Strip Me Bare Beneath the Pink
by étienneofthewestwind
Summary: AU. Some years after tragedy devastates Quentin Lance's life, everything gets turned upside down again. It will take everything he has and more to make it through…
Disclaimer: If I owned the actual series, some great storylines might never have been thought up. If they were, the logic and consistency might have been different.
Note: Based on a mix of the first season of Arrow and DC facts.
"Want to go grab a beer?" Hilton asked as they walked out of the station.
After their day, Quentin could use a drink or four, but he also was not up for friendly conversation. "Maybe some other time."
Hilton frowned at him. "You need to get out more," he said. "Sara wouldn't want you to quit living."
Easier said than done, Quentin thought. "After today, Hilt, I need to be with the family I have left."
"Okay, then. Have a good one." Hilton got into his car and drove off.
Quentin plodded out to the far end of the lot and his own vehicle, mentally cursing the maintenance crew that had blocked his spot that morning. The continued presence of their grey van under the still-out lamppost did not help his mood. How long could the job possibly take? Quentin wondered as the light nearest his car flickered out. Wonderful. And I haven't replaced the bulb in my dome light yet...
The bulb had only fritzed out two days ago, and with his case load, Quentin had decided to deal with it on his days off. Quentin reached his car and unlocked the door. He slid in and fumbled for the seatbelt buckle. When Quentin finally belted himself in, he leaned forward to put the keys in the ignition. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move in the rearview mirror. As Quentin turned his head, an arm shot out from behind his seat and wrapped around Quentin. Quentin's right arm was pinned to his side before he could register the assault. The keys bounced off his knee and hit the floor as Quentin clawed at the arm. He felt a sharp prick in the left side of his neck and jerked to the right. Something cold trickled down the side of Quentin's neck. Dizziness quickly filled his head, and Quentin punched the steering wheel. The horn did not sound. Next, he fumbled to pull his gun with his off hand. Quentin knew he could not aim behind him safely, but a few shots into the passenger seat should attract attention from the station. He just needed…
Quentin's hand grew too heavy to continue his brain's commands. Against his will, Quentin's head lulled forward. After a while, he heard a voice in his ear. "He's stopped fighting but isn't completely out. I think some of the sedative missed the vein… Understood." Quentin heard a vehicle approach. He saw a gray van pull into the spot next to the driver's side before his eyelids refused to stay open. The car door opened, and the last thing Quentin remembered was someone unbuckling the seatbelt…
Consciousness eluded him. Every time he floated toward it, he sank away again, with incomplete impressions: talk of payment as he was lifted out of a vehicle, a prick in his arm, the floor under him sinking down.
Suddenly, Quentin sat bolt upright. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around for what had awakened him. He found himself alone, in a fifteen by fifteen by nine foot high tent. Quentin was on a wooden cot. A chain ran from the wooden post in the center of the tent to a cuff locked around Quentin's ankle. On the right side of the tent, near the entrance on the opposite right corner, a couple chairs sat on either end of a table that had a few filled bottles and other items. In the middle of the left side, a bucket sat with a couple rolls of toilet paper on the ground, and a portable sink. Sounds filtered in from the outside, including an argument. Confused, Quentin tried to stand up. His head, pounding worse than any hangover he could remember, swam at the movement.
Quentin sat back on the cot. As his head settled, the memory of the attack in his car came back to him. Whoever had taken him had removed his suit jacket, shoes, belt, and gun and had rolled up his right shirt sleeve. Thinking of his recent half-aware impressions, Quentin checked his right elbow and found half a dozen needle marks. I really hope they didn't use anything addictive. Quentin swallowed and realized just how dry his mouth and throat were.
He tried to stand again and, while dizzier than sitting, this time Quentin could keep his balance. He slowly made his way to the table and grabbed one of the bottles. As Quentin sank into a chair, he unscrewed the lid and tasted the clear liquid. His intended caution abandoned him the moment he got a taste of the water and he drained the entire liter before he realized it. Quentin screwed the cap back on the bottle and fought the urge to open the next. Aside from the possibility his captors had drugged it, Quentin had no idea how long he needed to make it last.
Quentin turned his attention to the rest of the table's contents. He saw his wallet and badge in the middle. A package of four peanut butter sandwich cookies sat on the far end. His stomach rumbled at the sight, and he realized that he had not eaten since lunch before his kidnapping. Whenever that was. He went for the cookies, only to find the chain did not allow him to reach that far. Quentin cursed, sat back down, and checked the contents of his wallet. They had removed nothing.
