Chapter Text
It’s quarter after two when Felicity gets back to the flat. It’s the only one on the seventh floor, with an encryption-protected elevator that—once unlocked with a handprint—opens right into the apartment.
On its exterior, the building is smartly designed to fit into the quaint, ancient-looking city that Munich is. Any passerby would assume it’s historic, original charm continues right into the interior but, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It's also everything her place in Starling wasn’t: it’s ultra-modern, sleek, and effortlessly sophisticated. The layout is spacious and open-concept, and the rooms are filled with zero mementos and minimal furniture (which is fine because they’d rarely be used).
Starling will be home again soon, so she hasn’t wanted to get comfortable here. And while it’s taken some time to get used to the muted, clean colors, she’s ultimately come to appreciate it. She even likes it. Rarely does a stay go beyond ten days in a row, but it’s homebase at least once a month, and she’s grateful for the familiar comfort it brings. Since it’s on the top level, the 14-foot ceilings allow for almost no noise to travel between the one below it, which is a huge plus, and the wide, expansive windows are easily closed off by shades with the click of a button.
Her favorite part, though, is the bedroom. The bed is dreamy, filled with soft, white linens, fluffy pillows, and enough room to lay across it no matter what direction.
The thought of it—and sleep—quietly beckons her, so she ignores the kitchen. She’s too tired and anxious to eat anyway, so she drops her work bag in the hallway and undresses as she walks, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. She mentally high-fives herself for already packing her suitcase for the next day, because all she can muster is pulling on a large t-shirt and throwing some water on her face, before falling into bed. Before she shuts her eyes, she sets her alarm for 7am (and 7:05, 7:10, and 7:15, just in case), then plugs her phone in to charge and succumbs her mind to sleep.
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“Coffee, anyone?” the stewardess asks, balancing a tray carefully as she walks through the aisle.
“I’ll take some, please,” Felicity answers politely, smiling back in gratitude. The world becomes a little more clear once she swallows a few sips, and she finally allows herself to relax. It’s been a long day already and her journey isn’t even halfway over.
She’d woken to her (first) alarm, thankfully, and made her train in perfect time. She’d taken the fastest route possible from Munich to Strasbourg, only 3.5 hours, where a black car had welcomed her at the arrivals lounge. Some forty minutes later, they’d pulled up directly onto the runway of a small, private airport, to meet the mid-sized jet that was waiting patiently. She’d received the departure location just yesterday afternoon and knows a few other government employees will be traveling from places much farther to ride it with her.
The plane is by no means Air Force One, but it is pretty swanky. Directly behind the enclosed pilot quarters is a bathroom (complete with shower) and small kitchen, stocked with catered refreshments and prepared meals. A wall with a large television screen separates the front section from the main space, constantly displaying a map of their trip with rotating information like their current coordinates, flight time remaining, and weather upon arrival.
The belly of the plane, where she is sitting, is where most people are. It’s about half-full, with seven other people, but even if all the seats were taken it’d still be more spacious than a commercial flight.
She scans her surroundings, an unconscious habit, and studies the other passengers.
Spanning the left side of the plane is a couch—on which two gentlemen are speaking in hushed Portuguese—followed by three rows of two seats. Spanning the entire right side are three tables, each surrounded by four secured, but spinnable chairs. Christine Wong, assistant to the Secretary of Defense, is seated at the middle table, typing on her laptop across from another gentleman. The other two men onboard are playing cards at the farthest table, which is adjacent to a closed door. Tucked behind it, in the back of the plane, is a small office used when urgent, private calls are patched through. She’s never needed to use it.
She is, gratefully, sitting in her own row. The leather seats are roomy and plush and, though they’re all seated upright at the moment, have the ability to fold down flat into a bed.
