Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was the fucking wildest thing to happen. Probably to anyone. Ever.

Especially if one didn’t believe in gods. Or reincarnation.

No clue whatsoever how she ended up here, like this, other than to, well, rethink her entire belief system.

But hell, if she hadn’t gotten lottery gold – she’s not a snail.

Or a shark.

A giraffe (she had neck pain as a human, how would that have worked as a giraffe? No, thanks).

Or a thousand terrible other things she could have ended up as.

No, she’s the best animal of them all.

A dog.

Come to think of it… is there a dog-god? Someone she should be praying to? Giving thanks to?

It’s funny – her vision is off. She’s never thought about it before – she knew colours and distance were different – but the very position of the eyes on the side of the head rather than in front as it was with humans meant a very different field of vision.

And crawling had nothing on walking on four feet.

Well, paws.

Especially if one looked out sideways.

So, so weird.

She could see both more and less – it was super-peculiar and just all-around awesome!

Unfortunately, however, her dyslexia was still there which was just… great. Note the sarcasm.

At least her hearing was phenomenal now – and, as another bonus, even better than her hearing, was her sense of smell. Unfortunately, the food tasted… different. Really different.

And, to her horror, she suddenly remembered no more chocolate in her life!

She whined piteously, the sound automatically coming from her dog throat, but that only pushed her further.

Life had been good. She’d died of old age – or as close as she would ever get, anyway. In her seventies – strangely young – but, well, not much one could do when there’s a fire alarm and she decided to run and lost her footing on the stairs, stumbling and falling. Either the fire or the fall got her – she didn’t know which and she didn’t particularly care either.

No joints aching, fit as a fiddle and – hello, she was a dog.

No more responsibility. No mortgages or bills.

All her children were grown and she’d met three of her grandchildren. Her son and his partner had decided they wouldn’t ever adopt – so she wasn’t missing out on any children there. Her husband had passed away a decade earlier – heart attack during a bank robbery.

No, there was nothing she’d left behind, nothing she mourned. She was… content. Yes, she could have lived longer, seen more – but who knew if she’d be reborn as an awesome canine then?

Now, the most important thing – to find the right owners for herself. She was going to find non-abusive, wonderful, cuddly owners. And have the best dog life ever.

Her tail was wagging relentlessly with her excitement and her control over it seemed minimal at best. It was like a moving emotional barometer.

Sneezing to herself, she walked closer and past the welcome sign for the city ahead of her. Decades of living with dyslexia meant she’d learnt some tricks to stop her brain moving the letters around quite as much or guess the word – as accurately as she could. But none of that worked when your eyes were on the side of your head and you had paws instead of fingers. Everything looked different. How the hell was she meant to make this work?

Trotting at an easy pace down the grassbank on the side of the road, she made her way into the large city – only pausing at the closest puddle to see if she could make out her breed.

Well, if she knew anything other than the obvious, more common breeds, that might even have worked. Instead, she just figured she was a mixed breed. An amalgamation of different dog breeds – or that was the closest she could tell. Her fur was a mix of darker and lighter colours, one ear floppy and one upright.

That was… it. Yep. A dog. Of some sort.

… Yeah, genius she definitely wasn’t.

It took her surprisingly little time to figure out that not only was she a dog now – she was a dog in a universe which had magic, vigilantes, metahumans, heroes and time travel.

That’s right. Arrow-universe. Or DC-Universe? Flash-Universe?

Who knew. Or, more to the point, who cared?

But she was definitely in Arrow-city. Starling City. How did she figure that one out, you ask? Easily enough – people talking about Queen Consolidated and Thea Queen made it all fairly simple and obvious.

The plan from there was even simpler – going to find the Queens and adopt Oliver as her human. Then push her human towards Felicity. Then they’ll hopefully have little baby-Mia much sooner and be a happy family. With her as their super-cuddly pet, naturally.

Oversimplified?

Of course.

But she’d never been much of a planner. Besides, romance works better with a bit of spontaneity, in her experience.

Oliver just needed to learn that he couldn’t be the one deciding a relationship, not if two people were in it, not taking actions without consulting Felicity. And to trust in her. Felicity needed to open up and let her armour down and Oliver in and trust him.

… She was sure the threat of biting Oliver whenever he did something stupid would help him come to that conclusion much, much sooner.

