Author's Note - This has been, without a doubt, the best experience I've ever had writing a story. I want to give a tremendous thank you to all of the incredibly supportive, wonderful readers and reviewers out there that have helped me so much and definitely influenced both how quickly this story was written and the directions it took. I'm immensely grateful.

I have always intended this story to serve as something that *could* have happened in canon. It's never been meant to be the end of the series. As such, one problem is solved, but more loom. I don't tie everything up neatly and that's intentional. I am leaving the door open on writing a sequel at some point (I think it's pretty obvious what it would be about) and I will absolutely be doing one-shots in this 'verse. I'm also happily taking suggestions on what you'd like to see from one-shots in this universe. Feel free to leave a comment here or on my Tumblr (same user name). And thank you, again, for the warm welcome to this fandom and your support. You're all wonderful!

Three Months Later

Professionally, this is the best goddamned week of Pamela's life. And, considering she'd been the head of QC's public relations team a few years ago when a guy in the accounting department had saved a toddler from a burning car wreck, that was saying something.

"Come on, Pamela. You've gotta give us something," Debbie is saying, microphone outstretched and eyes eager. "There's a reason you called a press conference and it wasn't to talk about the quarterly reports."

"Have you seen the quarterly reports?" Pamela asks, because she's a little bit of a vindictive bitch and Debbie wasn't even returning her calls two weeks ago. Plus, this is fun. "They're very newsworthy."

"Pamela…" a reporter from the Starling City Sentinel admonishes, rolling his eyes.

"Josh, you're an entertainment reporter," Pamela points out. "Are you expanding your column to cover business, now?"

"Only when the business in question is run by Starling City's very own royalty," Josh shrugs.

"Can't you find a new pun?" Pamela winces. "That got old decades ago. I mean, seriously, you guys. 'Queen's Queen?' You couldn't come up with a better headline?"

"That depends. You got a better title for her to give to us?" Eloise asks archly, pen poised to take notes.

The press are goddamned hungry for a story, for this story, and Pamela is savoring having them at her mercy maybe a little more than is professional. That's okay, though. After the shit they've put her through the last few months? She deserves this moment.

Ever since the first picture hit the papers five days ago, Pamela's been on cloud-fucking-nine. Seriously. She couldn't have planned this better if she'd tried.

Anyone who knows Oliver and Felicity has known that they're together for months now. But the couple has managed to keep things quiet from the press. Somehow. Until now.

They'd gone out for a bite to eat. Not to Table Salt or anything like that. Not somewhere Pamela might have expected from a billionaire. No, they'd gone out to Big Belly Burger. They'd sat side-by-side in a booth with his arm around her while she talked animatedly about something, gesturing broadly with a fry as she spoke. And Oliver, the lovesick sap that Pamela knows he is, had just stared at Felicity with a dopey grin, hanging on her every word.

And someone had gotten the shot.

Pamela could fucking kiss them both for it.

It's media gold. The Moby Dick of press coverage. Her CEO is wearing jeans and hanging out at a burger joint, for chrissake. He's a goddamned man-of-the-people. Relatable.

After the story had first hit, she'd shown up in Oliver's office with a pair of tickets to the Starling City Rockets - not the company box seats - and told him to take Felicity, buy hot dogs, wear a jersey and pretend like he wasn't not trying to get on the jumbotron. He'd been understandably a little weirded out about Pamela planning his date night, but he'd also recognized a good idea when he saw one and frankly it'd been awhile since he'd taken the time to go to a game. So he'd taken the tickets. With thanks. Pamela had smiled back like Christmas had come early.

Now, with Oliver and Felicity both definitely having made the jumbotron - because Pamela is not an idiot and some things aren't left to chance - the press is desperate for the story straight from her lips. Which is how she likes it. Make the media come to her, not the other way around. Pamela knows how this game is played. And she's very, very good at it.

"Do you not remember her name?" Pamela asks, tapping at her lips as if deep in thought. "I feel like maybe if you dug through some archives you could figure it out pretty quickly."

"Stop playing coy, Pamela," Debbie tells her. "It's never been your strong suit."

"How long has Oliver Queen been involved with his secretary?" Eloise demands.

And… yeah, Pamela bristles at that. This is an angle she needs to kill. Swiftly.

