I don't own anything. Obviously.

Somewhere much higher in the chain of authority, it was decided that the Star City Police Department should have an internship program to encourage motivated college students to pursue careers in law enforcement. Captain Quentin Lance isn't exactly thrilled. While he loves his daughters more than anything, he and Dinah finally have an empty nest, and being obligated to entertain some half-asleep kid seems like it would negate this newfound freedom.

So, when the program starts, he is pleasantly surprised by both the well-mannered, hard-working Nyssa Raatko and the fact that his semi-regular interaction with her doesn't annoy him. In fact, he finds that he likes her. She has a way of speaking that he deems trustworthy and a respect for authority that he appreciates. Not to mention she is about the same age as his daughters, and, as much as he enjoys that empty nest, he likes feeling vaguely connected to their world.

Speaking of, he finds himself repeatedly realizing that he and his intern have finished yet another conversation during which he has again forgotten to ask if Nyssa knows his younger daughter, Sara. They are, after all, only two years apart and attending the same university. Then again, Nyssa is serious and driven, while Sara is…well, Sara is Sara. She resists being serious about anything. He figures they wouldn't really run in the same circles.

But, just as Sara's lack of direction worries him, so does Nyssa's hyper-focused dedication to the force. Quentin wonders if her perceived duty keeps her from having a life outside school and this internship. It is in that vein that he asks about her plans for Thanksgiving and learns that she doesn't have any, as she doesn't have much family to spend it with.

So Quentin Lance invites Nyssa Raatko to his house for Thanksgiving dinner. Because how could that possibly be a problem?

The approaching holiday is made that much more enticing by the news that Laurel will not be bringing her boyfriend round, since she'd finally dumped his sorry ass. Better yet, they don't have to feign disappointment, because she is actually satisfied with the whole situation. Laurel had been so sure he'd grow out of his immaturity once they entered the real world, but that hadn't happened, and Quentin can't say he's surprised. So she's finally done with the boy. And yes, he knows said boy's name, given that he and Laurel had been together for years and were friends even before then. But that doesn't mean he ever liked or approved of his daughter's choice in beau. Good riddance.

The only shadow on his bright mood is that his little girl is now single, which opens a big door of opportunity, and he isn't looking forward to who might come knocking. Sara never brings anyone home, so he can at least pretend his baby is pure and innocent. But Laurel is so enamored with the idea of her white picket fence that she might actually introduce her parents to every young man who makes it past the second date. Is it too late to forbid his daughters to see boys? Because that would certainly help him sleep at night.

The day before Thanksgiving, he comes home from work to find Sara's sneakers by the front door and both his girls in the kitchen with his wife. Dinah and Laurel are in the middle of grilling Sara on an explanation for her uncharacteristically lackluster mood. The youngest Lance slouches at the island, chin propped against her crossed arms on the smooth marble. She lifts her head slightly and attempts a grin as her father walks in, then drops back to the smooth surface and whines, "It's not a big deal, really. I'm bummed, but I'll live."

"What's not a big deal?" Quentin asks, kissing the blonde's forehead before greeting the rest of his family.

"I wanted to invite someone for Thanksgiving, but I missed my window, so now they have other plans."

"Sweetie," Dinah probes cautiously, "Are you going to be alright?"

The girl waves her hand dismissively and pushes off her seat, mumbling as she walks away, "Yeah, it's not, like, over or anything. I just wanted to take the next step or whatever kinda crap Laurel's always spewing–"

"Hey!"

"–But it's okay. Maybe at Christmas," Sara remarks thoughtfully.

Later that night, in the master bedroom, Dinah turns to her husband, frowning, and asks, "Did Sara really seem okay to you? She's never wanted to invite someone for the holidays before. I feel bad that it didn't work out."

Quentin shrugs. "If she says she's fine…Sara's resilient."

"I know. Just…Do you think it was a boy? With what she said about the next step?"

"Hmph, I hope not. We just got rid of that mop head. We deserve a break." He shakes his head. "Well, Nyssa is her age. They should get along alright. Maybe that'll take her mind off it."

Dinah chuckles. "It sounds like you're setting our nineteen-year-old up on a playdate."

As it turns out, they don't get along alright. They don't anything at all, really.

At noon the next day, Quentin, with a carving fork in one hand and a large knife in the other, sends Sara to answer the door. He hears the door open, followed by ten seconds of silence, after which the door slams shut. Normally, he would remind his daughter not to slam the door, but he decides not to be the overbearing father with a guest around. Much to his surprise, he hears the door open and shut again two minutes later, and Sara strides in and reclaims her seat at the counter as if she hadn't left.