The Queen mansion, naturally, was almost at the other end of town. Being unable to read signs did not help. But she made it, in the end. After about a week of sniffing the weirdest, ickiest smells (and ignoring the ones which were enough to make her salivate) and walking around like a… well, like a lost dog, which she very much was, she finally made it there.

Sneaking past the guards was easy – they were intent on keeping out people, not dogs. Holes were easily dug and she was still amazed by how little space she could squeeze this new body of hers through, tail wagging excitedly when she comes out the other end, amazed at her own accomplishments.

It’s like being boneless! Oliver’s going to love her. She’s so, so amazing.

Besides, only evil people don’t like dogs, she was sure.

The gravestones are still in place – both of them. Oliver is still thought to be dead, then. She can only hope he decides to come home soon – she is not exactly patient and doesn’t really want to survive out in the cold much longer when she could be adopted and shower Oliver in all the canine affection she wants.

Thea is the first Queen she meets. The teenager finds her, asleep, ears twitching, by Oliver’s grave (a fact which she’d finally determined after overhearing the younger Queen talking to the stone a few times). Normally she’s been quick enough to wake up and run away, but she’d been awake for a bit too long the last day or two trying to catch herself some food and then eating it (she had let seven rabbits go with the fright of their life, unable to make the kill, and finally managed to steal a sandwich off of one of the guards).

“Hey,” the young girl says softly when her eyes snap open and land on the teenager, feet underneath her in a bare second, standing alert and ready. “How did you get in here?”

She snuffles at Oliver’s gravestone in response before turning back to the teenager.

The girl exhales a nervous breath as she slowly kneels down.

“You look friendly.” Another shaky breath. Fear-stink – yeah, that’s not pleasant. Ick. “You are, right? Friendly?”

She allows her tongue to loll out in a doggy grin, hoping to set the girl at ease. She doesn’t want Oliver’s sister afraid of her, after all.

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna come a bit closer to you, okay? Please don’t bite me.”

The teenager shuffles cautiously closer, hand outstretched and for the first time, she leans forward and takes a sniff.

Humans are far more interesting than she’d anticipated – she’d known, of course, that dogs could smell things like low blood sugar, stress and everything but the amount of chemicals she scents on the girl make her sneeze, violently.

“Oh yeah,” the girl grimaces. “I just put my perfume on. Sorry, doggy.”

Deliberately not breathing in, she leans forward, nuzzling her hand for a moment. She’s still trying to pin down what all the smells mean. What the hell does stress or grief even smell like? Fear she gets – she’s smelled it on rabbits, on humans. Arousal she can tell, too. But after that it gets murky.

“That’s my brother’s grave,” the girl continues talking, slowly stroking over her ears and oooh, that’s good. That’s otherworldly – that’s perfect. Her foot taps against her will against the ground when Thea gets the perfect spot. Oh, that’s so good.

“Please don’t do anything to it,” the young girl pleads and she allows herself to edge forward, whining slightly as she nuzzles against the teenager.

It’s easier with animals, to let yourself go – and that’s as true for the rich as it is for the poor. The young girl fairly collapses against her, crying bitter tears into her fur.

Well, now she wished she’d found more than just somewhere to drink. Her fur couldn’t smell good after so many days outside. Thea shows little concern, however, for such mundane sensibilities. The teenager cries herself to sleep instead. She carefully takes the girl’s silk scarf with her, hoping it will help get them to follow her.

It's also the first time she realises how large a dog she is. Because she is the size of a medium to large dog (how the hell do you judge proportions when you never stand still around people?) but she manages to wiggle out from underneath the girl, and makes her way to the mansion proper for the first time since she’s arrived here. Finding Raisa is easy enough – as is finding her way inside, given she knows how to operate a door.

The poor woman freaks out at first finding a dog just patiently sitting behind her, but she has no intention of panicking her out even more by barking, so she sits down until the housekeeper has managed to calm herself down enough. Only then does she lay Thea’s scarf down on the floor nosing it before turning her back and half-walking out. Then she looks back to make sure Raisa is following.

The woman is looking at her brows furrowed, picking up the scarf. She asks or says something in Russian – something she has no way of understanding or responding to.

“Thea?” The woman finally asks, lifting the scarf up, looking at her confused and curious at once. She manages a low, quiet bark and hopes that’s enough confirmation.

