It's after six when Felicity glances back at the second computer at her workstation, frowning when she sees the result on the screen. She set it to notify her when it turned up anything, but apparently the computer decided that another plan of action was in order. Sighing, she still looks at the screen, just to make sure. Call it female intuition, but she didn't exactly believe that Helena would take defeat so easily, to just give up on her mission of revenge so quickly.
With that in mind, she still looks at the alert, her frown deepening when she looks at the text: a robbery at a sporting goods store, where they were relieved of one crossbow and enough bolts to supply a small war. Apparently Helena decided not to take Oliver's suggestion to get out of town, and she simply chose to take matters into her own hands after unsatisfactory results with Oliver. Under normal circumstances, Felicity would understand—she and Oliver have had their fair share of arguments because they're both ridiculously stubborn—but the idea of having a woman with a crossbow and a penchant for dropping bodies running around makes a small shiver run up her spine.
Especially when said woman has already tried to take a crack at Felicity once.
She decides that, even though Oliver is going to be overbearing and overprotective, that he probably needs to know that things with Helena aren't over yet. She pulls out her cell phone, still careful to use her burner to discuss Arrow business, and she dials one of only two numbers. With a number of tasks at the office still to complete, she connects it to her Bluetooth headset so she can have her hands free to move computers around.
"Hey, Felicity," he answers on the second ring, and she can hear noise in the background—noise that sounds suspiciously like Tommy, though she can't make out his words. Vaguely, she can make out a muffled, "Go flirt with your own girlfriend." It's silly the way her heart skips a beat at the last word; there's no doubt they're in a committed relationship, but it still surprises her sometimes that she's dating Oliver Queen. "Sorry about that," he says clearly now. "Do you want me to bring food down from the club for you?" Clearly he thinks she’s calling ahead because she’s about to leave work, and she glances wistfully at the clock before the stack of broken computers makes her frown.
"I'm not leaving QC yet," she answers, frowning. "I still have a few things to do before I call it a night here, but I was multitasking and picked up a police report that you should probably know about." She sighs. "Apparently, there was a break-in at a sporting goods store. Everything was intact, except they were robbed of one top-of-the-line, high-powered crossbow." She shrugs, even though he can't see her. "Could be some crazy coincidence, but I don't think so."
"Helena is still in town," he says in a tone that's several shades darker than his last. It's not anger, but something else that will always surprise her: worry. Even with few words, Felicity understands the emotion in his voice, in the words he doesn't say. They speak so much louder than the few he uses.
She decides to lighten the mood, just to make things a little easier for him. "Well, I was going to say 'psycho ex-girlfriend' since Digg isn't here to say it for me, but I think we've come to the same conclusion." It works; she earns one of those breathy almost-chuckles. "Either way, I think you should be careful. She's probably going after her dad, but I don't want you to catch a crossbow bolt because we assumed something we shouldn't have."
"I'll be careful," he assures her in a sincere voice. "I'm more concerned about you—she's already gone after you once this week." His tone turns dark again as he adds, "And that's one time too many for me." He sighs. "I probably can't convince you to come back to the lair tonight, can I?"
"That was one time only," she answers, confirming his suspicions. "I have Saphira at home, and I don't want her poking around your arrows. Or biting anyone's ankle off, though Tommy could probably use a good ankle-biting every now and again." It's worth another chuckle, and she's glad to relieve some of the pressure he fights every day—God knows he already has enough. Trying for a compromise, she offers instead, "You could stay the night with me, though."
There's a long pause across the line, and Felicity realizes what she said with a groan. "I hate my brain sometimes," she complains. "That wasn't a euphemism or a come on or anything. I meant that, if you were worried about my safety, you could stand guard or whatever it is you do all night. I'm not trying to seduce you."
"Maybe you should be," he answers almost immediately. His voice is darker in a different way this time, throaty and quiet with intent. Even though it’s on the phone and she can’t see his eyes darken with intensity, his tone alone is enough to make her face heat furiously.
For once, she doesn’t know what to say, so she turns away from her computer and toward the front of her office absently. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of something in the reflection off of the glass and she freezes immediately.
Because that is very much a crossbow.
She fights the initial reaction to freeze like a deer in the headlights and instead turns around, back toward the computer. “Oliver,” she whispers, “she’s here.” Then she takes a deep breath and says louder, for Helena’s benefit. “As I said before, you’re shameless.” Somehow her voice comes out pretty casual, even though she can feel her heart racing. “I’ll meet you at the club after I finish everything here.”
