UNTIL DEATH DO THEY PART
(Part 2)

"When you believe in what you do, you find a way to make it work [...] you find yourself someone you never have to apologize to."
McKenna Hall, S01E17

Oliver chose my ring.

He didn't have to say it; anyone else would have given me a diamond. His was a round-cut emerald, set in white gold.

The stone seemed to catch the laugh, green fire igniting like a distant star in its centre. And though the round-cut was traditional, there was a reason for that; it fractured the light to spectacular effect.

He'd given me an emerald.

I loved it.

The wedding was over, but we weren't done.

Oliver and I were seated together at a small mahogany table set aside in an equally tiny room on the fourth floor of the hotel . . . while our guests made their way to the reception. We would be joining them soon, but first, responsibility.

This wallpapered closet only just fit our witnesses, and the two sets of attorneys hired specifically to facilitate our union.

. . . the contract itself printed on expensive cream parchment. No less a legally binding agreement. Oliver's solid presence relieved me; I would have hated sitting at that table by myself.

The Queen family's team of attorneys, and my own lawyers, advocating for my family's interests in this marriage, stood in segregated lines across from us.

As serious, and solemn, as a funeral procession.

Behind us, our witnesses; my parents, Oliver's mom, and his step-father, Walter.

As was required, our contract was read to us one last time. Too late now to make any adjustments. To change our minds. A formality. Just as ceremonial as the exchanging of rings.

This was weird.

Who would have thought the post-wedding, pre-reception half-hour would have been more nerve-wracking than the build-up to having to kiss a near-total stranger in front of an audience of four hundred people?

I could still taste him.

Feel the firm warmth of his mouth on mine.

Not exactly an unpleasant memory. Brief, but memorable. I had to actively resist the urge to lick my lips.

Finally, mercifully, the older gentleman in a smart gray suit finished reading. Our contract, printed on that fancy cream paper, was slid across the glossy table.

This was it.

My dad set a reassuring hand on my bare shoulder, and then withdrew. Moira shifted, her sparkling dress hissing on the carpet. My hands clenched in my lap.

The groom first. He signed and then passed the contract to me. His name, 'Oliver J. Queen' scrawled in dark, liquid ink that would require a few minutes to dry.

I accepted the pen; surprised by the weight of it in my hand. Ivory, set in gold.

So easy. It took only a second and I was glad Ididn't stumble my signature when abandoning my maiden name, signing the legal document'AmeliaS. Queen' for the first time . . .

"I am so sorry. We really thought Naomi would sleep through to the end of the ceremony."

I pressed my hand to Owen's arm, wanting to laugh, "Don't apologize, that was funny. She couldn't have timed it better if it'd been planned."

"Still," he said. "We should have left her with a sitter."

"And deny me the chance to see my niece? How dare you."

My brother-in-law smiled, relieved and very likely grateful that I wasn't taking myself too seriously. But really, what was there to be mad about? As far as I was concerned, Naomi's cry made the ceremony memorable – and I was absolutely going to share this story, when she got a little older.

The reception hall was bustling, alive with music from the live band hired for the event, and hundreds of conversations. Laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses.

"You glad it's over?"

"We're not done yet," I said.

"No, but the formal part at least. You're married. This," he tilted his chin, "is really just the after party."

I was glad it was over. The build to today, the planning, the anticipation, were so much more stressful than the actual event. Both the marriage ceremony, and the signing of our contract, happening within the space of an hour.

So fast I blinked and we were done.

It almost didn't feel real.

With Owen just outside the reception hall, hot, sweating a little in my satin dress, I let my attention wander. Oliver was standing nearer to the elevators, accepting congratulations from his friends.

Laurel Lance, beautiful as a winter cardinal in her bridesmaid's red. Thea was there, wrapping her brother up in a hug. She planted a kiss on his cheek. And his best man, in a sharp black suit that did nothing to mask the rakish tilt to his smile.

I recognized him instantly. Appropriately for the same reason I'd known who Oliver was the moment they'd given me his name.