It appears to be, as the Russian housekeeper follows her – finally (she ignores the large wooden kitchen roller in her hands that she undoubtedly intends to use as a weapon should she show any aggression). Still, it’s the work of minutes leading her back to the graves and Raisa gives a small cry at the sight of the collapsed teenager. Thea taken care of, she makes herself scarce, having no intention of being found or looked for by some sort of animal catchers until she is good and ready to be caught. Which will be by Oliver only.

Providing, she supposes, she isn’t in one of the universes where he never returns. Yikes. That would suck.

Luckily, it isn’t. Oliver returns suddenly. Thea keeps sneaking her snacks and coming to her for affection and cuddles. The animal control people hired by both Moira and Raisa are unsuccessful (one memorable occasion, Thea hid her in her own wardrobe) and then, a few weeks after their acquaintance, he’s there. Thea’s so excited about her brother coming home from hospital with his mother that evening, she doesn’t even notice when she sneaks away. Finding Oliver’s room is easy – relatively speaking. She knows it’s the only other inhabited room in the house, but his scent is long gone. Still, a look around is more than enough for her to discern it as masculine and likely his judging by the photos before she sneaks in under his bed, content to settle in and wait for the man of the hour to return.

Half-way through her wait, she realises that this is probably the night when Oliver doesn’t really eat because – well, the food was too heavy after being back on the island.

So, she sneaks back out. Doors are easy enough to open and closing just means pushing against it until it’s shut. Unfortunately, no way to do that quietly, but Thea’s occupied, the mom is with Oliver so it’s just a matter of avoiding Raisa. The woman herself seems to be out, however; probably to buy more groceries for the feast they’re putting out tonight.

It takes three careful drawers opening by pulling on them with her teeth before she finds a bag she can use. Then it’s a matter of finding the fruit – her nose is a godsend for that. She finds the bowl on the countertop and she’s large enough that it only takes a small push from her hindlegs before she’s on top of the table. Not very hygienic, sure, but she’s past caring.

Oliver is coming home.

He needs her.

Even if he doesn’t know that yet.

And she needs to let him know she’s the bestest, cleverest dog around, so her second life will be the cushiest, most comfortable gig ever. The smell of the mandarins is enough to make her sensitive nose twitch and she sneezes, but she careful gathers three of them anyway, four apples and two bananas as well as a whole bundle of grapes. Then she carefully pushes everything she’s selected down to the floor – it’ll end up bruised, sure, but still good enough to eat for tonight. Hopping down is easy even if the smooth flooring makes her paws scrabble for a moment as she flounders but she catches her balance quickly enough.

The fridge is a bit harder, fighting against the suction of the seal, but in there she finds some pre-cooked chicken which makes her stomach growl – but she ignores it, pulling the whole box out for Oliver. No sauce should make it easy enough for him to digest. She has no idea what seasonings are on it and the last thing she wants it diarrhoea in Oliver’s room.

It takes a bit more scouring through the pantry to find a water bottle before she has everything she thinks he’d need. Pushing everything into the bag she selected, she then carefully takes the bag upstairs with her, head lowered to the ground, bag carefully in her teeth, ears raised and alert as she sneaks her way through the mansion.

Finally, she’s made it back into Oliver’s room and sneaks in under his bed.

It’s also where she falls asleep until she hears loud clanging as Oliver carries his huge green trunk in. He’s only just put it down at the foot of his bed when he freezes.

“Who’s there?”, his voice is a low growl and she lets out a corresponding whine at the noise, entirely against her will. Wow. Animal instincts are no joke.

She carefully inches her way out, letting her tongue loll out in a doggy grin, hoping to set the man at ease as she peers up at him once she’s out enough.

“Mom allowed Thea to get a dog? I thought she was allergic,” the man murmured before kneeling down with ease, stretching his hand out for her.

“Hey baby girl. I’m not gonna do anything. Won’t you come out?”

She can still smell the tension and stress on him, but it’s easing slightly, so she comes out, bag in her mouth, tail wagging excitedly as she keeps her entire body lowered to the ground, crawling forward, rather than standing upright and be perceived as a threat.

“What have you got there?” He asks and so she lets the bag out of her mouth, pushing it gently forwards toward him. Oliver grimaces at the slobber covering the bag but opens it still, curious enough to bypass it and blinks when he finds the fruit.