Even though they all work for the government in some way or another, there is still secrecy to their individual roles. She can’t take out any of her files or risk wandering eyes to look at her computer screen, so she decides to take advantage of the speedy wifi and continue her Netflix rewatch of The West Wing. Traveling on government-issued planes has been one of the (few) perks of her job, and she’s not going to let it go to waste—especially on a long flight like this one. She’s got twelve hours of uninterrupted TV time and isn’t embarrassed in the slightest by how excited she is about it.
Netflix and chill is a rarity for her since she is, currently, the United States' top cryptanalyst. Not only has she designed some of the government’s most advanced coding systems, but she is able to translate, analyze, and hack almost any cipher. Her salary is well into the seven figures and she has barely spent a dime of it.
The job has been stressful and high-pressured, with long, unforgiving hours. But considering some of the country’s most critical and consequential secrets have been, quite literally, in the palms of her hands, she supposes it’s been par for the course.
But if she’s honest, she had no idea what this job entailed when she’d been recruited five years ago, plucked straight from Palmer Technologies. She’d only been working there a year when she’d gotten a strange, encrypted email from an unnamed source. Once she’d determined it was the CIA and agreed to a discussion, things had moved quickly.
It’s been challenging and exciting, but also incredibly top-secret. Her friends and family doesn't—and still don’t—know what she does.
On her first day five years ago, the Secretary of Homeland Security had personally delivered the assignment to the team, each member of which had been cherry-picked specifically for the project. The mission looked simple from the outside: it was a piece of paper with a list of names. Their targets were murderers, assassins, thieves—the worst of the worst. In truth, the team still doesn’t know half of their crimes, but that wasn’t their job.
Their job was not to decide who goes on the list; their job was concerned with what happens after.
The team—five total—is rarely all in one room together, a deliberate decision that keeps their identities and safety assured. Though she’d started as the cryptanalyst, she’d slowly become the eyes and ears of the operation. She is the woman on the ground and works out of a small office that changes locations every four weeks. The weapons coordinator, translator (nicknamed Rosie after Rosetta Stone) and federal agent work out in the field on their own, only syncing up when the assignment requires them to.
The only person who’d worked in the office with her is Curtis Holt. He is their biometric technology developer, excelling in everything regarding security access. From facial recognition to behavioral characteristics, he can find anyone worth searching for. (He also invents 007-type gadgets on the side, much to the chief’s dismay, including lipstick-disguised mace that she, in no uncertain terms, adores.) He is also her closest friend and ally, and she is thankful for him every day.
Selfishly, she wishes he were with her, if only to have someone to talk to, but knows he’s safer back in Europe.
It is always better to remain separate.
They’d learned that the hard way four years ago when Rosie and their agent, Barnsley, had been followed in Manila. Rosie had narrowly escaped the sniper, but the bullet had hit Barnsley right in the heart. There had been no time to mourn—one of the toughest parts of the job—and instead she’d had to hire a new recruit immediately, to continue their mission of crossing names off the list.
The assignment and list had taken them all over the world: from China to New Zealand to Costa Rica to even Ohio. Some missions took days, some took months, some seemed effortless and easy, while others at times seemed nearly impossible.
Their most recent assignment—the team’s final one—had been, in fact, the most grave.
Vincent Vesper, the target, was highly skilled and incredibly lethal. Not only had he slipped their surveillance more times than any other criminal, but he was also the creator of the most destructive bomb in recent memory. It had taken them six months to track it and him down, and they’d spent the time slowly taking out his allies and known associates across the world, one by one. Last week his final apprentice had been killed by their agent, ending any possibility of future similarly-designed explosives and leaving Vesper—the mind behind it all—the only one left.
When the coordinates of his location had centered on a little town in Croatia, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was almost over.
If he hadn’t built a bomb that could take out the entirety of Europe, the home she’s come to love the past few years, she’d taken the time to marvel at his mastery. Because looking at the science and math of it, it was really quite extraordinary.
But she never actually revered it; because if they had failed, the consequences were so enormous, so utterly overwhelming, and so completely devastating to fathom, she couldn’t even give it a thought.