Tommy Merlyn, only son and heir to Merlyn Global, spent . . . hmm . . . quite a lot of time in tabloids, too. Or he had. He quieted down some after the Queen's Gambit was lost at sea, though he still popped up now and again and for the most ridiculous reasons . . .

Following my gaze, Owen chuckled.

"So how does it feel being a Queen?"

"Kinda feels like it did when I turned eighteen," I told him, honestly. Owen frowned, and I elaborated, "Nothing's changed. I don't feel any different than I did yesterday."

Laurel peeled away from her friends. Her smile radiant as she approached, I held out my hand ready to greet her but she ignored it. Startling me, I found myself clasped in a tight, if brief, hug. "Welcome to the family!"

She sounded sincere.

"Thank you," I responded, "and . . . thank you. For volunteering," no need to explain what for "I'm sure you'd rather have been standing on Oliver's side of things."

Her smile sparkled. "I'm always on his side. Today, you needed me more."

Grateful. I was still so, so grateful that his side of the family had been there for me the way that they had.

No one said anything, but I strongly suspected it was actually Thea who told Laurel I needed help and I could appreciate that though they must have wondered, no one asked me why I needed to poach Oliver's friends to fill my bridal party.

"You know, no one thought what you did could be done. You caught the elusive Queen. Or," her smile winked "is it Archer takes Queen?"

I laughed at the joke. "I'm not sure we can call him a catch, if they gave him to me."

"No. But still, he's yours."

"Are you okay with that?" I ventured. Mildly, but deliberately and to her credit, Laurel didn't pretend to have no idea what I was inferring.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," she said and if her smile was a tad stiffer than it'd been . . . that was okay, too.

I eased into that familiar, sweet smile. Comfortable with how it fit on my face, trusting in its effectiveness, "I'm glad you came."

She relaxed. "So am I." Her eyes drifted past me, over my shoulder, and she waved lightly at someone inside the reception hall. "I'm going to go find my table," and I found myself clasped in another quick hug. "I'll see you inside!"

"See you soon," I agreed, with a laugh. Laurel swept away and Owen snorted, sharply enough he would have inhaled his drink if he'd had one.

I eyed him. "What?"

"Hmm?"

Right. I hooked my arm through my brother-in-law's and said, "Come on, I'll introduce you to royalty."

There were so many people, making so many toasts, that I had to fake sipping from my champagne or else get hammered at my own reception.

I found out who ninety-percent of those unknown faces on my side of the wedding hall were over those toasts. Archer Group employees. If it wasn't so bewildering, I might have found that hilarious. My parents invited company staff to their daughter's wedding solely to get more butts in seats on the bride's side.

Apparently when the Queen family sent us their guest list, my parents quickly realized that there were eighty more people on the groom's side; making the count too uneven to ignore in the wedding photos.

Oh, god.

I wanted cake.

. . . I wanted a nap.

But first, an avalanche of toasts. One after another, wishing us health, happiness, success, a life of memories to think back on . . . and really I just wanted to eat. My cheeks ached from holding that appreciative, serene smile for too long.

Oliver took my hand, gently lacing strong fingers through mine. I traced my thumb over the rough calluses webbing his palm, covering our clasped hands with my other.

We didn't speak. We didn't have too.

Our wedding photographer flitted through the reception hall, snapping candid pictures of guests, our parents, and us – up at the high table looking all happy and flush with marital bliss, as if either of us had known each other for more than a day.

He was going to have to find his table, soon.

The serving staff, in their crisp white jackets, were already lining up to start bringing out plates. Traditionally, the bride and groom were served first so I imagined he was just waiting to take a few pictures of us with our food.

Then he'd go sit down.

I leaned over, my bare arm brushing Oliver's suit jacket. "You know if we leave now, we can pick up some Big Belly Burger on the way to the airport."

Of all the things I might have said . . .

His lip quirked, a slow smile easing in and out. "We're sitting at our reception, at two hundred dollars a plate, and you're craving a burger?"

"I didn't say I wanted a burger. I want a milkshake. Something really sweet, something with whipped cream in it. Mmm. Maraschino cherry. Tastes like a candy."

