A/N: So, as you might have guessed, this is Jane The Virgin - OLICITY STYLE! I wasn't going to write this, but then I couldn't stop thinking about it. So...here you go!

Felicity The Virgin

There were three things Felicity knew with certainty. Never go to bed with wet hair. The only real way to drink coffee is to drink it black. And she would never get used to going to the gynecologist.

She thought of that last one as she sat with her legs in the hospital issued stirrups, reading the trite inspirational quotes that covered the walls of the room. The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have. Your big opportunity may be right were you are now. It might be uncomfortable to have an arguable stranger rifling through your insides, but, hey, at least she'd leave with some inspiration.

She was using another of the practice's doctors this time, her usual one on vacation in Europe. He was all business, not offering her more than a perfunctory hello when he walked in, and then getting straight to business. When he was finished he pushed back from the bed, flipping off the light he'd used during the examination.

"Alright, you're finished. We'll be in touch to schedule a follow up."

"A follow up?" Felicity asked, pulling the paper dressing over her lap to cover herself.

"Standard procedure to see how things are advancing," he said absentmindedly, already heading toward the door. On his way out he added, "Just talk to the nurses out front. Nice meeting you, Ms. Smoak."

She didn't know what exactly would be advancing, but since the chief person who could correct her lack of understanding was probably halfway across the hospital by now at his rate of speed, there was little to do. It was standard procedure, after all. Those two words in themselves meant she shouldn't worry. So, she got dressed and headed back out into the relentless Las Vegas heat.


Felicity didn't particularly enjoy waitressing at casinos. Then again, who in their right mind would say they did? It was a means to an end, and she reminded herself of that every day when she put on the shimmering champagne shift dress and heels. She had one year of grad school left to pay for, and then she could finally hang up her cocktail dress, and her mother could, too.

Donna Smoak never complained about the work – it supported both of them and helped put Felicity through college – but even the strongest woman got sick of roving hands and shitty tips. That was why Felicity worked so hard. So she could give her mother the life she deserved. She'd get her set up somewhere off the strip, and they'd burn all their pushup bras and proudly proclaim to never serve another person a drink again.

Until then, though, they were stuck. Las Vegas was a town of casinos, and unless you wanted to be working for minimum, minimum wage you pushed your sensibility to the side and joined the cabaret.

"Do you know someone out there actually sent back his whiskey and coke because there wasn't enough whiskey in it?" her fellow waitress, and friend, Tamara said, mixing drinks with Felicity in the back bar.

"Let me guess, it was a penny slotter?"

Tamara topped the glass off with a splash of whiskey. "Of course it was. I'm half tempted to just add more soda and then avoid their section."

"That will get you fired."

"Nah. Probably just a firm reprimand," Tamara said. "You know Hank. He's a big softie."

"I saw him make one of the girls cry last week for wearing flats."

"We're waitresses at a casino," Tamara said, sniffing. "Only an idiot would wear flats."

"I'm glad to see you're so understanding with your fellow waitresses," Felicity teased, dropping a maraschino cherry into a Shirley Temple black.

"People get what they deserve," Tamara held airily. She hesitated for a moment and then sighed, reaching forward and adding another splash of whiskey to the glass. "Watch, now he'll say there's too much whiskey."

Felicity smirked, watching Tamara walk out toward the floor. Felicity mixed two more drinks and then headed out to her section of the floor. A few people at slot machines flagged her down and she stopped, taking their orders before heading over to deliver the drinks on her tray.

On her way back to the bar she was met with what could only be a bachelor party. You could always tell them by the stench of alcohol and desperation.

"Hey, babe, over here!" one of the men yelled, gesturing for her. Swallowing her gut reaction to bristle at being called babe by anyone, she plastered on a smile and walked over.

"Hello boys, what can I get you?" she asked.

"Tell me," another asked, slipping an around her waist. "Do you come with the drinks?"

Every inch of her body wanted to shove her tray into his chest, but she clenched her muscles tightly and willed herself to stay calm as she chirped, "I'm afraid not. We have pretty great drinks, though. What about margaritas? You guys look like you could use a round."