Before he can question her behavior, Laurel enters, chatting easily with Nyssa, who interrupts the conversation to greet Quentin and Dinah, complement their lovely home, and hand them a bottle of wine, explaining, "I understand Sara may be too young, but I hope the rest of you will enjoy this."

If there is something funny about the way Nyssa says his daughter's name, Quentin doesn't notice. What he does notice is the way Sara flinches, but he writes that off as her annoyance that she is still underage.

Laurel and Nyssa are thick as thieves in a matter of minutes. They sit in the living room, watching the parade and chatting like old friends. Quentin is glad, but he'd hoped Sara would be more of her normal self. She usually makes friends so easily, so he can't understand why this time is any different. Sara could use a good influence to motivate her academically, and Nyssa could probably use someone who might convince her to unwind occasionally. But nothing. They barely exchange a single word the whole day.

When Quentin passes Sara's room that night, he hears her mumbling something about "what kind of wannabe detective doesn't…" and "last name should be a dead giveaway."

At that point, he decides he doesn't even want to know.

A few days before Christmas, Sara is home on break, and they are sitting down for a family dinner when Laurel shoots Sara a look. It's heavy with something—maybe apology, or was it encouragement?—but then she exchanges it for a smile and announces that she has invited Nyssa for Christmas. Just in case Quentin forgot or hadn't planned on it. Sara pales but looks almost hopeful, and the feeling spreads to her father. Maybe they'll actually get along this time.

Not even close.

Christmas Eve is downright hostile.

At one point, Sara, who's been very aggressively tearing through a plate of ribs, unceremoniously drops a clean bone on her dish and snarls, "So, Nyssa, you wanna be a cop, huh? That's kinda gay, isn't it?"

Laurel's jaw drops, and Dinah squeaks in shock. Nyssa holds her chin high.

"Sara!" Quentin growls, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'. And there's nothin' wrong with bein' gay, either, right, Daddy?"

He can't even think of how to respond other than by nodding dumbly.

"I mean," Sara continues, "If I were, say, bisexual or somethin', you'd still love me, right?"

"Of course," Quentin chokes out, thrown by his daughter's behavior. It is true. He won't care who she loves, so long as they are good enough for his baby girl.

Sara persists, "So, hypothetically, if I were bi and, like, wanted to be on the force, what would you think of that?"

"Well," he stalls, searching for the right words. "I don't know if that'd be a good fit for you, sweetie…"

"But because I'm not cut out to be a cop, not because of my hypothetical gayness, right?"

"Right, that doesn't mat—" Quentin cuts himself off, remembering where this insane conversation started. "Young lady, don't think you can distract me. Your mother and I did not raise you to be so rude, especially to guests. Apologize to Nyssa."

The blonde looks across the table at their guest and drawls, sickly sweet, "I'm so very sorry, Nyssa. I'm sure you're not gay at all. Straight as an arrow, even."

"An arrow, indeed," Nyssa replies coolly.

Laurel snorts. "Hypothetical gayness? Really, Sara?"

And here Quentin thought getting rid of Queen solved all his problems. Idiot.

—

Since Laurel invited Nyssa to stay the night, Quentin pulls Sara aside after dinner and lectures her on being polite even if she doesn't like someone. Once he is quite sure she has understood him, he goes off to sleep.

At around eleven, he hears a few sharp words floating down the hall, so he slips out of bed and makes his way towards his bedroom door, which is ajar. As he gets closer, he hears someone—maybe Sara—hiss, "You made your bed. Go lie in it." Then, a beat later, much sharper, and definitely Sara, "Get. Out."

By the time he gets to the door and peers through the crack, he catches sight of Nyssa padding across the hall into Laurel's room. Moments later, he makes out Laurel's whispered, "I'm so sorry." After a minute of standing stock still and waiting for divine guidance on how to deal with a situation he can't make heads or tails of, he trudges back to bed.

His heart breaks five minutes later, when he catches what is only audible because of parent's intuition: Sara is crying.

And, Heaven help him, he can't fathom why.

—

By Christmas morning, Sara and Nyssa are back to ignoring each other. It pains Quentin that such a thing might be a relief. And confuses him, really, because, even though he'd hated the Queen boy, they'd been able to have reasonably enjoyable holidays with him present. Then again, whatever is in the air now doesn't feel like hate. It feels like hurt.

After breakfast, Laurel informs them that she and Nyssa are going ice skating. "Enjoying the holiday spirit," she says.