Oliver tilted his head down, bringing us close enough to share a breath. I held mine, his scent delicious. Warmth, and the spice of expensive cologne. He didn't need to know I was tempted to drink it in, "That sounds . . . really good, actually. Do you think I don't know you're baiting the photographer?"

I fanned my lashes, and let some of the mischief show.

"With our heads together like this, keeping our voices down, grinning, we totally look like we're plotting our escape. C'mon, Oliver. Plot with me. Give the poor guy a few good shots."

He moved even closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of my ear, "Nachos. I've been craving nachos for days."

I laughed, light and delighted.

"I think we can make that happen."

"I hope so," Oliver's breath fanned my neck while our wedding photographer snapped photos like he thought he was being paid by the shot, "I ask for so little."

From the dining room, my grandfather was watching all this too.

His weathered face relaxed, more at ease than I had seen it in too long. I thought I caught pride in those dark, often tired eyes and heard again his words from this morning: Just be his friend. His partner. I could do that.

The food was served.

Not nachos, certainly, but I still thanked the young woman who set my plate down in front of me and she offered a polite congratulations on my wedding. Oh, this was leagues past Big Belly Burger.

Swordfish in a rich white cream sauce, crisp asparagus and a tuft of red leaf lettuce tossed in an ice wine vinaigrette. Wildly overpriced but it smelled divine at least, and the fish positively melted on my tongue. We ate, and I let the tides of conversation sweep over and around me.

"– because the man's a criminal."

"He gets stuff done."

"Taking the law into our own hands is not justice, its anarchy."

My ears were burning.

I moved food around on my plate, and centered my attention right there at a table almost directly in front of me. The first to speak, the first I heard, I recognized as a distant cousin. Very distant . . . the last time I saw him I was still just a kid.

The other, in a cool gray suit and manicured hands, I didn't recognize at all.

"Don't be dramatic," Gray Suit leaned back in his chair, with all of the hot arrogance of a man who knew he was in the right, "only a few weeks back, he single-handedly took the Royal Flush gang off the streets. Where was your established 'justice'" – said with a sneer "while these people spent a year terrorizing every town from Gotham to Coast City?"

"Fine, but at what cost?" Distant Cousin fired back. "One of them killed, a cop in the ICU and the collateral just keeps rolling in." He shifted. "You don't have to like it but when we let the ends justify the means, where does it end?"

"I'm sorry," I leaned forward, inserting myself into their conversation. "Are you talking about the man they're calling the Hood?"

Oliver reached for his champagne, a riot of bubbles fizzing against the glass.

"Whatever they're calling him," Gray Suit said, knocking his chair back a little to face me fully, very willing to engage. Likely looking for someone to back him up, "he should be applauded; instead the SCPD's funneling resources and taxpayer dollars into finding this guy."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it funneling," I countered, mildly. "They're looking for him, but not as hard as they could be." Gray Suit seethed, assuming I'd taken my cousin's side, and with some effort I kept the edge out of my smile. Added, sweetly – sarcastically, "Of course, what do I know?"

"Have an opinion, Amelia," my cousin cut him off before Gray Suit had the chance to respond. "After the honeymoon you're coming home to Starling City. It doesn't worry you to think you might wake up one morning to find an arrow in your heart?"

Oh, please. "I am genuinely more concerned I may wake up one morning to find myself experiencing a heart attack, then that the Hood," – what a ridiculous name, "might up and decided to shoot me in my sleep."

Oliver's lip quirked as he pressed the rim of his glass to his lips. Tasting the champagne, without drinking it. Cold sober, neither of us were drinking today.

"Regardless. How could you want to raise children, in a city like this?"

"I was born here," Oliver pointed out. "I think I turned out alright."

My cousin didn't look particularly impressed. "I'm talking about the kind of city that allows a hooded menace the freedom to roam, enforcing vigilante justice. Who is responsible for the damage this person causes, what oversight is there on how he engages in that violence?"