The guy holding her waist moved his hand down and slapped her bottom.

"Now, that is an idea. Margaritas all around."

Order taken she quickly pulled away from the man, unnecessarily jotting margaritas down on a cocktail napkin as she went back to the bar. Tamara was back, mixing another set of drinks.

"I saw you got the bachelor party," Tamara noted.

"And I got my ass slapped," Felicity returned in a tight voice.

Tamara shook her head, balancing a tray of drinks against her waist. "Just another day on the job, huh?"

She walked off to the floor and Felicity sighed, resting her palms on the bar.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Just another day."


"I don't know. Isn't another burger place a little…been there done that?" Oliver asked, sitting with a bunch of suits in a small conference room. "I mean, there's already Bobby's Burger Palace at New York, New York. Then there's Gordon Ramsay's Burgr at Planet Hollywood. Le Burger Brassier at Paris."

"He knows this because he's eaten at all of them. Repeatedly," Tommy added with a wry grin.

"We could differentiate ourselves," a suit said emphatically. "We can make it themed. Or only use organic produce. Local produce!"

"From where?" Tommy said. "We're in the middle of a desert."

"I don't want this casino to be just like the others," Oliver said. "It needs to stand out. I just don't think another burger place is going to do that."

"Salads," one of the suits said slowly. "What about salads? You never see salad places on the strip. It's all fried food and grease."

"Yeah, because who asks for fresh greens when they're trashed?" Tommy intoned.

"It's different," he offered in a small voice.

"It's misguided," Tommy held. "I still don't think it would be a terrible idea to pick up a Food Network chef. Tourists love that shit."

"What about a classic Las Vegas restaurant?" Oliver mused. "One with good food at low prices. A full prime rib meal for ten dollars. Dollar shrimp cocktails. We don't have much of that up here on the strip."

"Because it detracts from a nicer hotel," one of the suits said sagely. "You define yourself by the product you offer. If you offer cheap food, you – "

"Give people the option to have a delicious dinner without spending a hundred dollars," Oliver finished. "And the money they don't spend there they'll go spend in our casino."

"I don't know, Mr. Queen. There is a reason no other casinos in this part of the strip offer those sort of meals."

"Yes, because they're far too short sighed," Oliver said. "And, frankly, a little stuck up. In what universe is a filet worth sixty dollars?"

"That one from Mario Batali's restaurant was pretty good," Tommy noted. "I mean, it probably wasn't worth sixty. Fifty, maybe."

Oliver grinned, beginning to gather his papers on the table. "Alright, let's work on plans for a traditional Las Vegas restaurant. We'll meet again in two weeks to see where we are. Does that work for everyone?"

There was a general chorus of affirmation and Oliver stood up, walking out of the conference room with Tommy on his heel. They walked out into an ornately decorated corridor, all marble and high ceilings. It had been six months since his family opened the casino, but he still felt the slightest thrill when he walked the expansive hallways. They'd built something beautiful, and he took immense care and pride in every inch of it.

"I still think the burger place could have worked," Tommy said. "Who doesn't love a burger?"

"Everyone does," Oliver admitted. "But they also have about eighty other places to choose from."

Tommy shrugged. "Fair enough. Hey, you and Laurel went to see Dr. Lerman this morning, right?"

Oliver nodded.

"How was it? I mean, when will you know if it worked?"

"Not for a week or so," he said.

"How are you handling it?" Tommy asked.

"It's difficult," Oliver admitted. "After Laurel's miscarriage last year, it's just…we really need this to work."

"Either way, you guys are strong," Tommy told him. "You'll get through this."

"Thanks man."


Felicity got the call during her a break at work at the end of the week. She was sitting at the casino's small coffee shop, getting some much needed caffeine, when her phone rang. It was a nurse on the other end who told her in no unequivocal terms that she was to come to the hospital the next day.