His motive was unclear and unimportant. They’d just needed to disarm it.
And thankfully they did.
The team had never let each other down, and this was no exception. The mission hadn’t gone without its hiccups; she’d lost contact with their agent for a total of seven painstaking hours before his croaked voice had finally patched through the radio. He’d sustained some (non-life-threatening) injuries, but in the end, he’d done his job. The bomb was diffused and Vesper was locked up for life.
And just like that, the last name on the list had been crossed off.
It’d almost felt anticlimactic in a way. Because of the enormity of the mission, the team had all be split up (even her and Curtis) for the action; when it ended, they hadn’t even been together to shake hands or hug, or even celebrate their accomplishment as a group. The past five years they've been a team, but they ended it on their own.
After it was over, all she’d wanted to do was sleep in her bed for three days straight. But instead, she’s headed on a plane back to Starling.
Her mother, obviously unaware at the true reason for her return, had been thrilled when Felicity called last week with the news of her trip. It’s been eighteen months since they’ve seen each other and she misses her mom more than anything. They’d done a girls trip in Italy awhile back, but she hasn’t visited Starling since she moved away five years ago. It is long, long overdue, and she can’t wait to curl up on the sofa, eat ice cream, and catch up on all that’s been going on in their lives—in person!—in the years since she’s been gone.
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“Do you know who that is?” a voice whispers, leaning far too much into her personal space.
She turns to the source and nearly bumps her nose against his own. She’d been so engrossed in her Netflix queue, she hadn’t noticed he’d taken the seat beside her. Annoyance flares when she looks behind her. All the other rows are empty. “Pardon?”
“Do you know who that is?” the man asks again, discreetly pointing to the gentlemen at the table across from Christine.
Felicity studies the man. His brown hair is cropped short to his head, face covered in day-old scruff, and he’s wearing a sweater and dark jeans. His posture is stiff and uncomfortable and his piercing blue eyes are anything but relaxed—they look angry and annoyed, focused only on the newspaper before him.
“No, I don't think I do,” she answers. “Who is he?”
The man blushes, keen to share his knowledge. “That’s Oliver Queen.”
She stays silent, looking at her neighbor expectantly.
He continues, “He’s only the best agent known to man. He’s like the USA’s James Bond. Skillful and deadly.”
The words make Felicity shiver in her seat, and just as she’s about to avert her gaze, the blue eyes belonging to the man in question meet hers. She quickly looks away.
“Well, better stay on his good side,” Felicity jokes lightly, unbuckling her seatbelt so she can stand. “I’m going to refill my coffee.”
By the time she makes it back to her row, it is blessedly empty, so she places her purse on the newly vacant seat before anyone else can take it. Instead of finishing the latest episode, she powers down her tablet and tucks it back in her bag, before gathering up the blankets and pillows they were given before takeoff. She’s still exhausted from the little sleep she’d gotten last night, and with only a few hours remaining, she settles in to get some rest.
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The last place Felicity Smoak wants to be after hours and hours of traveling is a fancy gala for Starling City's elite. Unfortunately, that’s where she is.
(At least she’s wearing her new Valentinos.)
Her mother had been thrilled that her trip had coincided with a few of the events she’s been planning months for. This evening, it's the celebration for the 75th anniversary of Starling's founding. Not only will the mayor and highest city officials be here, but the CEOs of all the major corporations, including Robert Queen of Queen Consolidated and Ray Palmer of Palmer Technologies, are also on the guest list.
After years of working in the service industry in Las Vegas most of her life, Donna Smoak had put all her savings into starting her own event planning company in Starling. The parties and celebrations of Smoak’n Events—despite its name—under her direction are elegant, flawless, and perfectly executed. From weddings to galas like this one, her mother can plan for any occasion and any client. Felicity had become a silent investor when the company had such early success that Donna could barely keep up on her own. Two years later, now with a team of ten employees and at least three bookings per week, her mother is the go-to party planner in town. The business isn’t lacking in clientele, but the high-profile clients that could potentially be made tonight is huge.
