A few reviewers asked for something like 'a wrong woman' storyline without the angst and sadness and horribleness. So... here we are.

"So, what're you going to do?"

"What can I do?" Oliver asks, tapping a finger impatiently against the wooden bar.

He doesn't want to drink – can't, really. Not if he wants to find a solution to this. Drunk-him's ideas were what landed him in jail overnight usually for things like punching the paparazzo following him or pissing on a cop car.

No, he needs to be alert and come up with a solution. Pronto.

"Well, it's Vegas, baby," Tommy says with a laugh. "You could always marry someone else before your mom or Laurel get you in front of the altar."

His best friend was sniggering, laughing at the mere suggestion but all Ollie can think is that this?

This is the best idea he's heard - or thought of - all night!

"That's brilliant," he tells Tommy, finally getting excited.

"What?" His best friend looks genuinely startled. "No, it's not. How is that a solution? You don't want to marry so you'll get married?"

"There must be like a thousand women out there who would marry a billionaire," Ollie continues, ignoring his friend's interjections.

"Hundreds of thousands, probably," his best friend agrees. "But, listen, if you're going to marry anyway, wouldn't it be better to marry someone you know you get along with rather than a total stranger?"

"It's my life, Tommy, and I just want it to be my choice. Laurel isn't. Hasn't been for a long time. She's mom's choice. Dad's choice, even. I just- I want to live my life, you know. Not be CEO of QC with Laurel playing the role of my mom. That's just – that's just sick. And weird."

His best friend grimaces.

"Eww. You didn't need to put it like that."

Ollie shrugs.

"No one seems to get it when I say it otherwise."

Tommy grimaces, mutely acknowledging that he, too, hasn't taken Ollie seriously in the past on this.

"So – how do you intend to find your bride to be?"

Ollie shrugs, scanning over the floor. There's plenty of women around – at the tables, the bar, waitressing, dealing cards. None of them particularly grab his attention; it's more sort of a been-there done-that.

And no thanks.

"First girl that walks through that door," he points to the entrance a few feet away, "I'm going to propose to."

"That doesn't seem the greatest selection method," his friend adds and Ollie shrugs.

"Got any better ideas?"

Tommy does the same scan he's done, winces, clearly coming to the same conclusion.

"Thought so."

Just then the door opens and Ollie straightens up, pulling at the bottom of his shirt in vain, hoping it would somehow magically straighten itself out. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

"You could marry her," Tommy says, before snorting and descending into loud cackles, leaning against the bar.

Ollie rolls his eyes.

"The next girl through that door. Not the next grandma."

His best friend ignores him, still sniggering. He can feel his own smile pull at his lips – and it's enough of a distraction, he nearly misses the girl walking out from behind the elderly couple and heading straight towards the casino.

Ollie knows he should be put off.

She's in black clothing, with black purple-streaked hair and dark make-up. Typical goth in other words.

It's never been a turn-on, personally. He's more the cheerleader-type – or was, he supposes, in high school. Now he's the long-legged brunette model-type with the brains to match.

Except if all goths looked like her, he might need to revise his opinion.

It's not even sexual – or not purely that, at least.

There's- There's just something about this girl that draws him in. She's pretty, he'd call her beautiful even, not quite gorgeous, but she's tiny and so very different from anyone else he's ever been drawn to. There's a firm kind of resolve around her, the way she determinedly strides to the casino, some sort of stress tightening her shoulders and furrowing her brows, slight red-rim around her eyes telling him of time she must have recently spent crying despite the way her make-up is not in any way disturbed.

He just wanted Laurel to stop – he loved her, he did, but he didn't want to marry her. Didn't want to move in together – and Sara had told him that's what his girlfriend was planning. And then Thea's text - yeah, no.

Ollie didn't want it. But he'd heard his mother help Laurel with the planning of venue and guests, all without an actual date, of course, given he had yet to propose, but it freaked him the fuck out. He'd not even thought twice before nabbing Tommy and getting the hell out of the dodge and to Vegas.

But this girl? There's something about her. He hasn't heard her speak, hasn't had a single conversation with her. Hasn't kissed her or had sex with her.

Ollie's the kind of guy that hard to get doesn't work on – if you're not interested, he'd never pursue. Why would he? He's never one to force his interest where they clearly aren't wanted. Plus, girls usually came to him.