“Do dogs eat this? That… can’t be good for you.” Oliver frowns, looking between her and the bag. “I’ll have a talk with Thea. She can’t just pass of people-food to you. You need dog-food. Whatever that is.”

She makes an involuntarily grumbling noise which has him eyeing her with much more caution but she remains in place, still wagging her tail (that thing seems to have a mind of its own, anyway, since she can’t help but be excited that he is here. He is real. He exists. Oh, he’s going to be here bestest buddy and she’s looking forward to pushing him and Felicity together.). She pushes the bag forward again and brushes her nose against his knee.

“For me?” He asks dubiously. She barks once, her tail picking up speed. Oliver’s frowning again now.

“Alright, thanks girl, for the delivery service.” He pats her on her neck and her tail might as well be sweeping the ground with how fast it’s going now. Before he can let her go, she inches forward, offering her best version of puppy dog eyes and leaning into his hand insistently. There’s a gruff sound, a half-aborted chuckle, which has Oliver looking as surprised at the sound as she feels, but he still settles down into a more comfortable position to pet her.

“You’re filthy,” he tells her conversationally, biting into the apple he’s holding in one hand and using the other to stroke her to her heart’s content. She manages a small chuffing sound, eyes half-closed in pleasure. “Come on. We’ll wash you before we get you back to Thea and tell her to take better care of her pets.”

Oooh, yes, please. Shower. Bath. Anything. Either. Both.

She stands readily, heading towards his bathroom, barking impatiently when she finds him still sitting there, eyeing her curiously.

“You understand a remarkable amount,” he notes, head tilted, but then seems to shake off his thought and joining her. She doesn’t hesitate to open the door, watching his eyebrows rise at her actions. He seems even more amused when she hops into his bath and carefully uses her teeth to turn knobs. He’s just watching, curious and slightly amused – she’s gotten better at identifying emotions by scent over the past few weeks at the Queens – as she lifts her paw into the water and adjusts the temperature to suit..

“This is beyond surreal,” he tells her. “And here I thought I’d seen it all already.”

Finally, right temp. Now it was just a matter of finding the stopper-

“Yeah, no. You’re really filthy. You’ll get a shower before you can have a bath.”

Alright. That seems fair, she concedes internally, making to shut off the valves again.

“Could you really be that well-trained?” Oliver questions barely a head away from her, eyeing her with curiosity and a small amount of tension leaking into his voice. She ignores him, eyeing the shower head until Oliver finally huffs, giving in, finishing off his apple even as he reaches for the showerhead.

He takes care – washing her clean three times before he fills the tub again for her, letting her paddle around to her heart’s content. The tub is large enough for at least three people and deep enough she can’t stand.

It’s awesome.

Plus, she’s finally clean!

Ooh, the need to shake the moment she’s on the floor is hard to resist though, a small shiver chasing down her back.

“No,” Oliver warns her, voice low and eyes steady on hers as he reaches for the towel.

Another shiver.

“No,” he warns her again, more insistently this time.

She shakes before he can stop her and manages to cover the entire bathroom – and Oliver himself in water. She gives him a doggy grin when he opens his eyes, sighing heavily.

“Should’ve let Thea do it,” he says quietly to himself – but there’s no actual anger behind it. Just a bit of amusement and tiredness.

Good.

Oliver strips of his shirt and like any polite dog, she turns her back on him and opens the door back to his room, ignoring the zipper of his trousers behind her.

Then she lies down right beside the door like a guard dog, ears pricked and eyes alert. She’ll let him know the moment Moira comes anywhere near his door.

Oliver rejoins her a very short time later, a towel slung low over his hips and headed for his wardrobe.

She ignores it – him – and focuses back on the door.

“I wonder how Thea convinced Mom to get you. Tommy tried, when we were younger, and mom indulged him at every turn – and he still never got her to relent on the dog-thing. And no matter how Thea managed it – even more surprising is that you’re a mix-breed. I would’ve thought for sure she would only allow a pet from some renowned breeder in the house, if she allowed anything at all.” Oliver turns back to her, fully dressed, kneeling down to scratch her behind her ear.

Oooh, so, so good!

Her feet pats in time with the scratches and he snorts, chuckling quietly as he stops and starts the massage, watching her foot.

If it wasn’t so damn amazingly good, she’d make a warning sound – a grumble. It’s about all she’s managed intentionally so far.