Nyssa looks at Laurel as though she is a lifeline.

Sara looks at Laurel as though she has just twisted a knife in her back.

Laurel looks at Sara as though desperately trying to make her understand something.

Nyssa doesn't come for New Year's. Laurel said it didn't seem like the best idea. Still, Quentin watches the pain on Sara's face when Laurel leaves to go meet up with "friends" and wishes he could order his older daughter to stay. He can't, though. Not without a good reason. He thinks there might be one, but he doesn't know what it is. Instead he follows Laurel out the door and just looks at her. Watches her walk to her car and then turn around and sprint into his arms, squeezing tightly.

"Daddy, I know this is hard. And I know you don't know why. But Sara has you and mom. You're always there for her. Nyssa has no one. No one but us, really. I have to be there for her. Okay?"

He nods and lets her go, wishing his younger daughter had chosen someone less resiliently fragile to take her hostility out on. He does really like Nyssa. And, as different as they are, he'd been so sure Sara would, too.

Sara goes back to college in mid-January, and it's like the air changes. Nyssa's eyes are bright whenever Quentin sees her at work. Sara's voice is cheery when they speak on the phone. Laurel, who had looked like a person torn in two, regains her level demeanor. Everything feels so much easier.

Which is why he can't stop himself from pulling Nyssa aside one afternoon in mid-February, fingers gentle around her upper arm, fatherly, even. "I'm sorry," comes tumbling out. "For Sara. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

And she doesn't shrug, because she is Nyssa, but the gesture is there nonetheless. What she does instead is smile at him and reply, in that steady voice of hers, "I'm not so sure. But you needn't apologize for Sara. Not to me. Don't apologize for the people you love. She is an adult, and, if she is sorry, she will find the words. But, if she is not…even when you don't agree, or don't understand… If she is not sorry, she deserves to feel that way. She deserves to live unapologetically. Deserves not to have her feelings undercut, even by someone trying to do right by her. I've had too many people try to dictate my emotions, my life, under the guise of doing what was best for me. I don't want–don't think you want that for you daughter."

Quentin's heart twists. He may be a proud man, but he can take criticism. He and Joe West have swapped such parental pointers on several occasions. That's not what hits him hardest. He thinks, not for the first time, that this girl before him deserves more, too. And, sure, he says that sort of thing about his daughters all the time; no one is good enough for them, etc. But this isn't parental bias. Nyssa is owed happiness, plain and simple.

She's standing in front of him, waving away an apology and defending his baby girl, his daughter, after Sara was so cold to her. He wishes he had something better to offer her than these words she doesn't even want. But it's not his place. She's not his daughter, she's his intern. So he offers her what he's supposed to. It's the least he can do.

"How bout a ride along, kid? Wanna see if we can catch some action?"

Her eyes flash, revealing that something, sharp and dangerous, that he knows will make her a great detective someday, assuming she sticks to her values. As they walk towards the car, he notices a fine gold chain glinting under her collar that he's almost positive hasn't been there before, unless he really is as clueless as his wife claims.

"New necklace?" he asks, indicating with a tilt of his head.

Nyssa actually blushes and lifts it from under her button-up, so he can see the small, bird-shaped pendant that's been hanging close to her heart. "A gift." She hesitates, then clarifies, "It's a canary." She lets him study it for a moment, then tucks it away again, almost reverently.

He hums, tries to stop himself, to be sensitive, but the words burst out all the same. "I got Sara a pet canary when she was younger. That thing drove us crazy, but she loved it." Christ, he just can't help himself; it was an opportunity to find common ground, and he wants them to get along so badly.

"Is that so?" she replies politely, and he feels guilty for pushing.

He reroutes the conversation again, nudging, "A gift, huh? Got yourself a special someone, kid? Anyone I oughta intimidate for you?"

Nyssa laughs, "Oh, no, it's quite alright, Captain. I'm not really sure how that would go over…"

She trails off, but his attention is elsewhere, anyway. It's occurring to him abruptly that this isn't just mid-February. It is precisely the middle of February. The 14th. Hence Nyssa receiving jewelry from her…boyfriend? Admirer? Anyway. Maybe he is as oblivious as Dinah says. He'd better pick up flowers on his way home, or he'll be a dead man.

When he does get home, Dinah tilts her head fondly at the roses. As she's arranging them in a vase, she asks, "Did you ever see Sara's grades from last semester?"

"No," Quentin replies warily. "I forgot with all the holiday mess. Did you?"

She shakes her head, and holds up an envelope from the university. "This came…Quentin, Sara made the Dean's List."