"You're misinformed about Felicity Smoak's title. She's not a secretary. If you think she's hanging around his office to take messages and grab him coffee, you clearly don't know her," Pamela corrects, even though that's not the soundbyte and she knows it.

"So inform us correctly then, Pamela," Josh says with annoyance.

"Felicity Smoak is, officially, Oliver Queen's executive assistant. Unofficially? She's his partner both professionally and personally," Pamela gives them. "We're talking about a woman who graduated with her master's degree from M.I.T. at the age of nineteen. She's shockingly brilliant, genuinely nice, incredibly funny and effortlessly beautiful. Queen Consolidated is lucky to have her. So is Oliver Queen."

Pamela knows how this works. They'll cut the middle bit of that statement, whittle it down to the part about her being his partner and both QC and Oliver being lucky to have her. That's okay, though. She doesn't need to give a laundry list of ways in which Felicity is exceptional. She doesn't need to worry about winning over the public for Felicity. The younger woman is more than capable of doing that for herself. Probably without even trying.

"So did he promote his girlfriend to be his assistant or did he start dating a woman who works directly under him?" Eloise asks bitingly.

Pamela pulls a face at that. Because of course that's where the press goes with this. Jesus. This is why she picked PR instead of being a reporter after majoring in journalism. These people…

"The scandal you're looking for isn't there, Ellie," Pamela tells her. "He promoted a friend he trusted to work at his side and offer her counsel. He started dating that same friend because… let's face it, they're both ridiculously good looking, young, single people who get along well and spend a tremendous amount of time together. Honestly, wouldn't it be strange if they hadn't started dating?"

"When did it start?" Josh asks.

"Just before she got kidnapped," Pamela answers.

"You mean when she got arrested because of her involvement with the vigilante?" Debbie asks with raised eyebrows.

"Let's not put words in my mouth," Pamela snarks. "I have enough there already."

"That timing, though, Pamela," Debbie says unflinchingly. "First she gets busted kissing the Arrow, then she gets arrested, then Oliver Queen bails her out of jail and starts quietly dating her? That doesn't sound like a coincidence."

"It's not," Pamela says bluntly. "Look, there's nothing weird about an unattached woman kissing someone who's helped save her life, if she's so inclined. There's also nothing weird about a man finally deciding to act on long-repressed feelings for a friend when he realizes he might lose her to a legitimate superhero. That's not a scandal, Debbie. That's a Ryan Gosling movie."

"You trying to sell the movie rights, Pamela?" Josh asks with a smirk.

"Not mine to sell," she replies, even though she knows he's joking.

"Would you go see it if someone did?" Josh asks, because he's an entertainment reporter and he can't possibly help himself.

"Wouldn't need to," Pamela tells him. "I see them on a near daily basis as it is. I get to save myself the cost of a ticket."

"Pamela, there's been speculation on and off about Oliver Queen being one of the Arrows for years," Debbie pipes up. "Given Ms. Smoak's sudden shift of affections from the Arrow to Oliver Queen, should the public be asking again if he's one of them?"

Pamela knew this question would come up. There'd been no way it wouldn't. And she'd prepared for it. Obviously she had, she's a professional. But she still tenses slightly at Debbie's words.

"I don't do PR for the Arrows," Pamela tells her. "If Oliver Queen is one of them, he's surely never told me. But, honestly, he's a very busy man. I can't imagine when he'd find the time to suit up and play superhero."

That's… true. In the strictest sense. He hasn't ever told her. And she hasn't asked. Because telling half-truths to reporters is different that flat-out lying to them and this question has always been inevitable. But Pamela's a smart woman. And she'll never, ever forget the look on Oliver's face when Felicity had shown up on television with a gun to her head. And she knows, even if she doesn't know.

"Should we be expecting wedding bells anytime soon?" Josh asks, shifting the conversation back toward the tabloid side of things.

And… God bless him, this is exactly why she invited Josh. Pamela will bury the hard-hitting questions in vapid conversation about Felicity's favorite designers and how they spent their first date and she will be glad for it because misdirection is a tool she knows well how to wield.

"Only if you know someone getting married," she teases Josh.

"Pamela," he replies, pulling a grimace. "Come on."