"I don't disagree," I said. "Justice without order, without a measure of accountability, allows for more power than any one person should be allowed. But –"

Gray Suit looked up, pale eyes narrowing. Those manicured hands soft, fingernails like glass under the clean light of crystal chandeliers. I hesitated.

"Amelia?"

Amy.

I didn't correct him, instead studying both men, opposing sides, quietly disassembling what I knew, from what I was supposed to know . . .

"But I don't believe that the Hood is as lawless as it seems," I admitted, to Gray Suit's obvious delight. He thought I was changing my position, "The things he's done . . . the thing's he's accomplished . . . required skill, and discipline. The sort you don't pick up at a mall dojo. The man has a plan, a purpose."

"Having a point implies and endgame, making him particularly dangerous."

"I never said he wasn't dangerous. I'm saying I think he's perfectly in control."

I'd been too perceptive.

It was time to stop talking.

No one seemed to notice. My cousin – I still couldn't pull up a name – turned to Oliver, arching a brow at the man. We'd had his full attention from the start; time he contributed to the conversation.

"Weren't you brought in for this? As a suspect."

"I was," Oliver tipped his glass, blue eyes flashing with a quick, easy amusement. "They cleared me."

"What, just like that?"

He shrugged. "I'm not the Hood."

So yes, then. Just like that.

Annoyed, frustrated, seething all over again, Gray Suit started sawing at his fillet mignon like it was a cheap cut of quick-fry steak. If I were a touch more prone to paranoia, I would think he was trying to hurt me personally.

Of course, he wasn't.

But I was taking it personally, watching him wield that steak knife like a handsaw causing me actual, physical pain . . .

"It's funny you should say that," my cousin went on "given no one knows who he is, where he comes from, only that he appeared around the same time you came home."

Oliver laughed at that. "You think maybe we were on the same plane?"

"Didn't he save your ass, too? Won you a bodyguard, while he was at it."

From further down the table, one of Oliver's groomsmen looked up. Dark eyes scanning faces. Clack! Gray Suit's knife hit the plate. I set my fork down, careful not to drop it, and glowered at the man. My poor chef's heart in tears at what he'd done to his filet mignon –

"First few days back were rough," Oliver allowed. "Though the bodyguard seems to be working. Haven't seen the Hood in months."

Queue the groomsman's answering smirk. Bodyguard. Check. Our eyes met across the pretty china and silver, the floral blue of my hyacinths, the sparkling crystal – and I held his gaze, cradling it, not embarrassed to have been caught looking.

I offered a gentle smile.

He returned it.

"I'm just saying," my cousin crooned, studying his wine – white, sparkling – deliberately taunting, now, not serious "you can only carry coincidences so far before they provoke suspicion."

The cut to Oliver's answering smirk was so sharp he might have delivered it on the edge of a knife. "You think I'm the Hood?"

"Unless either of you thinks the man plans to crash this reception," I interrupted, rolling an asparagus spear around on my plate "would you mind if we changed the subject?"

"God, yes, please," Liz muttered from my right, having had to listen to all this and, on her right, Laurel. There were a smattering of chuckles at my sister's emphatic agreement and slowly, conversation moved on.

The cake was the only thing that Oliver and I were allowed to choose, together.

Because it had to be something we both liked – but not until our chaperoned dinner were we permitted to talk so . . . through an intermediary, a painfully annoying process, slowed down by both parties having to wait for this person to deliver responses . . . why they didn't just let us talk over the phone, I don't know.

But Oliver and I got to decide on the flavor of our cake and I was glad it didn't feel like we'd settled.

Raspberry and chocolate truffle.

A six-tier wedding cake deserving of the applause it received as it was wheeled into the reception hall. I'd wanted to see it when the bakery van pulled up to the hotel that morning, but both my mom and sister whisked me off to the salon to get my nails done.

And then my hair.

And then my makeup.

My sparkly new husband and I gave our photographer, and by extension our families, some very nice pictures for the wedding album with that cake. After that, I excused myself to the powder room. To breathe –

I was getting tired. This day had become a carousel of images; of blue flowers, the glitter of women's gowns, the smell of the wine . . . each sense melting into the next, blurring into a collage of moments.