“I’ll be right there,” he assures her. “Don’t hang up.” There’s noise in the background—movement of some sort, and she can hear Tommy say something, too indistinct for her to catch. “I have to go,” Oliver answers in a hard tone that makes her stomach drop. It isn’t angry or concerned; it’s dark with intent, and, for once, Felicity is concerned for Helena’s well-being.
“See you then,” she answers, then presses a hand to the headset as though hanging up. She turns back to her work as casually as possible, trying to forget the impossible situation and focus on her work long enough to make Helena think that they were finished.
It works, and, despite the fact that she's waiting for Helena, she jumps when a voice behind her says, "Hello again, Felicity. We didn't get a chance to talk last night." Felicity swivels with a good sense of foreboding, and sure enough, Helena is dressed in that purple trench coat, her crossbow aimed expertly. Felicity swallows; this was more upsetting than she'd expected, even with the advanced warning. Helena clicks her tongue when she sees the headset on Felicity's ear, using the bow to motion toward it. "I think we need a little privacy for girl talk, don't you? Lose the headset."
Felicity does as she says, stating clearly, "If you're trying to get to Oliver, you're after the wrong girl. We're friends—if even that. Taking me as leverage is pointless." She says it all with a straight face, trying desperately to make herself believe the lie so that Helena can't see the truth instead.
To her surprise, Helena laughs. "Aren't you presumptuous," she answers thoughtfully. "I told you: I wanted to talk." She casually drapes herself in one of the chairs across from Felicity's desk, propping her feet up on the desk and keeping her crossbow trained on the blonde all the while. "I was going to warn you the other night about Oliver using people, but you obviously seem to know that." She studies Felicity for a long moment. "I thought you'd be different for him, but last night proves otherwise." She chuckles. "I thought he cared about you, but if he did, he wouldn't pull you into this without being armed or trained."
Felicity frowns as a realization comes to her. "You came to my house two nights ago," she starts slowly, "with a crossbow to talk?" Surely Helena doesn't think she'll buy any lie as cheaply-made as that one; it's ridiculous.
Helena shrugs. "I didn't know your level of training then," she answers casually. "That was when I realized you weren't a threat at all, but Tommy made for an easier target at the club opening. I don't mind improvising." She smiles, and it sends a chill down Felicity's spine. "And then I learned you're good with computers—a trait that became useful when they moved my father to the FBI safe house last night. I want that information, Felicity."
"If you're going to kill me, just do it," Felicity answers flatly. "I'm not going to be an accessory to patricide." She crosses her arms in defiance, though she knows it's probably going to spell out her own death. But she wouldn't serve as Oliver's accessory to murder, so she's certainly not going to be Helena's, either.
To her surprise, Helena laughs, though there's no humor in the sound. "Now why would I possibly kill you?" she answers, seeming genuinely opposed to the idea. "I'm not a blind killer." She amends her previous statement with the slight lift of a shoulder. "Well, not anymore. Oliver did what he does to all of us—he repurposed me. He took a computer technician and turned you into a hacker, but he taught me not to kill when I could apply leverage." Her hawk-like gaze pierces Felicity, the false smile and honeyed words falling away and exposing a dark bite in her tone. "If I kill you, I just have to start looking for another computer genius who can hack the FBI—not an easy feat, or so I'm told."
She stares at the bolt loaded in her crossbow for a long moment. "But see, I work smarter now. I did my research today, and I found that you were in the system." She shifts in her seat a little. "After my mother died, my father was accused of one of his many crimes, and they put me in foster care until he was released, and the foster home I went to was a loving family." Something in her expression turns sad, then dark as night. "That was where I met Michael, my fiancé. So, when I saw you were in the system, I realized that, you can still have family without being related." Felicity's spine goes to ice as Helena offers her next words: "And that was when I found Dr. Bartholomew Allen—known as 'Barry' to his friends."
She waves her free hand flippantly. "Now, I don't know you very well, Felicity, but I think you're loyal to your friends—and to your family. But what I do know is that. And that Barry is a good man—if the charities and awards are anything to go on. So, I ask you to make a trade tonight: Barry's life for my father's." Felicity's stomach drops further as she understands the implications, the trade that Helena is offering. Helena waves her hand again. "Someone is going to die tonight, and there's absolutely nothing you can do to prevent that. But now it's in your hands." She leans forward ever so slightly, some sort of dark hunger in her eyes, as though she enjoys this twisted game of cat and mouse. "So, tell me, Felicity: am I making a trip to an FBI safe house, or am I going to Central City?"