"How about we let them date for a while first before we start planning a wedding?" Pamela suggests. "Look. Oliver Queen has been through a lot in his life. There's absolutely no denying that. Between losing both his parents suddenly and violently, being shipwrecked on a deserted island for five years and his best friend dying in a man-made earthquake, I think he deserves a little happiness. And right now, he's got it. There's no doubt in my mind that's due, at least in part, to his relationship with Felicity Smoak. So, let's just let them enjoy where they're at for a bit and hold off on talk about wedding venues and baby bumps, okay?"

"What does Thea Queen have to say about all of this?" Eloise asks.

It's a question that sort of surprises Pamela, which annoys the hell out of her. She doesn't like surprises. Ever. But especially not from reporters mid-press conference.

"I haven't asked her," Pamela responds plainly, because it's true.

"No one has seen her in months," Debbie points out. "Where has she been?"

"She's a twenty-year-old billionaire. Where would you be if you were young, single and rich? She was travelling around Europe, last I heard," Pamela tells them. "But, honestly, I work for Queen Consolidated, not the Queen family. I don't keep tabs on Thea Queen."

"Do you think she'd approve of her brother's relationship with Felicity Smoak?" Josh asks curiously.

"I don't know her well enough to answer that," Pamela replies. "But I do think she'd approve of seeing him happy."

"Oliver Queen doesn't exactly have the best track record with women," Eloise points out, looking at Pamela with a heavy gaze.

"Due respect, but I'm pretty sure most of the comparisons you're making are nearly a decade old," Pamela points out. "People change. I'd say their odds are a lot better than you're assuming."

"If you were a betting woman?" Josh pokes. "What would you think of their chances?"

"I am a betting woman. And I wouldn't ever bet against either Oliver Queen or Felicity Smoak. Both of them together? Seems like a sure thing to me."

One Year And Two Months Later

"The SCPD declines to make any comment about yesterday's events at this time," Bryce tells the horde of reporters that greet him as soon as he steps out of his car and heads towards the double doors to the hospital.

The din is horrible, a flurry of questions and demands that he is completely unwilling to address. It's the cap on a really horrible week that he can't wait to forget.

They'd been tipped off by the Arrow about a truly horrifying sex trafficking ring that had damn near overrun the west side of the Glades and the wharf. It had been too much for the Arrow to handle on his own and too much for the SCPD to handle on their own. In truth, it had almost proven too much for them to handle together.

Someone had tipped off the traffickers.

Bryce knows the Arrow well enough by now, knows his team well enough, to be certain the leak wasn't from them. It's from the SCPD. Someone in his department is kidnapping and selling runaways, street kids who society has already failed, and Bryce is going to tear through the department, pull it apart piece by piece until he figures out who it is. Because this? This ends. Now. Because he's said so. Because the only thing that disgusts him more than the idea of someone kidnapping and selling kids as sex slaves is the idea that it's a cop that's doing it.

But that isn't his only concern at the moment.

Far from it.

Team Arrow might not have had the leak in it, but it sure felt the ramifications of it. Bryce will never forget seeing the Arrow fall, two armor-piercing shots to his center mass sending the archer crumbling onto the floor of a dirty warehouse two blocks from the wharf.

Honestly, Bryce had thought Oliver Queen was dead the moment he saw the hits land. He'd been wrong at the time, but it's still extremely touch-and-go even now. Bryce and Lance had provided a police escort to the hospital, getting them there in damned near record time. Later, he'd found out that Oliver had flatlined twice on the way.

Felicity had beaten them there, pacing the waiting room of the ER when they ran in. He still can't get the look on her face out of his head. The pale-eyed look of terror, the way her hands shook and her body crumbled against John Diggle's for support as they wheeled Oliver past her, the paramedics still doing CPR.

She's an Army wife, he realizes, even if she and Oliver aren't married and he isn't really in the military. She sits - every night - wondering if he'll make it back home but supporting him all the same. She is strong, in a way that all military wives are. But right now? Right now she needs everyone else to be strong for her. And so does Oliver.

He's busy fighting for his life. He can't fight to protect his identity, his team. Not now.

But Bryce and Lance can.