But there's just… yeah. Just something about this girl.

Now that he's seen her? He knows she's it. She's the one he wants to marry. No one else.

He can't explain it, doesn't know how to, he just has this bone-deep certainty that when it comes to getting married? There could never be anyone but her.

Ollie leaves Tommy behind at the bar, intercepting the goth's path with ease.

"Hi. I'm a billionaire. Want to marry me?"

The goth doesn't even give him a second - or first - glance, scoffing and walking around him without even looking up.

"Beat it, creep," she tells him, making her way to the casino-part of the hotel.

Fuck.

That line was supposed to have worked.

What does he do now? Ollie's eyes flicker to Tommy – who's watching the whole thing with a wide grin, like it's the most hilarious entertainment he's seen in years.

Actually, it probably is.

He gives his friend a helpless stare, hoping he will suggest another brilliant idea, when he hears security not let her enter the casino.

Huh. He's been banned from all sorts of places himself, but not a casino. Not yet, at least, he supposes.

How do you even get banned from a place where you lose money to the house hand over fist?

Still, he … He could probably get her in. Bribe her way in. Would that help?

But what should he say to her?

'Hi, I can get you into that casino if you marry me? By the way, I did mention I'm a billionaire, right?'

'Hi. You're cute. I don't know your name, but if you marry me, you can get into all the casinos?'

Oh god. Is he getting worse at this or is that just his imagination?

Wait, did he have bad breath? How long has it been since this morning? Did he eat something garlic-y?

"Okay, I have to know," her voice, a lot less hostile, pipes up beside him and he swings around, wide-eyed, wishing he'd had time to brush his teeth and change into a cleaner, more ironed shirt, at least, and improve his chances.

"I hate mysteries and you- that line, were you just trying to get me to sleep with you? Was it a bet? Are you genuinely trying to get married? I thought only drunk people marry strangers in Vegas but you're here, stone-cold sober, and asking for marriage. And come on, billionaire? With that serial killer haircut? Who'd believe that?"

Does this count as a conversation? She'd certainly said more words than Laurel had in some of the conversations they had.

"Hi," he finally manages, desperately trying to find his tongue and not sound like a total idiot. Or creep.

"Hi," she repeats back, looking entertained. Well, that's better than before at least. Entertained he can work with.

"I'm Oliver Queen," he starts, holding out his hand and she shakes it just firmly enough, her grip tight but not too tight. Her skin's soft, he notices – which is a weird thing to pick up on in all this, but there it is. His brain is definitely going off the rails now, picking up on things like how soft her skin is. What the fuck is wrong with him?

What happened to the suave billionaire heir to a huge international corporation who'd been trained since he could string two sentences together on how to deal with the press and how to ingratiate himself with strangers. Where the hell did all that training go? He should demand a refund!

God, he's so fucking lost and scrambling so badly.

"It's nice to meet you," he tells her nervously instead, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet slightly, like a high schooler in front of his crush.

Which is not entirely inaccurate, to his embarrassment.

"You don't even know my name," his – the – goth disputes, laughing now.

It should bother him that she's laughing in his face, but instead he can't help but be pleased because he's the one who caused her to light up like this, the one who made her smile. The sadness and determination around her gives way to something softer, something lighter. It's like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds – her face, her eyes, everything around her brightens when her lips curved up. The smoky eyeshadow and dark purple lipstick only draw more of his attention to her every expression.

He takes it back.

When she smiles? This girl is drop-dead gorgeous.

His heart is scrambling now, just like his brain, like it's forgotten how to operate, jumping all over the place while his stomach is busy tying itself into knots and his hands twitch with the need to reach for her - to touch her, assure himself she's not just a fantasy come to life but an actual, real-life person.

"I don't need to know your name to know it's a pleasure to meet you," Ollie finds himself saying softly, but earnestly, focus on the beautiful woman in front of him. And holy hell – where did that come from? When did he get back to being smooth instead of being tongue-tied?

The goth's girl's eyes widen, laughter cut short and a beautiful blush crawling across her cheeks at breakneck-speed.

"Smooth," she blurts out, staring at him, obviously flattered and flustered.

Thank god, he's finally doing something right other than to make her laugh at his clumsy overtures.

"Not usually," Ollie confesses with a shy grin. Then tilts his head slightly.

"Could be I just found the right inspiration."