Only a few minutes into the evening, looking around the room, Felicity can already tell it’s a smashing success and is sure the mayor will have the Smoak’n team on standby for any event.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh," comes Donna's voice, as she rushes up to her daughter. She's uncharacteristically flustered. “The Queens just arrived.”
The room comes to a low murmur at the sight of the Queen family at the entrance. Robert and Moira Queen are hand in hand, each with small, polite smiles on their faces, while their daughter follows closely behind.
The guests' conversations pick back up again, and there’s a hum of happy noise throughout the room.
“Who’s that with Thea?” Donna wonders aloud, before letting out a gasp. “Oh my gosh! I think that’s their son.” Her voice is low and dramatic as she leans in closer to Felicity. “His name is Oliver. I don't think he's been home in years.”
Sure enough, Thea—who looks to be in her late teens—has her arm linked tightly around her older brother’s. The gorgeous navy blue dress she has on matches perfectly with Oliver’s tie, and Felicity knows it’s not a coincidence—Thea’s expression says it all. A smile is wide across her face and she only has eyes for her brother. It’s clear she is thrilled to have him home.
His face, meanwhile, is the opposite of what she’d seen on the plane this morning; his eyes are a little softer and not as angry, especially as he looks down at his sister. He must say something funny then, because Thea falls against him in laughter, before pulling his hand over to a group of people.
Felicity turns her back before his familiar blue eyes can find her.
Donna smoothes her dress, eying the room anxiously. “The place looks okay, though, right? And you think everything is going well?”
“Relax, mom,” Felicity soothes, pressing a comforting hand to Donna’s shoulder. “The place looks great. I’ve overheard so many people complimenting how lovely everything is.”
Donna lets out a breath. “I’ve been working with Moira for months on Robert’s birthday party, but you never know…” Her voice trails off as she peeks around her daughter to find the woman in question. “If she isn’t impressed by this party, she could fire me before Thursday's event.”
Felicity resists the urge to roll her eyes. “She won't do that, mom.”
“You can’t be so sure! You don’t know her, Felicity. You only lived here for a year—that woman can be ruthless, believe me. She’s been nothing but kind to me, but I’ve heard stories.”
Sighing, Felicity shrugs her shoulder. “Okay, yeah I don’t know her, but I still don’t think she’d do that. Just relax and enjoy the party.” Once she has her mother’s attention, she pulls her into a hug. “I’m so proud of you, mom. Really. What you’ve built for yourself is unbelievable.”
“Thank you, baby,” Donna replies softly, brushing Felicity’s hair behind her ear. “I’m so glad I followed you here five years ago. This would have never happened if I was still in Las Vegas.”
Felicity smiles and shakes her head. “I respectfully disagree, but just enjoy and bask in the fruits of your labor.”
Donna blushes and claps happily in response, then stands up more confidently on her very high heels. “Come on, I want you to meet some people.” Grabbing Felicity’s hand, she leads her into the crowd, stopping at every other person to introduce her daughter.
It isn’t until a very long two hours later that she’s finally escaped her mother’s chatty friends. She’d met everyone from Donna’s neighbors and hairstylist, to the mayor, to Detective Quentin Lance (whom her mother shamelessly flirted with). Quentin was accompanied by his daughters this evening, and though she hadn’t actually met them—since Laurel and Sara were in the crowd around the younger Queens—he had pointed them out across the room.
Now standing at a tall, rounded table alone, it is the first time all night she’s had some semblance of peace and quiet. And even though the band is still rocking out and the crowds of people are five feet away, she takes a breath and savors it.