“Although I suppose the loss of her husband and son helped – indulging the only child left.”

The emotions she scents in the air pull a whine from her throat and she nuzzles against his wrist, tentatively licking against the skin there.

Huh. Not as bad as she thought. Kinda salty and the emotional chemicals are in overdrive; interesting.

Ooh, more happiness on the second lick – this is amazing!

Her tail wags harder and she tries to lick right over Oliver’s face but he ducks away quickly, another half-aborted chuckle torn from him as he stands up.

“Come on. We’ll talk to Thea – and we’ll see about getting you a collar.”

Meh. She could take or leave the collar, to be honest. But if it stops those evil animal people trying to capture her, well then, sign her up. She dances behind him, patting on the spot with excitement of getting out and about officially.

Oliver might even feed her.

He smells like caution as he opens the door so she remains alert just a step in front of him, peering out, scenting the air.

All clear.

She makes way for him and Oliver stares at her curiously as she sits down, patiently waiting, letting him stare at her.

Finally, he sighs, shaking his head and heads towards his sister’s room, her just a step behind him.

“Thea?” He knocks on her door.

“Ollie,” his sister exclaims excitedly, opening the door and launching herself at him again.

“Woah, we just saw each other not half an hour ago,” he reminds her.

“You’re home,” Thea reminds him as if he’d had time to forget but she can smell Oliver feeling happier.

Good.

Unfortunately, her sniffing around seems to have reminded him of her presence.

“I found your dog,” he tells her and Thea peeks out from around her brother and brightens up at the sight of her.

“Hi Chica,” his sister calls out. Yeah, still not her favourite name.

She remains quiet and unmoved, her tail for once obeying her, just as still.

Think Duty. Like a blind guide dog. She’s Oliver PTSD-cuddle dog.

No greeting Thea.

“That’s odd,” Thea says. “Normally she’d at least let me say hello.”

The girl kneels down, stretching out her hand and she moves back, hiding behind Oliver, still alert and stiff.

“Huh,” Thea says. “Well, I think it’d be more accurate to say you found your dog, Oliver.”

“What?”

“She’s been on the grounds for weeks but I always found her by your grave.”

“My grave?”

“You and dad – you both have one on the grounds. Empty coffins, of course, but yeah. I think she picked you.”

Good, they’re finally catching on.

God, people are so slow.

She ignores for the moment that she used to be one of those people and that she would never have thought such a thing about dogs before either.

“So, I take it Mom does not actually approve,” Oliver says with a heavy sigh and she can smell the exasperation wafting off him.

“Ha, are you kidding? We have the guys from animal control here every second day. It’s hilarious. Even the guards have been told to be on alert.”

“I’m starting to think we should be more worried over our security if even a dog can sneak past them.”

“Well, someone – and by someone I mean me – may have also hidden the dog in their wardrobe to hide her away.”

“Thea,” Oliver enunciates carefully, rubbing his forehead.

“What? They were talking about putting her down just because of the embarrassment she was causing them. No way was I letting them catch her.”

Oliver sighs when his sister pouts up at him.

“Fine,” he concedes with ill grace. “I’ll help you hide her – but that’s as far as I go.”

That’s okay. She’ll get him to accept her – she’s got nothing but time.

Chapter Text

Her awesome new owner – once he got his head around it – had been pulled away for dinner; which actually suited her very well.

She remembered him attacking Moira that night with the storm outside and sleeping by the window.

Well, not on her watch.

First step: make a nest for Oliver, so he could sleep comfortably outside of his bed.

And yes, of course she knew he’d slept in worse places, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Oliver needed to learn he deserved comfort.

He deserved to be home. He deserved to rest. And he deserved not to suffer.

So, while the whole family was gathered downstairs for their likely rather short dinner, she snuck into other rooms, absconding with pillow after pillow and several duvets (boy was she happy not to be a chihuahua; quite apart from being a hairless rat. And while the sheer contrast with Oliver would’ve been hilarious, she definitely would not have been unable to help as much as she could now. Dragging the duvet along was easy at her current size).

Then she found the cupboard with sheets and blankets and while Oliver might not like an entire duvet on top of him, the thinner sheet or blanket might yet be acceptable.