"What?"

"Dean's List, Quentin."

He gapes.

Then he calls Sara.

"Hi, Daddy! What's up?"

"Sara," he says carefully, "We never talked about your grades from last semester."

"Oh. Right."

He can tell she's been anticipating this conversation, so he doesn't push too hard. "Well?"

His daughter sighs, "I did alright, I guess."

Since she's not being forthcoming, he says it for her. "We got a letter from the school. Dean's List, sweetie? We're very proud of you."

She sounds embarrassed as she breathes, "Yeah, thanks. I, um…I'm trying. Got some help from a…friend, to make better study habits and stuff. Seemed like a good idea. I dunno."

"That's all we ask of you," he assures her. "Just do your best, and we'll be proud."

And suddenly, the mirth is back in her voice, and she's chirping, "Daddy, I have to go." Then she's saying she loves him and have a nice night and giggling. She's giggling. The explanation she gives promptly before hanging up the phone is, "I've got a date."

He'd be terrified if she didn't sound so damn happy.

In April, he notices that Nyssa is positively glowing. When he asks what has her in such a good mood, she tells him, "Freedom."

It's a week later, when she seems to have mostly tamed the bright light threatening to explode out her fingertips, that she asks him tentatively, "What if Sara was right?"

They're standing in the file room, sorting through old cases and attempting to reorganize. Nyssa's knee deep in file crates, and he's leaning against the empty metal shelves, sticking up the post-it notes she hands him, adorned with her looping scrawl, to help guide their efforts.

"Huh?" Quentin returns. It can't even be called a question; he's too surprised that Nyssa is willingly mentioning his younger daughter.

"At Christmas. What if Sara was right?"

Oh.

That.

"You know," he begins, scooping up a stack of files, "One of the first things you learn in tactical training is that the direct route isn't always best." He puts his hand on her shoulder and waits for her to meet his eyes. "It's okay not to go straight, Nyssa. Skip your way through the damn woods and sing with birds like Snow White, if that's how you feel like doing it. Don't ask for permission to be who you are or want what you want. You are a human being with a heart, and love is only the beginning of what you deserve."

Giving her some space, he chuckles and turns back to the shelves. "But it's good to know, since I might have to revise my "treat her right" speech."

She snorts, "The one you won't be giving."

"Someday, I'll meet this…"

"Girlfriend," she supplies breathlessly. He suspects she hasn't said it aloud much.

"…girlfriend of yours, and I am going to say my piece."

"I doubt you'll want to, once you've met her."

Quentin grins. "I'll take you up on that bet, kid."

It's late June—the first day of summer—and laziness is sticky and attractive like ice cream cones and colorful cocktails. Quentin gets a text from Laurel, Nyssa's coming for the 4th of July. Panic sparks in his chest, but he pushes it away. Sara's been really happy lately, and Nyssa…It's like even breathing has gotten easier for Nyssa. He can't imagine two so content people devolving into the disaster that was Christmas. There will be other guests coming to their Independence Day barbecue, and they'll be outside, instead of trapped together indoors. Worst case scenario, he'll have to separate them like misbehaving children. It's worth the risk to spend time with the people he cares about.

But the day comes, and it's actually going well. He's nearly positive he spotted them having a civil conversation at one point, but it's hard to say, as the yard is brimming with people and activity. He carefully sidesteps the sprinkler and scans the crowd, searching through the familiar faces, absently wondering if he'll finally meet Nyssa's girlfriend.

Once the grill has been turned off, he's a bit freer, and he's thinking of the box of sparklers upstairs that he's about ready to set off with his girls, as per tradition. He finds Laurel easily, almost like she was looking for him, and she informs him that Sara is upstairs. His older daughter is smiling much too widely for the occasion when he tells her he's going to grab Sara and the fireworks. But he's kind of done trying to understand his girls.

If he'd been listening more closely during his hike up the stairs, he might've knocked. But the thumping of the music and voices of the guests and the sheer lack of expectation have him just pushing open Sara's bedroom door.

Somehow, it's not as surprising as it should be to see Sara and Nyssa on the bed, kissing so leisurely that it might be mistaken for breathing. Thankfully, it's pretty tame; Quentin's suddenly well aware that he could've walked into something so much worse. Sara's sitting on the bed with Nyssa in her lap, arms wrapped securely around the brunette's waist, and Nyssa is cradling Sara's face in both hands. They're both clothed, too, if the American flag bikini top and white denim shorts Sara's wearing count as clothing. Nyssa's not far off, with her equally short jeans and tight red tank top.