They're pretty confident I won't get loose, he thought. Or… They're confident that my money and badge won't do me any good if I do. Where the hell could I be? Who the fuck snatches a cop, anyway? From the station lot of all places?
And why me?
Mind still reeling from the frightening level of implied skill and resources, Quentin pulled the photo folder out of his wallet. As he mentally reviewed his cases, he flipped through them: Dinah, arranging flowers. Laurel, the day she graduated law school. Sara, reading under the oak tree. Dinah and him, four Halloweens ago. Quentin ran his fingers over that picture, over Dinah's face. His futile attempts to figure out the individual—or most likely organization—behind his abduction melted as Quentin recalled the last time he had spoken to Dinah. They had argued, and Quentin had had to leave for work before anything could be resolved. Would those angry words be the last memory she had of him? There was so much he should have told her, so much he never let her know. "Di, I'm so sorry…"
Quentin blinked back tears and looked at the photo in the opposite sleeve: Laurel and him on her last birthday. She had so much life ahead of her, including settling down with a decent guy and children. Despite the risks of his job, Quentin had always expected to spoil grandchildren one day.
He flipped the sleeve to a picture he had taken of Sara, Dinah, and Laurel at a Starling City Rockets game—the last Rockets game they had attended as a family. Quentin had not followed the Rockets since Sara's death. He had not done many things he used to before Sara had lost her chance to start a family. Or finally settle on a career path, as Sarah had changed her mind countless times through high school and college. Quentin had had a good feeling about that final major change, though. Sara had seemed settled with herself.
I guess this isn't all bad if I see you soon, Quentin thought as he brushed his fingers over Sara's face. It's just not how I wanted to leave things. Quentin stared at Sara's image another minute.
Okay, pull it together, Quentin. You're not dead yet. You just need to figure out where you are and how to get out o—
The tent flap abruptly swung open. Quentin quickly shoved the photos in his back pocket, as if it would protect his family from whatever he would face. A white, blond male with cold blue eyes walked in, an air of authority about him. "Good. You're awake," he said, a hint of Britain in his words. His tone both conveyed surprise to find Quentin awake and implied that Quentin was a lesser man for not waking far earlier than he did. "Don't get up," the man said as he turned and gestured behind him.
Quentin snorted. Like I planned to show any more weakness than I can avoid.
The man sat in the chair opposite Quentin as another man, taller than the blonde, walked in. Despite his black and white mask only having one small eye-hole, the second man showed no evidence of limited vision. He set a tripod on the ground and mounted a video camera pointed at Quentin. "Lawrence Quentin Lance," the first man said as he opened the package of cookies. "Born Thirteen April, 1962."
The blonde pulled out a cookie and snapped it in half. When the scent of the cookie reached Quentin, his stomach growled.
"Married to Dinah Drake. Two daughters. Youngest, Sara Lynn, presumed dead along with Oliver Queen nearly three years ago. Oldest, Dinah Laurel, graduated law school last month and is scheduled to sit the bar exam this week. Career policeman, with Starling City PD for twenty-five years. Spent a few years in Gotham PD before that. Current rank, sergeant. Current posting, Detective's Bureau, Major Case Unit. Miss anything so far?"
The man popped half the cookie in his mouth. Quentin stared at him, fighting to keep his expression blank even as his stomach growled audibly.
"No? Good." The blonde ate the other half of the cookie. "By most accounts, you're a good cop and known for preaching the need to stick within the law to get justice—a rather interesting position for someone who knowingly married the prime suspect in the Black Canary investigation."
Quentin started. A satisfied smile flitted across the blonde's face as he took out another cookie.
"So, are you just a hypocrite, or do you protest too much so people don't look too closely at your little family?"
"Detective Smythe made mistakes," Quentin said, more tightly than he should have.
"Like reading you into his investigation and trying to get you to wear a wire on Miss Drake? I'd say so—as did his superiors."
Quentin remained silent as he watched his interrogator eat the second cookie. Decades past the Canary's time, anything Quentin could say would have little value. Either he's distracting me from his real questions, or he just wants me off balance.
More off balance.
"Is that it, then?" Quentin asked, fighting to sound calm. "The Canary took you down, and you think I'm the way to revenge?" Damn, if this is a proof of life video, Di's in for a shock…
"I like to know who I'm dealing with, Detective Sergeant. It's what we try hide that proves our identities."