It's not even a choice, but it's one Felicity makes without hesitation. She'd commit any atrocity in the world to keep Barry save—readily and cheerfully, even. Barry was her first and only friend in the time when she needed friends most, standing with her through thick and thin. She was a horrible child after everything went sideways with her mother, a horrible teenager—a horrible friend. Yet Barry stuck with her through her mother's trial, through her rebellious phase in high school, and through that... mishap in college. Everyone else ran from her cynicism and prickly demeanor, but Barry never gave up on her. Oliver may be the love she'll never get over, and Cooper may have been her first love, but it was Barry who opened her heart.
It was Barry who taught her that love wasn't always toxic.
She doesn't even take time to think about it, only turns to her computer. "I hacked the FBI ages ago, so it shouldn't take me too long," she answers finally, not looking at Helena. She doesn't want to see that victorious, Cheshire Cat-like grin fall over her features in victory. Felicity hasn't lost anything yet, as far as she's concerned. Helena might have won this battle, but Felicity has learned that sometimes you have to sacrifice a battle or two in order to win the war.
Sacrifice a pawn to take the queen. Really, Helena should never have tried to match wits with a former chess club president.
It takes her all of twelve minutes to give her the information, and she spends six of that wrestling with the idea of giving Oliver’s psycho ex a false address. Eventually, she decides against it, too afraid that Helena will immediately go to Barry when the address doesn’t pan out. She’s not foolish enough to take that risk with her best friend’s life, and she has faith that Oliver can still stop Helena. Finally, she prints out a piece of paper. “Here,” she says as flatly as possible, trying not to display her disgust or challenge the woman for fear it will set her off. “It’s what you wanted. Now go put bolts in daddy, if it makes you feel better.” She doesn’t mean for the words to slip out of her mouth, but they come all the same.
Helena smiles at that, an odd response to the level of defiance. She tucks the piece of paper into her jacket. “You know,” she answers finally, “I was just going to let you go and call Oliver after this, but I absolutely hate rudeness. It’s all about a lack of respect between people—and, despite what you may think, I respect you, Felicity.” She stares at Felicity thoughtfully for a moment. “I think there should be a consequence for disrespect, don’t you?”
Before Felicity can decide if she needs to answer or not, Helena motions with the bow while pulling out something that looks like zip cuffs. Felicity wants nothing more than to fight back in whatever way possible, but the gleaming tip of the crossbow bolt reminds her that any resistance is probably futile. “Put your hands behind you,” Helena commands sharply, and Felicity does as she asks, feeling the zip cuffs pull tight against her wrists. Helena swivels the chair and zips a set around Felicity’s ankles next. The blonde’s eyes fall closed as she waits for the indication of the crossbow firing, but it never comes.
Instead, her world tilts sideways and her shoulder connects with the ground with a violent crash. Tears prick at her eyes as pain shoots through her shoulder and elbow, and she knows there’s going to be a bruise where the arm of the desk chair catches just above her hip. She bites her lip to keep a scream from echoing, though she tastes blood from it. “Thank you for your assistance, Felicity,” Helena says then, and Felicity opens her eyes to find the Huntress already leaving.
Felicity’s first reaction is to sound out all the expletives she’s ever heard—and possibly some she invents on the spot—because the throbbing in her shoulder is still there, and her eyes water without permission. She makes the effort to sit up, but it only results in banging her shoulder against the floor, and she can feel the tears spill over. Frustrated and hurting, she just lies there for a long moment with closed eyes, hoping the pain will stop.
“Felicity?” a tense, worried voice calls from what sounds like the door to her office, and her eyes snap open as a shaky breath leaves her.
“Down here, Oliver,” she answers quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed by her predicament. She’s not a damsel in distress, and she doesn’t need anyone to save her, even if Oliver is her first choice.
He’s by her side in an instant, pulling her into a sitting position by her uninjured arm, and she makes a dedicated effort not to look at him. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he pulls the green-handled switchblade out of his pocket and slashes the bindings with relative ease. He grabs her chin, tilting her head toward him gently and cupping her face when she turns to him. His thumb brushes just under her eyelid, and she watches his eyes harden after he realizes why her mascara is smeared. Instead of jumping to action, he asks her quietly, “Are you all right?”
She swallows once, nods. “I’m fine,” she assures him, but they both know it’s a lie. He frowns but cuts the tie around her ankles before scooping her up and sitting her on the desk. He only raises an eyebrow at her statement and she amends it: “Something happened to my shoulder when she—” His eyes go dangerously dark with fury, and she rephrases it, “When I fell. There’s an ache above my hip, and something happened to my elbow.”
He pushes the cap sleeve of her shirt carefully before prodding at the joint as carefully as possible. He then does the same to her elbow before assuring her, “Nothing is broken or dislocated, but it’s probably jammed.” Before she can answer, he pulls up her shirt to check on her hip, and her voice breaks off in a strangled breath before she can even say anything.
