Hey guys, happy Saturday/Sunday! So I usually don’t do this, but thanks to amazeballs s4 trailer and frankly an indecent amount of fan flailing on my part, I wrote a little thing based off the Olicity cuteness in the trailer.
Tagging (since I assume they’ll be interested, but no hard feelings if you’re not)
Felicity had never been good with recipes. Or recipe words. Spells and wand movements — sure. She could swish and flick the hell out of any Harry Potter movie marathon. But the perfect slide-and-nudge to fold an omelet in the pan?
Suffice it to say that her inner nerd was more interested in fictional magical schools than making sure she didn’t die from eating burned eggs.
Felicity licked a smear of avocado off her thumb and paged back to her bookmark in Cooking to Impress by Katie Cheng — highly recommended by the nice lady at CC Bookends, who recognized Felicity around the second time she came in looking for the equivalent of Cooking for Dummies. After a slightly embarrassing recount of the burned pizza bagels, and the cardboard-consistency French toast, Ellen had nodded understandingly and suggested recipe books with pictures. Lots of them.
Which didn’t make her feel like she was about twelve. Then again, twelve-year-olds didn’t usually choke their boyfriends with calcified breakfasts (they just teased each other and exchanged edible bagged lunches — ah, to be in sixth grade again).
Felicity almost slid straight off the countertop when she leaned forward to check the time. The wall clock beside the row of cabinets read ten minutes to nine, and even five months into their vacation, Oliver was infallibly on time when it came to routines. She’d watched him jog up the lane at a little past eight in his favorite green hoodie, which meant that he’d be back nine-ish, smelling of seawater and possibly wet dog (Oliver was inexplicably popular with the stray that haunted the stretch of coast near their house).
Also, hungry. Hopefully hungry enough to eat whatever she put in front of him (impressive, please be impressive). Or, failing that, he could eat something else. And Felicity knew he liked that just fine. More than fine, if she was being self-congratulatory.
Even though she was alone, Felicity inched the book higher to cover her face, as if to hide the fact that she was blushing at the thought of what Oliver could have instead of breakfast.
Avocado, cheddar and tomato omelet. Not too much to ask for. Visual distraction and deceptive impressiveness — her bread and butter. So far, she’d grated the cheese without skinning her knuckles (score), sliced the tomatoes without taking off her fingers (double score), and hollowed out two avocados without getting green gunk all over the spotless kitchen cabinets like the last time (who knew those things could be so slippery). And to top off this auspicious sundae, said ingredients had made it into the pan of bubbling eggs and now awaited the highly-anticipated omelet fold.
Which she could totally manage.
Felicity picked up the spatula and practiced the slide-and-nudge in the air, waving her wrist around with careful exaggeration.
Slide and nudge. Slide and nudge. Slide and nudge.
Layer ½ of omelet with tomatoes, avocado, and cheddar — she’d done that — after three to five minutes, the eggs —
“— should not look like that,” Felicity declared, wondering why, instead of an artful contrast of green-red-and-sunny-yellow in the copper frying pan, there was a smoking, psychedelic mess of highlighter colors in the vein of Do Not Eat, Poison.
Felicity leaned over the pan. “Frack,” she said, prodding at the mixture with the edge of the spatula while she paged through Cooking to Impress for rescue advice.
And…nothing. No advice on how not to make her boyfriend think that she wanted to send him to the hospital with explosive diarrhea.
“Are you getting tired of me already?”
Felicity’s head shot up, because she had not realized that she’d been talking out loud. Oliver — in his usual catlike way — had managed to walk all the way from the front door to the kitchen counter without making a sound, and now had a front row seat to another disastrous Felicity Smoak attempt at a home cooked breakfast. Kudos to him for smiling like it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, not like he’d just walked in after a healthy morning jog to find his girlfriend presiding over the scene of a culinary crime.
“This,” she said, accidentally flicking a piece of psychedelic egg onto Oliver’s copy of National Geographic, “is not what it looks like.”
“Hm.” Oliver stepped up to the stove top and peered into the smoking pan with polite interest. “It looks like you’re making me breakfast.”
Felicity waggled her spatula in a ta-dah kind of way. “Surprise,” she said sheepishly.
Something popped in the pan, and Felicity yelped, scooting a good few inches away from the stove.
“Maybe we should turn the heat off,” Oliver suggested mildly.
“Probably a good idea,” Felicity agreed, her voice muffled behind Cooking to Impress.
Two minutes later, the still-faintly smoking pan was soaking in the sink, and the color-swirl eggs (now with an added shade of burnt-stuff-brown) were on a plate beside a tall glass of Oliver’s usual vegetable juice (gross).
Felicity was still sitting on the counter, hiding half of her face behind the book. “It’s testament to my nonexistent cooking skills that your yuck-juice looks pretty appetizing right now,” she said, grimacing at the remembered taste of liquified kale (the sacrilege).
Instead of sitting down at the breakfast bar (or making a hasty excuse to go for another run), Oliver came up to her, planting his broad hands on either side of her legs. “Morning,” he said, leaning close.
Even through the makeshift face shield, Felicity could tell that Oliver did indeed smell like the beach, and a hint of wet terrier (dammit, the mental image of Oliver running alongside a hyperactive stray made her want to do things to him).