At the end – well, she doesn’t know if it works for humans as well as it does for dogs, but she figures having familiar smells nearby might help, a subconscious reminder that he’s home. So, she grabs a shirt from Thea’s laundry basket which smells like her and one from Moira’s – one which smells only like her and not of Walter, that is and takes care to get as little of her own smell as she can over it, tucking it between the pillows and duvets on the floor.

The more interesting task, by far, was nudging things into place without pushing her teeth through the soft fabric entirely (only one pillow irrevocably ruined so far – yuck, feathers. So hard to get out of her mouth), and without leaving disgusting drool stains which would put anyone off sleeping in the nest. 

But, without the beauty of having hands to manoeuvre, she was left pushing with her snout then pulling her head far enough back to see what was in front, and then trying again. Having her eyes on the side of her head is a real pain.

Still, she was rather proud of herself by the time Oliver returned – and she finished just in time, too; she could practically smell the stress dripping off him. And anger – a plethora of other smells, too, but those were the only ones she could reliably identify at this stage in her learning.

“What the-“ Oliver startled, having clearly paused just a foot inside his room, staring at the pillow / duvet arrangement she’d made. Her tail is wagging extra hard at the sight of him – plus, she’s kind of excited to see what he’ll make of her little safe haven for him.

If she’d had thumbs, she might have made it an entire fort, but for now, this was perfect. He closes the door quickly.

“What did you do?” He asks her in a hissed whisper, as if worried someone would overhear and figure out just who had been running away with all the duvets and pillows.

She tilts her head.

“What is this?” He points at the nest she made for him and she looks between him and it, confused about what could be so difficult to understand.

It’s a bed.

Duh.

Her children and grandchildren would have recognised a pillow-duvet-nest if they saw one. This one’s maternal education was sadly lacking; although that may be the case for a lot of rich kids.

Oh well.

He’d get there. Eventually.

“Just- leave it. It’s fine. I’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Oliver tells her softly, sighing, clearly realising he was waiting for an answer from a dog. Yeah, unlike Doug in Up, she has not yet figured out speech. Unfortunately.

She looks up at him curiously, still seated on the floor just between the nest and his bed, tail sweeping across the floor rhythmically.

Some day she may yet gain control over that darned thing, but it clearly won’t be today.

Oliver pats her on the head, heaving another tired sigh, and disappears off into the bathroom.

Well, so far, it’s clearly a mission failure, she notes with a huff.

And she’s still not devised a plan for Moira. Obviously if Oliver has quiet dreams without nightmares, this whole planning won’t be necessary, but she kind of doubts that this will be the case.

Oliver won’t stand for her blocking the most obvious entry / exit of the room – the door – which is a shame as it would be the easiest way of barring his family from entering when he’s in the throes of a nightmare. From what she’d read about soldiers back as a human, they liked escape strategies; although, to be fair, that may hold true for just about everybody. She certainly had never particularly liked confinement either.

Her current plan is just to block Moira physically from entering – maybe something better will occur to her later, but for now she needs to make sure Oliver eats more than the one apple he had before showering and drinks something. Only then will he be allowed to sleep.

The awesome thing? With this brilliant nose there’s no more losing things.

Tracking things by scent, however, is a lot harder than it looks. The smell is strongest under the bed because she’d kept it there for hours. Sniffing along the ground, she finds the bag just as Oliver exits the bathroom. He’s still dressed but presumably it’s what he intends to sleep in; funny that a rich kid like him doesn’t have a plethora of designated pyjamas – less funny, on the other hand, when she thinks he might not feel safe enough to not be in clothes he could fight, defend and possibly run around outside in.

They both appear to need some cheering up, she notes quietly. Still, excited by her success, she heads towards him, tail wagging proudly mid-air as she presents him with the bag.

Oliver snorts, kneeling down to pat her on the head.

“You’re really forceful on this feeding me thing, don’t you?” She lets out a low bark. Amazing! Good job on volume control, she tells herself.

“Shush,” he quickly tells her, eyes nervously switching between her and the door. “I can’t really help Thea hide you if you give the game away.”

With a low whine, pouting at her own faux-pas – she knows better than this – she lies down on the floor, peering up at him with wide eyes, her paws over her snout. A symbolic gesture, she could still make noise, but she hoped the message was clear enough. And that actually puppy-dog-eyes would work on Oliver.

He caved less than half a second in, almost physically crumbling and stiffness dissipating as he reaches for her, patting and stroking her, reassuring her in a soft voice what a good dog she is.