The press had gotten wind of the Arrow being shot mere seconds after he'd been wheeled through the ER, hood and mask still firmly in place thanks to quick thinking by Lance. Someone with a sprained wrist in the waiting area had posted something on Facebook, which had gotten shared over and over again until Channel 52 had picked it up and then the media really went nuts.

Lance had gotten Felicity and Diggle, and later the rest of the team, into a private waiting area. It wouldn't do to have Oliver Queen's very public, longtime girlfriend sobbing hysterically over the Arrow in public. Not if they wanted to maintain his anonymity.

And Bryce? Bryce handled the rest of it.

Far as he was concerned, Oliver Queen was shot in the line of duty. He wasn't going to let the press hang him for it.

The SCPD closed ranks. Bryce posting carefully chosen officers along Oliver's hallway, blocking off the media and guarding from anyone else who might want to take advantage of the currently unconscious hero.

They protect their own.

"How is he?" Bryce asks as he closes in on Lance, who's posted just outside Oliver's door and has been for at least the last ten hours.

"Breathing on his own," Lance tells him. "Which is a hell of a lot better than I'd expected."

Bryce lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"And the team?" Bryce asks.

"Felicity hasn't left his side since they brought him back from surgery. Pretty sure she hasn't slept either. She's a helluva strong woman but this... " Lance says, shaking his head. "Let's just say I'm glad she's got Digg and my girls. She needs 'em right now."

Bryce nods. Everyone has their breaking point.

"You talk to Pamela?" Lance asks.

"Yeah," Bryce winces. "Make sure we keep Felicity out of sight because if anyone asks, she and Oliver are on vacation for the next two weeks."

"You think that'll be enough time?" Lance asks skeptically.

"Honestly, I'm surprised we aren't all wearing black armbands about now," Bryce tells him gravely.

"Yeah," Lance agrees. "Me too. Dunno how many lives he's got but it seems like he's well past nine at this point."

"Long as it's at least one more," Bryce replies.

"He's got reasons to hold on," Lance says, possibly trying to convince himself. "He'll make it."

He does. But as far as the press is concerned, Oliver and Felicity have a very long vacation.

Two and a Half Years Later

It is no small matter of pride to Nelson that after three short years he's clawed his way up to assistant manager of large electronics. He has a position of authority and responsibility and he takes this very, very seriously. Under his leadership, the department's sales have risen 1.2% and they've sold 2.7% more credit cards, which is even more important than televisions, and Nelson is pretty sure if he keeps this up he might even make assistant manager of a whole store in a few more years.

That's a big deal.

His mom even says so.

So… yeah, he's important. And right now? Right now his staff is in need of his guidance. Because his people are standing around watching the televisions instead of selling them. And, okay, maybe it's not peak hours right now, but there are still people in the store and his staff is not being paid to watch tv.

"Emmy, have you talked to the girls over near the Sonys?" Nelson asks, arms crossed as he chastises the teenage new hire.

She won't make it here. He knows it. She's not cut out for this.

"Yeah, they're not buying a television. They just came in to pick up an iTunes gift card and they got distracted," she replies, never tearing her eyes from the screen in front of her.

Nelson huffs in annoyance.

"If they got distracted by the television, then there's a chance to sell them the television," he informs her.

"Uh… they got distracted by the Queen wedding," Emmy says, finally glancing at him as if he's the idiot here. "Seriously, have you not even looked at the television? Every girl in this store is in our department right now watching this because oh my God can that man wear a tux. And a smile. And oh man how romantic are they?"

She sighs as she turns back to the television, her hand clutched in a little fist over her heart as she blinks ridiculously at the screen.

Nelson looks around his department, his domain, and… yeah… they're all like this. Really? This is… this is a place of business, damn it! They shouldn't be here to ogle some rich guy in a tux who happens to be on the screen. The televisions are on to show resolution and the difference between HD and standard and 3-D and wow there are a lot of women in front of the 3-D display.

"This is ridiculous," Nelson proclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration.

This day is going to kill his sales numbers. Isn't there a sports game on or something? Does every station have to be showing Oliver Queen getting married? He doesn't get what the big deal is. People get married every day. Rich people, poor people, all kinds of people. What the hell makes this special?