I lingered in the hotel's marble bathroom, letting cool water run on my hands.

When I was ready, I came back out. My makeup carefully retouched, my smile as sparkling as it'd been hours ago. I took a moment to greet a handful of guests, accepting their congratulations, offering my own flowery words – and tried not to let it feel like I retreated back to Oliver's side.

We were moving to the back of the reception hall, where our parents and other guests were already waiting by a cleared stretch of sunlit brown and white floor. It looked like chocolate and vanilla swirl. Oliver moved as if to set his hand at the small of my back, but thought better of it . . .

His hesitancy only reinforced how atypical this was, for the both of us. With the exception of some light flirting, which was more game than intimacy, I was keeping my hands to myself, too. Unwilling to force my touch on him.

We reached the chocolate-and-vanilla dance floor and the emcee immediately stepped to the front of the band, microphone in hand, the music crooning softly as they moved from one song to ours.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," our emcee announced, "Oliver and Amelia Queen!"

Oliver took my hand, and escorted me out onto the dance floor. I swept into his arms, my clean white dress starkly contrasting his black suit. Swaying to the polite applause and cooing of our audience. The very image of the fairytale couple.

His body felt warm against mine as we moved together, and I wasn't sure I'd realized before now just how much bigger he was until our bodies were flush.

Drop a bead of water on him and watch it sizzle, Ames. I could still hear my sister's voice, the exact tone she'd used when baiting me as clearly as if she were whispering it in my ear. With a body like that, shouldn't be too hard keeping the wedding sheets warm.

The strength of his cologne had worn away, softened, to a tantalizing woodsy smell over the sharper scent of his skin. Sweat. And what I could almost have sworn was saddle leather. The combination delicious, dizzying.

"If you were looking to make a lasting impression at the altar today," Oliver murmured, blue eyes bright as stars. Handsome as any fairytale prince, "you succeeded. You look beautiful."

With a body like that . . .

. . . wedding sheets.

"Thank you."

My dad joined us on the dance floor, holding his hand out to my mom. She followed him, happily, sparkling in her gold dress. As beautiful as a woman half her age; a mirror image of my sister, twenty years from now.

Walter and Moira glided in. And then more couples, having given us our first dance, were joining us. I winked at Liz, swaying with Owen. Her hands on his shoulders, fingers playing with the soft brown hair at the nap of his neck.

"Will that be us in four years, you think?" Oliver asked, quietly.

The question surprised me. I tilted my face up, close enough to share a breath and again felt the firmness of his mouth when he kissed me today. The taste of him.

Flustered by the memory, I said "I would like that to be us," with a touch more sincerity than I intended "in four years. In ten," and I slid my hand up his arm. Holding him closer, "I want us happy, together, thinking back on today as the first day of the rest of our lives."

Oliver was leading as we swayed dreamily to the music, maintaining the illusion. But with every word, we were slowing. Our dance taking on an earnestness that hadn't been there when we started.

"Do you mean that?"

More than he knew.

For reasons he could never know.

I let my attention slip to the black man standing just off the dance floor, nursing a slender glass of bubbly champagne as if he hadn't been watching us since dinner. My mouth curled on a smile too sharp to be innocent –

"I do mean that. But I'm warning you now, Oliver," I said, "that if anyone assigns me a bodyguard they're going to misplace me. A lot."

His arms tightened, and we started moving again. Dancing under the crystal chandeliers, clear winter sunlight spilling through cathedral arched windows, surrounded by friends, family, and . . . Archer Group employees . . .

Still funny.

Still stupid.

"You have a lot of experience, dodging bodyguards?"

"Oh, I can disappear. Don't let the pearls fool you," I tilted my head, letting the light catch in those delicate pink and white iridescences "I'm a master at this game."

We laughed together.

Oliver tipped his head, and I though he meant to press his forehead to mine but he kept going. The scrape of his stubbled cheek rough against my skin. Masculine. My blood thrummed – I sighed, giving myself rare permission to rest. To lose myself in a moment, in his touch.

