms. Smoak. Or Mrs. Smoak, though the lack of ring on a very important finger made him hope it wasn't the second option... not that he had any business either noticing or caring about such a potential revelation. But Oliver just... didn't want to call her by her last name; he didn't want to be that formal – not with her. So, he didn't; he wasn't. "Would you like to have a late dinner with me?"