He studies the television for a moment, trying to figure it out. The bride, he realizes, is someone he remembers clearly. His own little brush with celebrity, all those years ago when she'd tried to use her then-boss'/now-husband's credit card. Which was against policy, even if Kelsey had allowed it.

They look happy and wrapped up in each other and don't seem to give a damn about the camera filming them and Nelson does not care because this does not sell televisions.

"Still wouldn't let her use his card," he grumbles to himself, heading over toward a very bored looking man standing near the Panasonics waiting on his highly distracted wife. "Married or not, it's not her name on the card. It's still against policy."

Four Years Later

"Obviously, A.R.C.C. is thrilled with the passage of Measure 52," Kelsey Pelinski says clearly into the microphones thrust in front of her. "The Good Samaritan Protection Act helps to ensure that all our rights are protected. There's nothing illegal about wearing a mask and there's nothing illegal about saving someone's life. We need to recognize that and spend our time and resources going after the real criminals in this city. Ever since Major Bryce retired last year, the SCPD seems to have lost sight of that."

She's flanked by supporters, two on each side, all of them wearing dark green hoodies with their now familiar logo emblazoned across the front - two clasped hands, one gloved and one bare - Arrows' Rescued Citizens' Counsel printed beneath it. Four years ago, all Kelsey had wanted to do was say 'thank you.' It had taken a while, but eventually, she'd figured out how.

"Your opposition claimed that the passage of this act would result in an upswing in masked robberies and kidnappings," points out one of the reporters, her voice louder than the rest.

"Luckily for us all, the public realized that was ridiculous," Kelsey points out. "So did the criminologists we talked to. Look, if someone is going to hold up a convenience store, do you really think they're going to be concerned with whether or not wearing a mask is illegal? Clothing is a form of expression. That's something we protect in this country, last time I checked."

"Records show you've amassed a huge amount in campaign contributions," one of the reporters says.

"We're fortunate to have many supporters," Kelsey responds.

"Yet it's not all small donations from people in the Glades, is it?" the reporter follows up.

"A lot were, but not all," Kelsey allows. "Believe it or not, there are people outside of high-crime areas who are concerned with the idea of protecting the good samaritans of this city and it's not always the poor who need rescuing."

"Indeed," the reporter continues. "In fact, Mrs. Queen is one of your organization's members, isn't she?"

"She was rescued by a masked good samaritan," Kelsey nods, brow knitted. "More than once, actually. In fact, I'm pretty sure those are stories you covered, Gene. What's your point?"

"There was a sizable anonymous donation made to the campaign," he clarifies. "One might start to wonder if the Queens were the source of it."

"One might start to wonder if you know what 'anonymous' means," Kelsey bites back. "The Queens were generous enough to host a benefit gala for us. We raised a lot of money that night. Some of it was anonymous. It's going to stay that way."

"And what's going to happen to all that money now that the campaign is over?" Asks another reporter. "Unlike many political campaigns, you've barely scraped the surface of the funds you've amassed."

"The Arrows' Rescued Citizens' Counsel's work is far from done," Kelsey assures them. "We have a legal defense fund set up for good samaritans being wrongly persecuted by the police. We're working to maintain support groups for victims of violence throughout the city. And we're in the process of setting up free self-defense classes and first aid training. This measure doesn't mark the end of our work. It's just the first step in the right direction."

"Ms. Pelinski," says the first reporter again, drawing her attention back. "Is there anything you'd like to say to the Arrows. If they're watching."

Kelsey smiles a little at this. It brightens her eyes, makes her look younger than all this serious business about politics and measures make her seem.

"I said 'thank you' once already," Kelsey tells the camera, staring right into it as she talks. "That time, I was a scared, traumatized girl who felt helpless and directionless. But the Arrow saved me, saved us. For years now. And all 1,752 members of A.R.C.C. are so grateful to have the chance to return the favor, in some small way. You've had our backs. Now we'll have yours. So, this time, when I say thank you, it's not just because you saved me; it's because you gave me purpose. I can't repay that, but I'll keep trying. I refuse to fail this city, and so do 1,751 of my closest friends."

Six Years Later

Timing, they say, is everything.

Two weeks ago, Marcus Harrier had been on rotation in orthopedics. Now, however, he's in obstetrics and gynecology. This is not his favorite field of medicine. At all. But, at this point in med school, it's not like he has a whole lot of say.