The way they're entwined is so relaxed, and he's grateful. Not only for not being traumatized, but also because it's so obvious that this is emotional and not just physical. And, sure, this isn't what he'd been thinking when he wished they'd get along, but it's not upsetting either. Not upsetting at all. So he clears his throat.

They jump a little and look at him, wide-eyed, but they don't spring apart. If anything, Sara's hold tightens when Nyssa's hands slip to her shoulders. He has the urge to press his hand to his heart, and since when did he become one of those parents?

"And here I was worried you'd be at each other's throats."

Sara grins. "You were close." She loosens her grip, and Nyssa slides off her lap, settling close beside her with a hand on the blonde's knee and Sara's arm around her waist. Sara looks over the brunette fondly, then up at her father, asking, "You're not mad?"

Quentin sits down on the bed, too, and smiles. "I should be annoyed that you've kept it a secret, but I'm not. I'm just happy that I don't have to worry about you two anymore." He shakes his head and amends, "Well, worry bout you two getting along, anyway. I'll still worry about everything else." Nyssa's necklace glints in his periphery, and he asks, "So, it's been Sara this whole time, huh, kid?"

She nods, smiling softer than he's ever seen her. "Yes, it has always been Sara."

"How long?" finally occurs to him, and both girls fight grins at the question.

"A year," Sara proudly informs him.

It's a shock, because he'd just assumed they'd tried to work out their differences after Christmas and ended up connecting. "But, Thanksgiving…you acted like…"

"Sara wanted to come out to you and Dinah, but I wasn't ready. She understood that, which is why she didn't try to persuade me to cancel the plans I had already made. With your family," Nyssa says. "We didn't know…"

Sara continues the story. "When she showed up here, I though it was just good luck or a sign or something. But she really wasn't ready, and I didn't know how to deal with explaining things halfway, so we just kinda didn't talk."

"And you still weren't ready at Christmas," Quentin says to Nyssa. He doesn't need to ask. It's obvious. It's also suddenly clear that Laurel has known about the relationship since the beginning. She and Nyssa weren't fast friends, they were just friends.

"I didn't get it," Sara sighs. "We'd been serious for a while. She knew you, and she knew you all liked her. I didn't understand why she didn't want to admit that we're together. It felt like rejection. So I was mad."

Nyssa's fingers curl around the back of Sara's neck, and she presses her forehead to Sara's temple, whispering something in her ear before speaking up again. "There was a lot of hurt. A lot of things we didn't know how to deal with."

"So that's why you were so…different, so happy in April," Quentin surmises. "You were ready. That talk we had…"

"Yes," Nyssa says, and the word is strong. Something she's confident in. "Thank you so much for that."

He waves it off with an "of course."

Sara speaks again, happiness still tugging at the corners of her grin. "We were going to tell you today, after everyone left. Laurel helped us come up with this whole plan for how to announce it and explain everything to you guys. I guess we'll still have to do that for Mom."

Quentin nods, thinking how devious his older daughter is and remembering the details of his conversation with Nyssa when she came out to him. He stands up suddenly. "Sara, I have something to say to you. And I'm not saying this as your father, okay?"

Nyssa raises an eyebrow. He winks at her.

"I told you I'd do it."

There's surprise in her eyes, but she just beats down a grin.

"Sara Lance, Nyssa is a really great young woman. I don't know about your past relationships…and I don't want to know," he hurriedly adds, "But you better be serious about this, because she deserves your respect and your admiration, and if you hurt her, I swear, you'll have to answer to me. Is that clear?"

Sara nods fervently.

"Do you love her?"

"I do. With everything in me, Daddy."

He smiles and says, "Good. And, Nyssa, do you love my daughter?"

"More than I could ever hope to express," she confirms.

"Great, now come on down. We've got sparklers to set off, baby girl."

"Sure, we'll be right down," Sara replies, but she's looking at Nyssa hungrily, and, just like that, he has a whole new thing to worry about.

He tugs her arm gently, and she sighs as he says, "Now, Sara."

Laurel's waiting for them in the hall with the box of fireworks in her arms. She grins. "I was getting worried."

They all know that's not true.

Sara and Nyssa walk ahead of them, pressed close together and whispering and giggling and smiling. It's pretty adorable. Quentin heaves a heavy sigh when Sara slips her hand into Nyssa's back pocket.

Laurel bumps his shoulder and laughs, "At least you don't have to worry about her getting pregnant."

He sighs again, but laughs, too. "Yeah. Can you imagine Sara with a kid?"

Now that would really be something else.