Felicity lowered Cooking to Impress — slightly. “Morning,” she said back, trying her best to be cool and casual, even while half her face was hidden behind a book. “How was your run?”
“Wet,” he answered. “I came back early to see you.”
“I think the universe foresaw that I might blow up your kitchen,” Felicity said, in her best sagely voice.
“Our kitchen,” he corrected.
“Our kitchen means that I have to do the cleaning up.”
“You don’t have to do the cleaning up.”
“Really?” Felicity said.
“Really,” he said, and there was something in Oliver’s voice that made her feel warm and liquid, like she could slow-dance in the sun with her hands in his, like she was stretched out in their big, white bed with her arms thrown above her head and content to be kissed.
Speaking of kisses. Part of the infallible morning routine was the Welcome Home kiss, whether Felicity was reading on the couch, or perched on the kitchen counter, or still lazing around in bed — Oliver never failed to kiss her hello. The type of kisses varied. Sometimes it was just a quick peck on the lips on his way up to the shower, other times (and Felicity liked these the most) it was a lingering kiss, tasting of languid, unhurried mornings and hours on their hands, with nowhere to be, nothing to do, and nothing to fear. At times like these, it felt like he was making up for all the times their kisses had meant goodbye.
Felicity tipped her head back, just a little, her eyes heavy-lidded, lashes sweeping her cheeks — even though every nerve in her body felt like it could spark like a live wire. With all the serotonin bouncing around inside her skull, Felicity had forgotten about the book — and her slackened grip — until Oliver pulled it from her hands and lifted her straight off the counter, planting her barefoot on the kitchen tiles with one arm, holding it behind his back with the other.
Felicity leaned back at the waist to look up at him, laughing. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” she said.
“It is,” Oliver concurred, giving her a glimpse of the book before he whisked it out of sight again.
Oliver-trying-not-to-laugh was a setting Felicity hadn’t quite figured out yet. It was equal parts gratifying, stop-and-stare, and (because she was hardwired that way) arousing. Felicity — clocking in at five feet five inches and an unspecified but comparatively insignificant body weight — knew her advantage, going up against six feet plus of muscle mass and tactile training.
She coiled her arms around Oliver’s middle, not-so-subtly reaching for the book as she leaned the length of her body against his. As far as secret weapons went, the sight of her in one of Oliver’s shirts was the atom bomb of all decisive moves, but failing that, a pair of thin sweatpants and bare shoulders would do the trick just fine.
Felicity bit her lip to stop from smiling at the distraction in Oliver’s stare, as his frankly superhuman senses were bombarded with her closeness. And the fact that she’d snuck her hands up the hem of his hoodie, scraping her nails lightly against his hipbones in the way she knew he liked.
“Felicity,” he said, and she was pleased to hear that his voice had gone scratchy — for reasons that had nothing to do with the non-existent California cold.
“What’s it going to cost me?” she asked, in her best sultry voice.
One of Oliver’s hands slipped against her shirt, grazing an inch or so of exposed midriff. His palm felt hot enough to burn, and Felicity luxuriated in the pleasant shivers dancing up the length of her spine, the responsiveness stirring somewhere in the depths of her belly.
They were both swaying on the spot, almost too distracted by each other’s closeness to answer. But Felicity didn’t need him to. Sometime in the middle of their mutual diversion, Felicity had gotten the answer to her question, and she moved closer still, sliding her thigh up the inside of Oliver’s leg.
“Felicity.” Oliver was smiling now, and so was she.
Felicity only bit her lip, raising her eyebrows in a wordless question.
She got her answer when the book landed with a flutter of open pages, and Oliver’s hands were suddenly on her arms — stroking from elbow to wrist — pulling her flush against him with a kind of wordless confidence that made her catch her breath. Felicity teetered on her toes, on the giddy edge of losing her balance, and her head fell back just in time to receive Oliver’s smiling kiss.
Trying-not-to-laugh, teasing, and smile-while-kissing — all Oliver settings Felicity hadn’t quite gotten used to just yet. Not because they were rare, but because every day brought her something new about this rare and complex man, to the point where she was having trouble keeping track of it all — the endless novelty of discovering who Oliver Queen was.
“New discovery,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. “You smile when you kiss now.”
“Is that good?” Oliver asked.
Felicity nodded enthusiastically, making them both laugh. Oliver brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears with his callused fingers, looking down at her upturned face like he was content to stay there for the rest of his days.
“Oliver Queen,” she breathed, and watched his eyes warm at the sound of her saying his name. “Poisonous breakfast aside — how do you feel today?”
Oliver looked over her head for a moment, then back at her, running his thumbs thoughtfully down the sides of her cheeks. “I’m happy,” he said.
Felicity stood on her toes and surprised him with a kiss, simultaneously an apology for cooking disasters and a victory lap for winning the fight over a cookbook. “Good,” she answered.
I love her like summer,
like the ones we spent together.
I love her like the feeling of fresh-cut grass sticking to our feet,
like the smell of chlorine clinging to our clothes.
I love her like the cherry lipgloss,
like the hair brush microphones.
I love her like banana Popsicles cracked straight down the middle,
like watermelon juice running down the sides of our chins.
I love her like a cool breeze in August,
like water so cold it prickles beneath your fingertips.
I will love her for all of the forevers we silently dreamt of when we were young.
She tastes like liquid July and her skin feels like the sun even in the middle of the night.