Good god, how did this man ever make it as the Green Arrow? Yeah, yeah, he’s super-badass, scary killer with kickass martial arts skills.

On the other hand, the man is so soft. He has no resistance to cute wide-eyed children or dogs.

As in none, whatsoever. He caved in an instant. Even her own children were made of sterner stuff than this, she is sure.

Whatever else Moira had done, she thinks the woman definitely raised her son right in this, at least. That a man, one who has experienced nothing but pain, bloodshed, and torture for five years would look at an animal, still, one who upset him and went against his plans, and still succumbed and adjusted his plans, soothing the pet instead of ranting (or lashing out physically) – yeah. He’s a good man. But dear god, no wonder – Felicity is definitely the disciplinarian in that household.

God, she needs him to have Mia and William around him – the man would melt and soften and be all-around gooey and more at peace surrounded by children and toddlers of all sizes. Especially his own ones. Now she just needs to introduce him to Felicity and get him to be that way around her – her ovaries would melt seeing this large forceful hunk of a man just be all soft and sweet.

Yes.

This was a great new plan – she liked it already. Her daughter certainly never had been able to resist a man who was genuinely kind and good with children. That was, in fact, the kind of man she ended up marrying.

“Oliver?”

There’s a knock on the door and Moira’s voice behind the door. She leaps up, getting between Oliver and the door, lowering herself into a fighting position, teeth bared in an automatic snarl in defence of Oliver, but keeping her voice tightly leashed. For once, her tail is on her side – instead of wagging it’s stiff as a board.

“Hide,” Oliver tells her quickly in a near-silent whisper, wide-eyed, obviously still searching for a good spot to shove her into, seemingly ignoring her aggressive behaviour. Before he can get to his wardrobe, the door starts to open and he flinches, turning back to face his mother, trying to physically hide her behind his larger body, obviously not expecting her to understand and comply.

Having her own orders – and being quite capable, given that she’s an actual person – she finds the closest, most convenient and, possibly, also most obvious hiding place. In her defence, why would you have floor-length curtains if not to allow a dog to hide themselves behind it.

“Have you seen a dog?”

“A dog?” Oliver asks quickly, covering the distance between the wardrobe and his mother, towel-drying his hair. “I didn’t know we have got a dog now.”

“We don’t,” Moira confirms, frowning, gaze sweeping across the room and snagging on the pillow-duvet-nest she’d painstakingly built.

“Oliver? What is this?” His mother asks, scanning the bed only to find that those, two, are intermixed with the others on the floor.

“The bed’s too soft,” he says quietly after a small pause.

“I suppose it has been five years. Would you like a new mattress? I’m sure we can get one from the other rooms. I apologise, I didn’t realise it had gotten damaged or sagged.”

Oliver shakes his head.

“No- mum. You don’t get it. The mattress is not broken or damaged – it’s just too soft.”

“I don’t- do you want a firmer mattress? I’m sure we can get someone to deliver-“

“Mom. I spent five years on an island. Sleeping on the ground. There were no mattresses. I- Just. I need time to adjust. Bedding on the floor is the closest first step I could figure.”

Wow. So, he did, kind of, figure out why there was a nest there. Mostly. Good enough.

“Oh, of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable,” his mother easily acquiesces but her sharp nose can easily smell the sadness on the woman.

Then Moira blinks rapidly, her eyes landing on the brown paper bag, half-opened on the floor, a mandarin and apple peeking out.

“Oliver?” She questions, walking across to the bag with quick, sure steps, ignoring her son’s outstretched arm trying to stop her.

“I know you cut dinner short – but if you want Raisa to make you something, you just need to say.”

There’s genuine concern in her voice, at least, which, she guesses, is something.

“No- Mum- I… This is, this is just fine,” he tells Moira hesitantly.

“Why is this all wet?” His mother looks half-disgusted and half-curious at the large wet spot she’d left by carrying the bag with her mouth.

“Fresh from the shower, mom,” he tells her without pause, gesturing to the towel still in his hands, not even hesitating with his lie.

“Oh, yes, of course. But are you sure? I’m sure Raisa could get you something more substantial than this, Oliver,” she eyes the fresh food with disdain – obviously her new owner sees the same thing because he drops the hand with the towel, taking the bag off his mother.

“What do you think I ate for the last five years, Mom?” He asks, his smell vacillating between anger and sorrow.