That somehow brings the smile back, flattered giving way to amusement again.

"Nice try. First one was better," she comments and Ollie nods. Because it had been.

It hadn't been intentional, the words just blurted out of his mouth before he could think of them. The second one was planned and, yeah, a little trite.

"Sorry, what was your question again?" He's already been called creepy once; no need to tell her he remembers her every word. He doesn't know how or why – he can't even remember what Laurel talks to him about half the time (most of the time - he just kind of blocks her out). Doesn't remember dates unless it's Thea's birthday. So yeah, definitely better to get her to repeat than to scare her away.

"Why did you talk to me? Why that line?"

Ollie shrugs.

"There was just something about you," he finally says when she doesn't let him get away with the non-committal shrug. "I saw you, and I just knew."

He did. He does. He thinks it might mean more than he can currently fathom, because his brain and heart are still playing catch-up, desperately trying to scramble after and over the top of each other and he doesn't know what half of it means.

On top of that his palms are sweaty, his heart's beating erratically, his breathing stops when she smiles at him and his tongue seems to be tied in knots in around her while his stomach decided sinking down to his feet is the best idea ever.

All he knows is that she's different, she's something else – she's someone. Not just another forgettable pretty face.

And he wants her – not just in his bed, no – although that, too.

But no, just talking, listening to her babble, listening to her laugh – even when it's at him? Yeah, he could sit there for hours, he thinks, and he wouldn't get tired. Wouldn't do that acknowledging nod-thing he does with Laurel while his attention drifts.

Can't imagine his attention ever straying from her.

Which is frightening in and of itself.

Or, at least, it should be.

But it isn't.

He's not scared – not with her.

"I told Tommy I'd ask the first girl through that door – then in came the grandma and Tommy, he's just laughing his ass off. But then I saw you. And… I don't know. You're just- You're different. And it's not a line either." It isn't but he doesn't know how to convey that.

"I am a billionaire. Got a huge trust fund. I should be free and clear to live my life - only everyone at home piles on more and more expectations of what I should be. Who I should be. What my future should look like. And I don't want to marry just because my mom got together with my girlfriend and they both decided she's the one I am going to marry, and they're planning it – and yeah. I don't want it. So, I figured, if I get married first, that'll stop their plans. And I'll get to live my life my way."

She tilts her head, looking curious.

"So, you want to get married to get out of getting married?"

"That's what I said!" Tommy exclaims, joining him with an arm around his shoulder and holding his hand out to the beautiful goth.

"Hi, Tommy Merlyn, best friend and this one's much, much better and more handsome half. Also a billionaire, in case we're including monetary value in the introductions these days."

"Hi, Tommy. Well, I should be glad that one of you can see the fallacy in getting married to get out of getting married."

"That way it would at least be my choice," Ollie interjects before his best friend can draw her attention too much. Even if she does think he has a serial killer haircut (another means of pissing off Laurel taken too far - although serial killer is a new one, neither Tommy nor Thea have ever let him get away with not making their displeasure clear at the new style); that is easy enough to rectify, but if she prefers Tommy to him? Yeah, usually he doesn't care. Tommy's even flirted with Laurel in front of him and he doesn't flinch – but he doesn't think he could handle it if Tommy drew this one's attention away from him.

Another new one. That's never happened before either.

"Your life, your choice," she posits, head tilted, gazing up at him (she's so tiny) but there's something in her voice that tells him she's intrigued, curious and there's a lot more understanding, more empathy, than he expected.

"Yeah," he agrees gently, eyes on hers, "exactly."

And then she, there's no other words for it, softens. There was a stern-ness, a stiffness around her, which just dropped away and there's understanding where there used to be aloofness.

"I'd love to talk, really, and help you come up with a solution. Any other day, I would," she promises earnestly and there's nothing of the hatred for the world he expected from a goth. Stereotype? Absolutely. But he doesn't – hasn't, up until now – really interacted with them.

But this girl still surprises him with her offer to just sit down and talk and plan for no reason other than that they needed help and she could give it.

Maybe he's wrong, maybe she'd demand money or something else… but for some reason he doesn't think so.

There's just something about her that tells him above all else? This girl is kind. She's light. She's the sun.

"But?" He queries quietly, only half-aware of his best friend standing right beside him and being ignored by them both completely. He'll make it up to Tommy later, he promises himself.

