Chapter Text
“Any man of mine better be proud of me. Even when I'm ugly he still better love me.”
She’d fought it off as long as she could, worked for two days on a desk covered in tissues, sniffling into the comms at night until Oliver finally just came back to take her home, whether she liked it or not. But around 3 am last night, after an uncomfortable nap on their bathroom floor, Felicity had finally admitted it: she was sick.
Oliver had called into her assistant and rescheduled the day’s meetings for her, only giving into her begging to have some important files messengered over after she promised to sleep until they got there. He’d tried to stay home with her, but she knew he couldn’t miss the day of campaign planning with his team, so she’d shooed him out the door, promising to call if she needed anything.
Thea had woken her up 4 hours later with soup and medicine. She’d stayed with Felicity long enough to watch a movie, sitting on the other side of the room because, “No offense, but Ollie’s probably catching this next and we really don’t need three of the city’s vigilantes down for the count.”
When Oliver returned a little after 6, Felicity had taken another nap, tried a bit more of the soup, and attempted to stand long enough for a shower, only succeeding for about 2 minutes and half of a shampoo. So she was less than pleased to see him standing in the doorway with his phone aimed at her when she opened her eyes. “Oliver, what do you think you’re doing? Do not take my picture right now!”
He chuckled softly at the whine in her voice, the tone so unlike her, and slipped the phone back into his pocket before coming over to run a hand across her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead, not-so-discreetly checking her fever. Apparently satisfied he eases himself down to sit beside her, swatting her hand away when she tries to fish the phone from his pocket.
“I know you took my picture. Delete it right now. I’m too tired to hack in and do it myself today.” Her plea is made all the more pathetic by the sniffling between each statement and Oliver smiles softly at her as he toes off his shoes.
Climbing in next to her and wrapping his arms around her, he softly, but firmly, tells her, “We’re not deleting the picture.”
“Oh yes we are. I look awful! My hair still has shampoo in it, so who knows what it’s doing, I’m fairly certain there are streaks of snot going across my face, and my nose is probably looking like Rudolph right about now, and--”
He interrupts her with a kiss to her red nose and then rests his forehead against hers as he whispers, “You’re still beautiful.”
She glares at him for a moment longer before she sighs and burrows herself further into his chest. And right before she falls asleep she mutters under her breath, “Just wait until it’s your turn to be sick. See how pretty you feel.”