"I'm sure it's nothing bad," Donna told her, giving her daughter's arm a motherly squeeze.

"It sounded pretty bad," Felicity said. "Okay, maybe not bad, but definitely a little apocalyptic. I think the nurse's voice was actually wavering."

"Don't get yourself all worried," Donna said gently. "It'll give you wrinkles."

Felicity smirked. Of course when she was panicking her mother's first inclination would be to warn her about wrinkles.

"Can you come with me?" Felicity asked, sipping her coffee.

"Of course. If it will make you feel better, I'll be there."

So, it was Donna and Felicity Smoak, sitting in an overly air-conditioned patient visiting room as Felicity's one-time-gynecologist admitted to accidentally artificially inseminating her.

"Excuse me?" Felicity stammered. "I-I don't think I understood you correctly. Because you just said I was artificially inseminated, and that-that's crazy. That's totally, certifiably, hey-is-this-banana-a-phone-crazy."

The doctor explained again – he got the room numbers of her and another patient who was being artificially inseminated confused – but Felicity couldn't understand. It was absolute insanity. Really. This couldn't be happening.

"You may not become pregnant," the doctor said, grabbing Felicity's attention. "We're going to draw some blood today and test it. The pregnancy may not show this early, so we will have to draw your blood again if it comes back negative, but…"

He went off into the land of apologies again, but Felicity stopped listening. It was possible she wouldn't become pregnant. This could still turn out okay. Sure, some rando's sperm had swum their way up her fallopian tubes, but that didn't have to mean she was pregnant.

"Where can I get this blood test taken?" Felicity interrupted.

"Doctor, whose sperm exactly did you inseminate my daughter with?" Donna asked pointedly. If looks could kill, the look that accompanied that question would have rendered the doctor deader than a doornail.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information at this time."

"It'll come out when we sue the crap out of you," Donna said harshly. "So, how about you just say it now? Whose sperm did you inseminate my daughter with?"

The doctor hesitated and Felicity murmured, "Oh God, it's some magician, isn't it? Or a Jonas Brother?"

The doctor sighed, defeat evident on his face. "It's Oliver Queen."

Felicity's mouth dropped open.


The first time Felicity met Oliver Queen was on a plane ride from New York to Las Vegas. She'd gone to New York to represent her high school in New York's premiere science fair. It had been three whirlwind days of talking up her exhibit and hobnobbing with the science world's best. By the time she boarded the plane she was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open.

She didn't.

She'd fallen asleep before the plane even took off, the sound of chatter and luggage being shoved into overhead compartments lulling her to sleep. She awoke with something soft against her cheek. It smelled like pine and lemon. It wasn't until she'd rubbed her nose against it a few times that she realized there was a firm body beneath it, and she glanced up, breath catching in her throat when her eyes fell on a well-drawn jaw.

She'd pulled back, stammering some apology, but Oliver only chuckled warmly and told her, "It seemed like you needed the sleep more than I needed my shoulder."

He'd gone back to his book then and she pressed back into her seat, suddenly wide awake.

"Plane guy inseminated you?" Donna whispered loudly as her and Felicity walked down to flobotamy.

"I cannot deal with this right now," Felicity said in a tight voice. "I'll just take the blood test. And if the results are…" she swallowed hard, "…then I'll deal with that. But not right now. I can't."

"Okay," Donna said, grasping her daughter's arm. "It's going to be fine. You heard the doctor. There's only a little over a 50/50 chance that the insemination works. I bet you this will all turn out okay. We'll laugh about it later." She slid her arm around her shoulders and echoed their earlier conversation as she said, "Everything will be okay."

It wasn't. Felicity found out a week later at 3:34 in the afternoon that she was pregnant, and she promptly vomited in an ice bucket.

"Oh, baby, it's going to be okay," Donna said, rubbing her back. "Everything will be okay."


When Oliver found out Dr. Lerman inseminated the wrong woman with his sperm he was livid, and then he found out he'd accidentally inseminated a cocktail waitress and now she was pregnant, and he ran out of emotions. That was, until he and Laurel met her in a private dining room in his casino. A whole gamut of emotions ran through him as the diminutive blonde and a similarly blonde, but older, woman walked to their table.