Still.

He hadn't really thought he'd end up in the delivery room with someone he knows.

"Please tell me you took women's studies?"

It's seriously the first thing out of Felicity Smoak's - sorry, Felicity Queen's - mouth when she sees him standing awkwardly near the doorway looking at her chart. Because of course it is. They haven't seen each other in six years, she's four centimeters dilated - which he knows because he stared at her chart sort of an absurdly long time - and her first concern is whether or not he took women's studies.

"Both Intro to Women's Studies and Communication and Gender. Aced them both," he tells her with a smile, three very confused med students on the same rotation as him looking at him in confusion from his side.

"Well done, Dr. Harri- oh fuck," she curses, smile falling quickly as her face contorts in pain, another contraction wrenching through her body.

"You're okay. Just breathe through it. You're good," her husband is saying next to her, looking fully like he's trying not to panic and almost succeeding while he's brushing her hair back from her face.

"Our definitions of 'good' vary hugely," she grits out through very short puffs of breath.

"I know. I know," her husband says with a wince. "Just… try to think of something else. Something relaxing."

"What, like my 'happy place?' My happy place is totally what got me to this point, Oliver. I really don't think thinking about that is gonna help right now," she says with a laugh that looks more like a sob and is probably actually a little of both. "Drugs would help. Can I have drugs? Drugs sound like… really good about now."

"Soon," says Dr. Ramirez, the attending, adjusting the fetal heart rate monitor on Felicity's… really incredibly huge stomach.

"How soon?" Felicity asks, sounding a little desperate. "Like… are we talking 'dinner is soon, it's just come out of the oven' or is it more like 'the game will be over soon, honey, there's only ten minutes left.' Cause… let me tell you, that last one is not gonna cut it right now."

"Probably somewhere in the middle," says Dr. Ramirez. "You're doing well, Felicity. This will all be over soon and you'll get to hold your girls, okay?"

Huh… twins. Well, that explains her size, anyhow. Apparently Marcus hadn't so much studied that chart as he had hidden behind it.

She whimpers again, another contraction causing her to curl into herself. Her husband holds her hands through it, pressing his forehead to hers, his shoulders hunched toward her.

Once upon a time, Oliver Queen had seemed virtually untouchable to Marcus. He'd been a myth more than a man. But in this moment, he's entirely, totally human. He's nervous and excited and obviously wishing he could do anything at all to take his wife's pain away.

He's real.

And that throws Marcus more than the idea that he's about to help deliver Felicity Smoak Queen's twins.

Three hours and forty seven minutes later, there are twenty fingers and twenty toes and two very good sets of lungs wailing in that hysterical tone that only a newborn can manage. Felicity is utterly exhausted. That much is immediately obvious, but she's still reaching her arms out for her daughters before the nurses have even finished cleaning them off.

The older baby - the bigger of the two, if only by two ounces - is cleaned off first, her airways cleared and little face wiped down. She's a squirmy one, but she settles instantly as soon as the nurse deposits her into Felicity's arms.

The new mom looks completely astonished as the newborn nuzzles against her skin, recognizing her instinctively.

"Oh wow… Oliver, I… just… wow," Felicity starts, apparently unable to finish a coherent thought.

She looks up toward her husband after a second, pulling her eyes away from the baby girl in her arms. He's staring back completely mesmerized, like he can't quite process what's actually going on, like he's hopeful and terrified all at once.

Marcus feels like this is a completely understandable reaction.

The other man reaches out a hand, ghosts it softly across his baby girl's full head of dark, curly hair. He lets out a little puff of a laugh, looking from the baby's face to his wife's and back again like he's in awe, like he can't quite believe any of this is real.

"You want to hold your younger daughter, daddy?" The nurse asks, holding the freshly swaddled smaller twin in her arms.

Oliver looks to Felicity for a moment. Like he's waiting for permission. Like this can't really be his. But it is. And all his wife does is smile hugely at him in return.

"Yeah, I… yes. Definitely. I do. Please," Oliver Queen responds in an uncharacteristic fumble for words.