After all, she’s had some fantasies that start very similar to this scenario.
“You’re already starting to bruise,” he informs her, “but I don’t think anything is broken. Security called the cops when they found footage of the break-in, so let them know if anything changes.” He starts to say something else, but then his eyes flick down to where his hand still lingers above her hip and his voice leaves him as he comes to the same realization as Felicity. His pupils dilate (something that sends a prickle of decidedly-not-fear down her back), but he pulls her shirt back down, his eyes fixed steadily on hers.
He tilts her head up as if he’s going to kiss her, but then he turns her lip out, his expression hardening as he spots blood. “I bit it when I fell,” she answers the unspoken question, and it doesn’t seem to make him relax any.
In an abrupt movement, he tenses for a beat, suddenly pulling Felicity to her feet and angling her behind him. Oliver takes the knife from his pocket, aiming it as a gun pokes around the corner. They both break as they recognize friend, Oliver and Diggle both breathing heavily from the adrenalin rush.
“Felicity, you okay?” he asks, and she nods as Oliver pulls her into his side. He turns to Oliver. “I got your message—what happened?”
“Helena happened,” is Oliver’s flat answer, and he places a kiss to Felicity’s temple before pulling away. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he answers before she can even ask the question, stopping to offer a long look at Diggle. The military man nods in response, not even holstering his pistol. “Wait for the police—they’ll want a statement.”
“Oliver,” Felicity calls after him, “what are you going to do?” For her, the situation is more terrifying than the Dodger; this time, she’s not going to be there to prevent him from stopping Helena. Permanently. She’s never seen him like this before, equal parts anger and cold control. It’s the latter that scares her, that reminds her he’s killed before and he can do it again at any time.
His voice is cold this time when he answers vaguely, “This ends tonight, Felicity.”
***
Quentin Lance takes a long breath as he charges into the eighteenth floor of the Queen Consolidated building, frustrated by his required presence. The night shift is wearing on him, he decides, now that he’s on the Arrow case—Vigilante case, he reminds himself; only the Arrow’s friends call him such. The lack of light in his life seems to be draining him mentally, physically, and emotionally. Things with Laurel have been strained at best, due to the whole Sara-is-alive fiasco (he still isn’t sure how that one will play out), and now he’s trudging around Huntress while Detective Hall runs off after the Arrow—Vigilante.
Honestly, that girl is the only thing keeping him sane.
McKenna Hall brings what Hilton has called a “youthful exuberance” to the task force assigned to the Vigilante. Lance sees it more as the charm of a woman who knows she’s charming mixed with the determination of a bloodhound with a scent, but he supposes Hilton’s description works, too. Either way, the girl is the light in the darkness.
He turns the corner into the doorway marked “IT Department,” that sinking feeling in his gut hitting him yet again. The IT Department in particular rings a bell, but, for the life of him, he can’t place it. But then he sees that same, damned blonde ponytail, and he knows.
Felicity Smoak.
It’s only then that he realizes she’s a little disheveled; her hair is falling out of its ponytail and there are two nice, impressive bruises forming on her shoulder and her elbow. Then he notices the tissue she keeps dabbing at her lip—red with blood—and he figures she and Helena Bertinelli got into it. And, he has to admit, if that’s true, he’s kind of surprised she isn’t dead.
Still, it surprises him to see cool-as-a-cucumber Felicity sitting in one of the guest chairs in front of her desk, gnawing on a fingernail in either concern or PTSD. A hand falls on the back of her chair, and Lance vaguely recognizes the man as Queen’s bodyguard. He seems to know Felicity well, hovering behind her with careful eyes that rake over the scene with a level of observance that borders on eerie.
Weird, all-knowing bodyguard in the background notwithstanding, it looks like a typical scene of a break-in or unwanted visitor: chair overturned on the floor, disheveled victim, and CSUs taking photographs and other... CSU things. Forensics isn't exactly his specialty so he sticks to what he knows. That's witness statements, interviews, and interpretation of forensic fact.
Lance's first order of business, he decides, is the disheveled blonde. "Miss Smoak," he offers in greeting before sitting down in the chair next to hers. He wants to start off with business, but fatherly concern gets the better of him. After all, Felicity is close in age to Sara, and part of him can't always reconcile the two into different spaces. "Are you okay?"
She offers him a rather shaky smile. "I'm fine, Detective," she assures him, though her words are a little hollow and her eyes a little distant and unfocused. He notes that the black lines painted around her eyes are smudged, and he thinks she might have been crying. Suddenly he wants to find the son of a bitch that did this, and the surge of emotion surprises him.