All she wants to do is go home. She is exhausted, her head is throbbing, and all she's craving is Big Belly Burger. (It's been years.) If she wasn’t with Donna, she’d have Irish-goodbyed this thing thirty minutes ago; but since she is, she stays perched in the periphery, on alert for a short, bubbly blonde making her way through the room.
“Felicity, honey!” her mom’s voice calls out, as if on cue.
Her heart drops when she turns and spots Donna walking towards her, followed closely by Ray Palmer.
Though she’d worked at Palmer Tech for a year after college, she’d never actually formally met Ray, who’d just newly taken over his father’s helm as CEO when she’d started. They are similar in age and brain, and it is immediately evident that her mother has realized this. She can practically see a heart-shaped arrow in Donna’s hands.
“Felicity, have you met Ray Palmer? Ray, my daughter used to work for you. Isn’t that such a small world? I mean, what are the chances!”
“Smooth,” Felicity murmurs under her breath, shooting her mother a look. She gives Ray a smile and offers her hand. “Felicity Smoak. So nice to meet you.”
“And you,” he replies, grip strong as he shakes her hand.
Ray is tall, boyishly handsome, and very broad. His shoulders almost seem too big for his frame in the way that if they hugged—which they will not—she’s certain he would crush her.
His smile is kind, though, and she’d read somewhere last year that he’d recently lost his fiancée. So that, mixed with her mother’s hopeful face, is what pushes her to play nice for five minutes.
“Felicity works for a hospital in…” Donna frowns. “Where is it again, baby?”
“Bosnia,” Felicity supplies easily, confident her mother won’t notice it doesn’t match the location she’d told her a few months ago. She used to feel terrible about it, switching up the country and city names every so often, but she also knows they all go over her head. Donna Smoak wouldn’t remember a name like Kosovo, even if Felicity had lived there for years.
“Right.” Donna smiles proudly. “Bosnia.”
Ray looks surprised. “Oh, wow. I’ve been to many places in Europe, but not there. I didn’t realize you were a doctor now. What’s your specialty?”
She shakes her head quickly, waving her hand. “Oh, I’m not a doctor. I work as a technology consultant for a hospital network in Europe. They hired a team of us to set up a new computer system in some of their more deprived, lower-tier hospitals. A lot of them are still paper-based and so we’re just doing our part to bring them into the twenty-first century.” It’s a completely fictional profession, but she still likes to downplay it as much as she can. She’d set up a good digital footprint to cover her tracks, but Ray is a genius. He won’t be able to figure it all out, but he’d come closer than anyone else outside the government.
Ray, to his credit, still looks impressed. “Wow,” he praises, reaching out to cover her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “That’s really amazing, Felicity.”
Her cheeks flush at the compliment, fake as the job is, as she casually pulls her hand back to pick up her glass. “Thanks,” she replies, finishing her drink.
He notices her empty tumbler. “Can I get you another?” he offers, leading her towards the bar. “What are you drinking? Diet Coke?”
Felicity nods, confirming his guess. “10 points to Gryffindor.”
“Oh, I’m Hufflepuff,” Ray teases back without missing a beat.
Caught off guard, she lets out a loud laugh, surprised by his endearing, if not dorky, charm. Her mother, happy with what she sees, slinks off into the crowd and leaves them alone before Felicity can stop her.
Twenty long minutes later, she reluctantly has a date to Robert Queen’s party on Thursday—which Donna is requiring her to go—and is even more over everything than she was earlier in the evening.
Donna finally agreed to let her call it a night, since she’ll be home much later after the event has been broken down, so Felicity heads to pick up her coat from the coat room. It’s tucked away near the restrooms and after tipping the attendant, she heads down the quiet, low lit hallway towards the exit.
It happens so quickly.
Before she can even put on her peacoat, the door to a private bathroom opens and someone pulls her inside. She’s pushed up against it as it slams shut, and the hand covering her mouth is immediately replaced by lips.
And the rest of the world is lost to her.