The nurse smiles gently and shifts the baby into his arms. She's a small thing with wispy light hair and clear blue-grey eyes that blink up him with hazy awareness. She doesn't fuss like her sister. She just takes everything in with wide, trusting eyes.

Marcus can practically see it as she wraps Oliver Queen around her little finger.

He settles into the chair next to his wife's bed, his little girl carefully cushioned in the safety of his arms. His eyes never leave the baby's face. Not for an instant. He smiles down at her, soft and nervous, and his eyes get dewey.

"Those are two beautiful, healthy girls you have right there. You did a great job, mom," says Dr. Ramirez, squeezing Felicity's shoulder.

"We did great work," Felicity corrects with a smile, looking to her husband. "We make an awesome team."

Nine Years Later

Edith Smoak hosts poker games every Tuesday night. She's been trying to convince everyone to make it strip poker for years, but the other ladies won't do it and the men try to pretend they aren't interested.

Prudes, she thinks. The lot of them.

That's okay, though, because even at eighty-eight, Edith Smoak is one sharp lady and she and gambling are old flames. She knows how to fleece her fellow retirees.

Still… Joe Johnson brings the good bourbon and Regina bring a casserole and Gary is just so handsome, so she always gets a good crowd on Tuesdays.

"Did you hear about Ethel in 42C?" Asks Arline Buckwiler in a gossipy tone that Edith is fairly certain is the other woman's only voice.

"Did she run off with Brad Pitt?" Edith deadpans.

"What? No!" Arline replies, looking highly confused. "Brad Pitt? What in the world… No, she moved in with her granddaughter. Isn't that just lovely?"

Edith scrunches her nose at this, because… no. No, it's not. As much as she loves her daughter and her granddaughter and her great-granddaughters, living with any of them would make strip poker Tuesdays a total impossibility and that's not an idea she's willing to give up on entirely.

"Woulda been better if she'd run off with Brad Pitt," Edith confides, stirring the god awful bean dip that Arline always insists on bringing but no one eats.

"You've got a granddaughter, don't you, Edith?" Arline asks.

And… that crafty old bat. She glances over at Joe Johnson as she talks and Edith's got this woman's game figured out. She's had it figured out since she was seventeen and working on the strip.

"One very brilliant, very beautiful and very rich granddaughter, yes," says Edith, blinking sweetly at Arline. "I've forgotten, Arline. Do you have any grandkids?"

"Oh… you know, one grandson. But he's quite busy," Arline says hurriedly, waving it off.

And he is. If by busy you mean 'doing time,' anyhow.

"Still," Arline says, not letting it go. "I can't understand why you don't live with her and her family in that big fancy mansion of theirs."

She's a little louder this time and it draws the attention of the people gathering around the poker table. Edith decides on the spot that Arline is most definitely not invited to strip poker nights.

"You goin' somewhere Eddie?" Joe asks, looking pleasantly unhappy about the notion.

"No, no. Not at all," Edith says dismissively. "Arline was just noting how lovely my granddaughter and her family are and how nice their home is."

She nods towards a picture on her mantle as she speaks. It's one of her favorites. Little Johanna has her arms wrapped around Felicity's leg and Tera is laughing as their dog tries to lick her face. They're adorable. Her three-year-old grandbabies always are. But it's Felicity and Oliver who really make the shot.

Edith Smoak's had a lot of men in her life. No shortage of love over the years, either. But she's not sure she's ever had anyone look at her the way Oliver Queen looks at her granddaughter.

One of his hands is cupping the back of her head and the other is braced against the small of her back. Her hands rest against the sides of his face, her fingers skirting the edge of cheekbones. They're each other's whole world and it's obvious. And it damned well makes Edith Smoak smile every time she sees the picture. Even if it does look suspiciously like another shot she recalls from nine years ago or so.

"Wasn't there a thing a while back where your granddaughter was involved with the vigilante?" Arline asks, all wide-eyed as if she doesn't really know and that it's somehow scandalous.

"That was the rumor," Edith confirms.

"I wonder… you know… what happened there," Arline nods conspiratorially.

"Well… you know what they say," Edith Smoak says with a coy smile that lifts away the decades from her weathered face for a just a moment as she glances back toward the shot of her granddaughter's family. "A picture's worth a thousand words."

Maybe, she thinks, this one is worth even more.