He's sure she's a criminal, for Pete's sake.
"They're just a few bruises," she continues in assurance, rather casual for whatever has just happened. "But you're probably more concerned about what happened." She takes a shaky breath before rushing into, "It was Helena Bertinelli who did this."
Lance blinks twice, knowing for certain that it's not the whole story. "You want to tell me why she'd go after you? Do you even know each other?"
Felicity smiles for some reason unknown to him, then shakes her head. "We met once a few months ago, but I'm hardly an acquaintance." She hesitates, giving Diggle a pointed glance, and the man walks away to the entrance without a word. Her voice drops as she continues, "The Arrow, however, is another matter."
Lance frowns at the reminder of the incident last night. "I'm aware of that," he answers dryly. "I didn't think he'd help her out if she was just his roommate's cousin twice-removed." Then he adds, "And I don't think that, hypothetically"—he can't believe that he's playing this game by her rules—"he would endanger his favorite computer genius unless there was a good reason."
Felicity bites back a smile, probably for the sake of continuing the conversation. "Helena might have realized that I'm capable with computers," she admits. Her smile drops immediately. "She threatened my family—threatened Barry—if I didn't give her Frank Bertinelli's location."
Lance's eyebrows knit together, his mouth turning into a frown. "Why would you have that information?"
"I didn't," she admits slowly, "but she knew I could hack it for her." At his raised eyebrow, she continues, "I write code, Detective—it's what I'm good at. Technically, hacking is code, too." Absently, she muses on the thought. "Coding is like the Force—it can be used for great good or great evil." He blinks twice, and she blushes. "The point is that I broke into a federal database tonight under duress—she held a crossbow on me the entire time and threatened my brother. I didn't feel like there was another way out."
She looks away now. "And then she tied me up and tilted my chair over. And she left me there for someone to find—or not. I was supposed to meet Oliver at the club to set up the wireless router, so he sent Mr. Diggle to come get me when I didn't show up. He found me here."
He’s about to attempt to pry more out of him—because he's certain it isn't the full story—when Oliver Queen walks into the room. Lance notices the way Felicity's eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, in a gesture of confusion, and he doesn't miss the way the billionaire's head slides ever so slightly to the side before he breaks into a concerned smile. "Are you okay?" he asks her quietly, his hand falling on her forearm.
She nods once. "Just some sort of crazy woman broke in here," she answers with a false smile. Queen's eyes flick to the bruise on her arm, and she crosses her arm over it self-consciously. "It's just a bruise—I fell out of my chair. It's fine."
The exchange causes Lance to balk a little; he had still stuck to the idea that Oliver Queen was the Vigilante, for lack of better suspects and his relation to the crime. But if the scene between them is an act, they're both very good actors—or she doesn't know. He doesn't understand the silent exchange between them, but he doubts that even Diggle knows what happened there.
"I'm trying to conduct a witness interview here, Mr. Queen," Lance states dryly, gritting his teeth through the idea of having to be respectful to the man responsible for his daughter's death. He may be "reformed," or whatever the hell Felicity told him before, but he isn't buying it. "Do you mind?"
Queen’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to say something, but Felicity puts a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes flick to her. Lance is a little impressed by their silent communication; it’s uncanny how they can have an entire conversation with eyebrow raises, frowns, and touches. Queen frowns in response, but he sighs. “Let me know when you’re finished here, and I’ll drive you home,” he offers in a defeated tone before walking out of the room.
Lance can feel his eyebrows go up at the display and the blonde flushes slightly at the expression. He hasn’t known Oliver Queen to be particularly devoted, and he decides that maybe, despite her criminal activity, Felicity Smoak has been good for the kid. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. Finally, he clears his throat and asks quietly, “And your friend in green? He know what happened here tonight?”
“He wasn’t thrilled,” she answers after a long pause, her tone enough of an answer for both of them. No doubt that they’re going to get a report of the Vigilante active tonight—and probably the Huntress, too.
He sighs deeply, then waves a hand at her. “You’re free to go, Miss Smoak. If you remember anything that might help…” He’s only reciting the words at this point; they both know she’s not going to offer anything else. “Give me a call.”
She gives him one of those enigmatic smiles. “Always, Detective.”
He watches her walk out of the office, over to Queen. She says something to him as she takes his hand, walking with him toward the elevator bank. His expression is grim as he speaks to her, and her face falls slowly before they’re out of the detective’s line of vision. Then he frowns at the scene of the crime.
He hopes Detective Hall has turned up more than him.