The mouth devours her desperately. It only takes a moment for her to return it, but when she does, she matches the intensity with fervor. It is all tongue and teeth, pushing and pulling her deeper and deeper. The spike in the room’s temperature rivals her own and when they break, only due to lack of oxygen, her body feels like jelly.
Her lips feel swollen and thoroughly used. “Holy frack, you scared me,” she pants, working to steady her breath.
His voice is soft and apologetic as his hands frame her face. “Sorry,” he says, pressing another kiss to her mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”
His arms wrap around her frame and she nearly purrs at the warmth that spreads around her. Forget her coat—this is all she needs. Chasing it, she grasps his lapel and reaches up on her tiptoes to nuzzle further into the hollow of his neck. The position allows her to take advantage of the skin that resides there, and she relishes in the contented sound that escapes his lips as her mouth begins to tease him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all week,” she whispers, taking a moment’s pause to capture his lips again.
After another minute, she forces herself to pull away. “How was Dubrovnik?” It’s a dumb question, since she technically knows how it went, but she still wants to hear it from him.
“More difficult than I wanted it to be, but it’s over now,” he reports, exhaustion and relief evident on his face. It softens after a second. “I want to take you there. You’ll love the town and water views. And there’s really good wine.”
“Mmm,” she hums happily, stepping even further into his personal space. “We’ll add it to our list.”
He kisses her forehead. “How was last night? I’m sorry I couldn’t call—I figured I’d see you on the plane, but then realized too late that we wouldn’t be able to talk.”
“It was fine,” she answers, leaving it at that as she lets out a yawn. “What I wouldn’t have given to sit next to you on the flight, though. Those seats are comfortable, but I wanted your shoulder and body heat. Our bed seemed extra big this week.”
He tugs her close again, before pulling away with a hiss.
Concerned, she eyes him. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just a little sore.”
Her eyes narrow. "Oliver."
He shrugs it off. “I’m fine. I just strained my back when Vesper and I hit the ground, and sitting on that fucking plane for twelve hours didn’t help.”
She soothes his back with her hand, gently resting her head on his chest.
It’s quiet for a minute before he speaks again. “My mom is forcing me to take Laurel to my dad’s birthday party,” he admits tightly, and from his tone, she knows he’s happy they’re not looking eye to eye.
She fixes that, stepping away to tilt his head down to her level. “I figured,” she replies, playing it cool. (She’d watched Moira nearly force Laurel and Oliver into conversation from across the room, nevermind the fact that they are old friends.) The breath of relief he lets out makes her laugh. She fixes that too. “My mom is making me go with Ray Palmer.”
He tries—and fails—at keeping a passive face.
Felicity just tuts at him, running her hands down his spine and not stopping until they’re dangerously low. “You’re showing your green, honey. But don’t worry, he’s harmless.”
“Still,” he replies, then kisses her soundly to make his point.
She sighs when he pulls away. “But you do realize how much more freaking complicated this all just got, right? Everyone is so tangled and connected. It’s annoying.”
He shrugs, now looking amused by the situation. “It’ll be fine,” he promises, trailing his thumb across her cheekbone.
“How are you so sure? It’s stressful! My head is constantly pounding, I barely sleep, and my appetite is nonexistent. And on top of that, my mother is making me date Ray and attend all of these fancy parties which I didn’t pack for.”
He just laughs and presses a kiss on her temple.
“It’s not funny!”
“Relax, honey. Come Saturday, all of this will be over. The feds just need to finish the last of the paperwork and Curtis has to confirm all traces of our names aren’t anywhere near Vesper. Then it’ll be safe and we can go public.”
“Finally,” she says, looking and feeling more exhausted all of a sudden. The next week is going to be long. It’s only a few more days, but the thought of waiting another minute feels entirely too daunting. Summoning energy she doesn’t have, she straightens on her feet and nods. “Okay. Well, come Saturday, what should we start with first? That we just resigned from the CIA or that we’ve been secretly married for three years?”
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tbc