Moira blinks. “I- I don’t know. I assumed that-“

“This,” he says, pointedly lifting the bag.

“But you’re home now, son,” she tells him, her hand clasped around his upper arm.

“I am. But that doesn’t mean I can just go and start eating rich and heavy foods without expecting any consequences,” he disputes and his mother’s mouth snaps shut, eyes shimmering and lips trembling.

“Oh- Oliver,” her voice is soft and teary as she pulls him in for a hug – she honestly does smell like sorrow; the smell was very familiar from how often Thea had spent her time with her at the gravestone.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t even-“ The woman looks regal even when she wipes the tears off her cheeks. “We’ll get a Doctor’s opinion. And a nutritionist. We’ll get you your own personal chef, if needed. Don’t you worry, son, leave it with me. I’ll take care of everything.”

With a kiss pressed to Oliver’s cheeks, Moira turns on her heel, clearly glad there’s something she can deal with to help him. She wonders if that smell is determination. Certainty. Resolve. It’s like sadness and anger, no more switching but both all at once into a new smell. Interesting.

“Thanks, mom.”

“Of course, darling. Anything for you.” His mother reassures him earnestly.

“Oh, and if you do see a dog – or if you happen to be hiding one for your sister,” Moira raises an eyebrow in her son’s direction, looking nothing but amused and obviously having surmised just how quickly he caved to Thea’s demands, “at least take it to the vet and make sure it’s clean and vaccinated. Then we’ll see what our options are.”

“So, no more calling animal control on Thea’s hypothetical pet dog?” her new owner queries curiously, a small grin on his lips.

“Not until we’ve had a talk,” she confirms.

Oliver tilts his head, but seems to think she’s being truthful because he gives a low whistle. She peeks her head out from behind the curtains, ears tilted forward. She’s nearly certain he means to call her forward, but there’s no reason to not be cautious.

“Well, what’s her name?”

“What happened to being allergic?” He asks back and Moira laughs.

“Oh, Oliver. Neither you nor Tommy wanted the responsibility of looking after a dog. You wanted all the benefits – until you showed me that you were ready to take care of it, you were not getting one. And neither was Tommy. I had no intentions of having guests at the mansion stepping into dog poo or getting peed on or have a dog snarling at them.”

“Huh,” Oliver says – and he smells like freshness, then. Surprise? Is that how her brain identifies the smell for surprise? “I just thought you didn’t like dogs.”

“Of course, you did, darling,” Moira rolls her eyes, smiling in that soft, indulgent way parents do when their children start to realise just how much has gone on behind the scenes.

“Well,” he recoups quickly, “this is Thea’s dog. Chica.”

She tries for a growl but it comes out as a sort of chuffing sound instead. Joining Oliver, she plants herself down right in front of him, ears alert but not growling or snarling at the woman – a real feat. Moira reaches down to let her sniff her hand – which could possibly prove to be quite useful in future, so she does, trying to memorise her scent. However, when the woman reaches out to pet her, she still doesn’t growl but she does lean back into Oliver, out of arms reach, evading Moira’s touch at every turn until the woman looks bemused.

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks her in a whisper, reaching out and easily patting her. Her tail wags slightly at the affection and his stress always leaks away whenever he does.

“Sorry, Mom. I don’t know. She did something like this earlier with Thea. I can only assume she was trained as a sort of, I don’t know, caretaking dog? She’s the one who brought me the food. And created that pillow-duvet thing on the floor. And she managed to turn on the taps in the bath and she knows how to open doors. So I figured she’s a caretaker? Maybe for someone who isn’t as mobile? I don’t know.”

“If she is, Oliver, then she needs to be returned to her owner. Someone could be needing her.”

“Yeah, I know,” he breathes out heavily. “Thea’s already pretty attached.”

“Thea, huh?” His mother asks, amused, shaking her head – and yeah, Oliver’s still bent over, petting her, so fair enough. She’s making progress in getting him to become her owner at long last. “We’ll look into it tomorrow. For now, make sure you eat something and for heaven’s sake, please make sure that dog gets some food, too. I will not have anyone say we starved that thing under our roof.”

With that last parting remark – which she’s actually very grateful for, because her stomach has been bothering her for a few days now – Moira leaves, pressing a final kiss to Oliver’s hairline beforehand.