He recognized her immediately, although he couldn't place her. It was when she sat down, trembling hands grasping the edge of the mahogany table, that it came to him.

"It's you," he murmured.

Laurel looked at him in confusion and she said, "You two know each other?"

"No, not really," he said quickly. "We…" he shook his head at the serendipity, "…we met on a plane some years ago."

"Seven," Felicity said nervously. "It was seven years ago." She turned her attention to his wife. "I'm Felicity Smoak and this is my mom Donna."

"Laurel Queen," the woman said in a guarded voice. Felicity half-reached for her hand, but when she noticed it wasn't offered she quickly returned her own to her lap.

"I don't think there's a stranger way for our paths to cross again," Oliver said in a stilted matter, rubbing at his neck. He looked just about as uncomfortable as she felt, and she took some solace in that.

"I can't think of one," Felicity offered nervously.

"Are you planning on having the baby?" Laurel interjected suddenly. Felicity started visibly at the question and Oliver quietly said, "Laurel, maybe we should start with something a little easier? Get to know each other."

"We don't need to get to know anyone," she said stubbornly. "What we need is a plan."

"Laurel-"

"Are you going to have the baby?" Laurel repeated.

"I haven't really thought about what I'm going to do," Felicity said slowly. "I mean, it's a pretty big decision. One I didn't see myself needing to make for a very long time. Like, years from now. Many, many years."

"I'm sorry, of course," Laurel said. "I…it's just this is very difficult for me. We've tried this three times already and it hasn't worked. And you just…" she trailed off, jaw clenching as she cast her eyes away from the woman having her husband's child. Oliver squeezed her knee gently.

"Whatever you decide, Laurel and I will support you fully," Oliver said. "We'll pay for your doctor visits, medication, everything."

"You don't have to do that –"

"Yes, we do," Oliver held. "We're part of the reason you're in this situation. And, if you do choose to having the baby, we would very much like to be a part of its life."

Felicity's mind spun as she considered all the options out in front of her. She knew his telling her that they would support her was supposed to make her feel better, but it only added to her anxiety. Now, whatever she chose, there would be two extra people affected.

"Thank you," she finally said. "I appreciate you both…supporting me."

"This is my card," Oliver said, pushing a small business card toward her. "My cell phone number is on it and I've written Laurel's on the back. You can call us anytime, any day. If you need anything, do not hesitate."

"Thank you."

With the pertinent information for the time being having been discussed, a lull of silence fell across the table. Oliver cleared his throat and said, "Would you like something to eat? I can have the kitchen whip you both something up."

"Oh, thanks, but I have class soon," Felicity said. "So, I probably should be going."

"Class? I thought you worked as a waitress," Laurel said.

"I do," Felicity said. "But only a few afternoons and nights a week. I'm a graduate student at University of Nevada."

A slow grin spread on Oliver's mouth. "What are you studying?"

"Computer networking," Felicity said. "And, I actually have class in about twenty minutes, so I should really…"

"Right, go," Oliver said, standing up. "We wouldn't want to make you late."

He walked around the table and extended his hand toward her. She hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. Electricity shot up through her hand, and they both pulled back, laughing slightly.

"Sorry," she said. "There must be static in here or something."

"Yeah, it must be that," he sad off-handedly.

"It was nice meeting both of you," Felicity said. "Or, I guess, meeting you," she gestured toward Laurel and then Oliver, "and seeing you. Since I already met you. When I fell asleep on your shoulder. And, okay, I'm going to leave now. I'll…"

She left without another word, Donna trailing behind her. She took her daughter's arm and asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," Felicity said, shaking her head. She glanced back at Oliver and Laurel outside of the private dining room. Laurel was saying something to him, her expression hinting that what she was saying was not particularly pleasant.

"I'm not okay at all."

A/N: If you would like to see more of this, let me know in a review!