Disclaimers still apply.

A/N: I'm thinking of continuing this with these alterations into season 4; it will be a short story as well, glossing over the main parts to focus on the relationship development for Laurel and Oliver, if anyone is interested . . . Thanks again for reading!

Laurel wore a black dress and a shear gold dupatta with henna tattoos on her hands and feet. The ceremony from an hour before was a blur in her memory. Most if it had been in Arabic, but she'd understood the important parts. The lawyer in her pointed out that a marriage ceremony in another country without the correct paperwork wasn't legally valid. Still, the ring on her finger felt binding to her.

Standing in Al Sah-Him's sterile chambers, the absurdity of the past 36 hours hit her. Laurel gasped, a hand rising to cover her mouth, as she started shaking. Even she couldn't say if she was laughing or crying. Probably both. He was there in an instant, wrapping her in a hug. Her husband, according to the League. Alone in this room, he'd relaxed. More like the Oliver she'd come to know post-Island, less the cold heir he'd been parading around as – except for those moments in the Pit chamber when he'd kissed her ardently and confessed he couldn't kill her.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," he assured her, rubbing a hand up-and-down her back. Laurel leaned her head against his shoulder, hands fisting the front of his tunic. She wanted to believe him. To find her old friend in the warmth of his tone, but she didn't dare fool herself with false hope.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked.

Laurel lifted her head to look him the eye. He sounded so much like Oliver, she had to see. He wore the same earnest expression Oliver had when he was trying to reach out, to make up for a mistake. Her treacherous heart had her convinced this was no act, so she answered honestly. With the touch of a test.

"That wasn't how I imagined our wedding."

"Oh, and how did you picture it?" he half-smiled in amusement.

Laurel relaxed her hold on his tunic and smoothed the wrinkles with her hands. Her ring glinted in the candlelight – Ra's had allowed them the Western tradition because he understood the symbol was important to them. Laurel looked into her husband's challenging gaze and decided to press forward. "I used to picture us in a church; a big, lavish wedding. You in a tux, me in a ridiculously expensive white dress. Lots of flowers and more guests than either of us really wanted. Dad would walk me down the aisle. He'd give you one last threat about breaking my heart. Our moms would cry. Your dad would be laughing. Sara would be my maid of honor, Thea my bridesmaid, and Tommy your best man."

"Sounds nice," he sounded sincere. More and more he felt like her Oliver. Laurel tested him further, trying to get a rise out of him which Al Sah-Him couldn't fake.

"Now, I'd settle for a simple ceremony, maybe on a beach. A suit and green tie for you, a nice dress for me. Thea would be my maid of honor, Diggle your best man. We'd invite only close friends, Walter, and my parents."

She could see him picturing it. Then the look in his eyes shifted suddenly and with the shift she had more proof the real Oliver survived. He stared at her with such longing, which she'd seen once before, that night in his bedroom when he'd been on trial for being the Hood. That night they'd kissed for the first time in five years. The devastating passion she'd felt for him then came back to her. She suspected his own feelings surprised him as well, because his arms stiffened around her.

Neither one of them moved to part. The air crackled with anticipation between them. Laurel tilted her head back, an invitation. He brushed the dupatta to her shoulders and slipped his fingers into her hair. He brought his mouth to hers and she granted him entry. He kissed her long and hard, as if she was a phantom dream and he was taking time to savor her. Laurel wrapped her arms around his neck. Their bodies meshed together as close as physically possible.

Laurel realized she'd been a fool to push him away after Tommy died. She would never be able to love another as she loved Oliver. The thought should've scared her, but it didn't. He would always be Ollie to her, no matter what mask he wore.

They continued to kiss as Oliver tugged her to the bed. They lay side-by-side sharing kisses as the night progressed. Laurel traced his face, the stubble on his chin, and planted a kiss on his nose. Oliver trailed kisses up her jaw and then paused next to her ear. There he whispered his plan to her. Laurel pulled back to look at him, worry blooming in her chest.

It was a risk, to trust Malcolm with so much – he'd betrayed them, betrayed so many, in the past. Yet he loved Thea, that much they could count on. It would have to be enough, because in Oliver's place, Laurel would've done the same for Thea or Sara. She would do her part of his plan. She trusted him with everything.

Her hands found the buttons on her dress and she began to undo them, kissing Oliver enticingly. He groaned and leaned into her, his hands joining hers to help. Despite the water under the bridge, their attraction to each other had never dimmed.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, nibbling his way down her neck.

"I've imagined our wedding night as well," Laurel answered, then whispered seductively in his ear. He moaned approvingly. She shed her dress and reached for his tunic.

She wanted this. She wanted him. They might die before this was over and she wanted one last night to show him how much she loved him.

Shirtless, Oliver rolled on top of her. "I don't want you to have any regrets," he whispered.

"I'll only regret if I don't." I love you.

He leaned down and kissed her again.