"So do fingerprints."
"I rather expected a policeman might say that. But at most that just gets you a name and some sort of record. No, Detective Sergeant, our identity is defined by our actions and motivations.
"What motivations have you hidden for the last twenty-seven years? Do you even know anymore?"
Quentin laced his fingers together and dropped his hands below the table. "Sorry to disappoint you, Blondie," he said as he studied the man and searched for a way to wrest control of the interrogation. "But Dinah agrees with my position on vigilantes."
"Now," the blonde replied. "After Batman slaughtered the Joker and Monroe went off the rails. But Miss Drake was a supporter of the costumed vigilantes when all they did was leave criminals tied up—and often beaten up—where the police could find them.
"A fact you fought over often enough."
"Debated," Quentin retorted. "Agreed to disagree. And half of Gotham was under the spell of the Bat. It doesn't prove anything."
The blonde smirked.
Quentin wondered why the hell he could not keep his mouth shut. All the interrogations Quentin had done over the years had taught him better.
"Miss Drake did more than disagree with you."
"No." Quentin met the other man's cold eyes and lied through his teeth. "She didn't."
Quentin received the same look he normally gave to suspects with patently false alibis. "You almost sound as if you believe it. Now let me hear you say your youngest was never a thief."
Quentin balled his hands into fists. "Sara was a good person."
"Really," the blonde drawled. "What's your excuse? Youthful folly, troubled girl acting out?"
Quentin growled, "Look, Blondie—"
"Really, with your attitude, I'm surprised Mrs. Lance didn't chuck you years ago. Better late than never, I suppose."
What's he playing at? No matter their problems, Di would never arrange his disappearance.
"Of course, since she only left the day we took you, it could easily look like she was fleeing the city." The blonde tapped a cookie against the table. "Unless someone has a reason to lead the investigation away from her."
Quentin froze.
"I see that got your interest." The man Quentin had dubbed Blondie smirked as he took the second to last cookie from the package. "Don't worry. I have no interest in framing anyone for your absence when Dr. Quinzel's last evaluation left room to argue for suicide." The blonde snapped the cookie in half. "Without sufficient cooperation from you, I also lack the interest to spare your daughter."
"You will not harm so much as a hair on Laurel's head!" Quentin said lowly, his blood ice cold.
"You misunderstand my position."
"No. You misunderstand mine. I've already lost one daughter, and I cannot, will not, go through that again."
"You're as powerless to stop me as you were to stop the yacht from being sunk," the blonde said, his voice maddeningly mild.
"You've no idea what I can do to protect my family."
"Very good," the blonde smiled. "It's stupid to bluff from your position, but something that pigheaded on top of everything else should ring true." He gestured to the masked man and pulled a book from his pocket. The masked man walked around the camera tripod toward Quentin. The man's movements triggered a warning in the back of Quentin's brain. Quentin stood and tried to get into a defensive position, but the masked man stepped on the chain that held his ankle. The masked man brought his other foot forward to yank the remaining chain up. Quentin slammed to the ground.
The next thing Quentin knew, his wrists were pulled in front of him and lashed together. The masked man pulled Quentin to his feet, threw the long end of the rope over one of the tent's wooden support beams, and hoisted Quentin off his feet. Quentin bit back a curse at the pain in his wrists and shoulders. The masked man pulled a knife out of his belt and slipped it up under Quentin's shirt. Quentin absently wondered when it had become untucked before the sharp edge of the blade brushed over Quentin's skin. The masked man ran the blade up Quentin's side and across his chest, a grim mimicry of a lover's touch.
He wants me to know what's coming, Quentin realized. For the fear and anticipation to make it wors—
Quentin struggled for breath as the burning in his lungs warred with the pain in his gut. "I suppose that will suffice," the blonde's bored tone cut into Quentin's awareness. The masked man stepped away from Quentin and cut the rope holding him in the air.
Quentin fell to his knees and collapsed on his side. A strangled cry escaped him as the impact jarred his wounds before Quentin choked as he drew a huge breath in. "Quit being so dramatic," the blonde said as the masked man sliced the rope off of the still-gasping Quentin's wrists—and took a chunk of a wrist in the process. "You'd hours to go before that position suffocated you."
The blonde man closed his book. He took the camera and left Quentin bleeding on the ground of the tent. The mashed man hoisted Quentin to his feet, and all but threw onto the cot.