"But I've got a boyfriend in prison that I need to get out and that takes priority for the moment."

Until then, until right this moment, Ollie had never experienced heartbreak. But this moment? Right now? This is it. There's a grip on his throat and a crack in his chest. His stomach curled up in on itself and he wants nothing more than to deny the last few moments even happened.

Maybe he should recoil at the thought that she has a boyfriend – or that the boyfriend she does have, is in prison. Instead, somehow, when he finds his tongue again and his heart beats again, he does the opposite.

"Can I help?" He asks and while he hates the thought of helping her get her boyfriend back, even worse is the thought of her being sad because of something he did – or didn't do, in this case.

If he could something to make her happy, why wouldn't he do everything?

"What?" The question comes to him in stereo, both Tommy and his goth vocalising it at the exact same time and in the same surprised tone.

"Hey, buddy, what're you doing?" Tommy asks him in a quiet whisper, hand on his bicep but Ollie shakes him off.

"I want to help," he reassures them both, but his eyes are only on her, pleading with her, not to leave it here. "Please. Let me help."

The black-haired beauty is staring up at him, frown furrowing her beautiful brows as she stares at him before sighing slightly.

"Alright," she tells him, nodding slightly. "Thank you."

She nods towards one of the corner tables and he follows her obediently, Tommy trailing them a few steps behind.

"Just – give me a moment," the woman tells him, pulling a clunky laptop out of the beaten-up bag hanging off her shoulders. Tommy looks at him in askance but he just shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know. Maybe she's contacting a friend, giving them their descriptions since he, according to her, has a serial killer haircut.

All he knows is that it doesn't matter. Whatever she's doing – even if it takes her until morning, he doesn't mind sitting here, as long as he gets to watch her.

His mind is busy noting and cataloguing her every expression and feature, her ticks and mannerisms.

Her eyes do a cute little crinkle thing when she wrinkles her nose at whatever she sees on her screen.

Then she bites her lips, white teeth flashing, the contrast to the deep purple on her lips stark and attention-getting as she's thinking, before her hands go back to racing across the keyboard.

The speed she achieves typing should belong in the records-book, honestly. Her hands are beautiful, nails short and painted in dark nail polish, fingers flashing across keys easily without even looking at what keys she's tapping. Her hands are so tiny, uncalloused and soft-looking, remembering the way they felt in his during their handshake and how he wished he didn't have to let her go. Now? He's impressed as hell even if he hasn't got a clue what she's doing, she definitely knows what she's doing.

There's a little furrow growing by her brow, the more she concentrates. It's surprisingly adorable.

Some of her smiles showed a hint of dimples – he wonders if he can make her smile widely enough to get the full effect.

A part of him wonders if he'll ever even get the chance – if he'll get to see her again, ever, after tonight.

That thought is worse, somehow, than her having a boyfriend and his stomach churns as his breathing stutters.

"You're not really just going to sit here and wait?" Tommy whispers into his ear and Ollie nods.

"Of course I will. I'm going to marry her."

His friend looks bemused.

"Yeah, buddy, I don't think she agreed to that. Hell, you don't even know her name."

"Doesn't matter," he repeats, not even an ounce of worry or concern over the thought.

He's never met her, doesn't know her name, but, somehow, he's never felt more touched, more attracted, more infatuated with, well, anyone. She just grabbed his attention and held it – and Ollie can't tear himself away.

Not for the world. Not for anything.

"I'll be fine, if you want to leave," he reassures Tommy, still taking his time to catalogue and study the beautiful woman in front of them who seems to have forgotten about their existence entirely, ignoring them completely as her fingers practically fly over the keyboard. He half-expects the computer to start smoking with the pace she sets.

His best friend hovers but finally stands up.

"I'll be at the bar in case you change your mind," Tommy tells him.

Keeping an eye on you, remains unspoken. It's also close enough to overhear their conversation if he sits at the end closest to them. Tommy's a good – no, a great friend and he will have to make it up to him and explain later on. Problem is, Ollie doesn't even know how to explain it to himself, but maybe by then he'll have a better handle on what, exactly, he feels for her.

If he's really lucky, he might even know her name.

Author's Notes:

Please comment and review - I'd love to hear your thoughts.

No intentions of turning this into timetravel. Just past-Ollie with past-Felicity.