The music crooned, soft jazz. It felt good to be held.

It was nearly imperceptible but I felt Oliver's attention turn a second before my grandfather laid a firm hand on his shoulder. Aware that the older man had come up behind him.

"Welcome to the family, son," my grandfather offered warmly. Oliver clasped the hand he offered, and didn't blink at the strength in those wrinkled fingers. Which I thought was very brave, given the dangerous gleam in those old eyes. "Hurt her, and they'll never find your body."

He didn't . . .

. . . of course he did.

To his immense credit, Oliver didn't immediately yank his hand back. He offered a firm, unthreatening squeeze and said, "I'll keep that in mind." with impressive respect, given my grandpa just casually dropped a death threat in the middle of the dance floor.

"You do know that threatening the groom's life when handing over a daughter isn't actually a tradition," I groused, "no matter what the t-shirt industry would like you to think. Yes?"

My grandfather clapped Oliver on the back with a hearty laugh.

"A man should know where he stands, my girl."

Uh-huh. I turned my face into Oliver's shoulder and muttered, "I am very, very sorry."

Oliver's bright eyes positively danced with restrained humor.

Not at all offended, or worried.

We were leaving. In a little under an hour, we were leaving for the airport and the start of our tropical honeymoon. Then it would be just us, out from under the hard judgment of the people who loved us.

. . . void his warranty.

Goddamnit Liz.

My grandfather released my husband's hand, exchanging it for both of mine. Tired eyes softened, and he pressed a kiss to my cheek. "Our angel. You look beautiful."

"Thank you, grandpa," I said, returning the kiss. He smelled like the hard caramels he liked to chew on. "That was still very rude."

He chuckled and then, as if he hadn't just threatened murder, asked, "D'you mind, if I steal a dance?"

Oliver touched my arm and I nodded. Grateful that he'd thought to ask, rather than just pass me over. The music changed. Oliver surrendered his position, moving away and I stepped into my grandfather's arms.

"So. Are we keeping him?"

"Are we letting him live, you mean?"

He didn't deny it.

I rolled my eyes.

We danced sedately around, not really following the rhythm of the music, or of the bodies around us, and though my grandpa radiated pride, and love, I felt his focus. A clean, hard intelligence so different from the sharp, fast cunning I was better acquainted with.

"You're not a prize, my girl," he said, studying me "you're a treasure. The Novikov blood burns hotter in your veins, than in your sister. Make them worthy of it."

Novikov.

My maternal line. That blood passed down from my grandfather, to my mom, to me . . . to my own children. It was no secret Oliver and I were contractually required to produce a child; the culmination of this union, combining our bloodlines.

The thought made me blush, but I'd known this from the start and still went through with this marriage. Make them worthy of it. For the first time, something occurred to me that hadn't before. I assumed it was my paternal line that mattered.

The music was fading, signaling the end of the song – and this dance.

My mom caught my eye, scowling over my dad's shoulder as she ticked her head toward the bar where Oliver had joined his bodyguard in what looked like casual conversation.

Get. Over. There.

No.

Her eyes narrowed.

"What's special with the Novikov branch of the family tree?"

My grandfather dropped a heavy wink. "Ty Russkaya, vnuchka."

"No," I said. "No, that's not it. You pointed out that Liz and I were Novikov's at a family barbeque this summer." Which went over well with my dad. "I didn't think anything of it, because you do that a lot." He'd been doing it all my life. "But I'm starting to think there's more to it."

We were starting another dance, doing that slow, distracted-by-conversation shuffle. Mom looked torn between making a scene and leaving us alone. I was dancing with my grandpa, her dad, not off hiding in the bathroom . . .

My grandfather followed my distraction, the silent back and forth I was having with my mom across the dance floor and let out a rough chuckle. "Ask your mother," he said, with a suspiciously amused twinkle in his dark eyes.

There was more to it.

The weight of its relevance was . . . to be decided . . . but I was sure.

My family had a secret.