Chapter: 35 - Non-Resident Viral Infection
Word Count: 4375
Notes: Two things worth talking about today. First of all, this is one of my favorite chapters in recent history because it deviated wildly from canon—and what I intended to do with it. I had a plan for this chapter, but, uh, Oliver and Felicity had other plans.
Secondly, I haven't written a new chapter of TA in three weeks due to crunch time in the semester. Which means that I only have one other completed chapter left for you guys. If that's still the case next week, I'm going to break until January 8 so that I can write some chapters. It's better for me to be a few chapters ahead because I can pull the entire storyline together better. Unfortunately, I'm coming up on finals week, which means I'm going to be the opposite of productive in fanfiction.
Anyway, just some food for thought—I'll tell you for sure next week with the other chapter. Anyhow, thank you all again for taking the time to read. All comments and reviews help feed the muse and help me improve. ;)
Pacing is not a good way to spend her time, Felicity decides, but it's the only one she can seem to manage. She has too much pent-up nervous energy for anything else, and, if it was still daylight, she might consider going for a run just to work it off—even take Saphira along. But it's pitch black outside, and she'd probably just run herself ragged to pace when she returned anyway. This energy has nothing to do with a desire to be active, she knows; it has to do with Oliver—with the fact that Oliver and Helena are out committing federal crimes.
And Felicity has absolutely no freaking clue how it's going because he kicked her out.
She understands it was for her own good, to minimize her role as a target, but everyone in that room knew that if Helena wanted to use her as leverage, she would have. Instead, Felicity gathered from Tommy that Helena had chosen to target Oliver's best friend, a far less elusive target. Apparently it hadn't taken much convincing on Oliver's part—understandably, Felicity knows—but it does make her wonder how much faster he would have caved if Helena had her instead of Tommy.
Pushing the thought out of her mind, she pulls out her cell phone, thinking about calling him. She sighs because she knows she won't; she doesn't want to distract him from whatever the hell mission Helena has him on. Still, knowing nothing about the situation only puts her nerves on high alert and she frowns as she tries to figure out what to do next. There are no good options, and she doesn't think pacing the floor is still a valid option at this point.
She turns on her heel to walk back toward her bedroom, and she lets out a shrill yelp when she bumps into something hard. A steadying, gloved hand on her upper arm lets her know immediately who it is. "I really wish you'd at least try to make a little noise," Felicity says to him, a frustrated edge in her tone. When she looks up, he's already pulled the hood back, his mask hanging around his neck.
"I'm sorry," he says flatly, then tacks on, "about earlier." He sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Bringing attention to your skills only made you a bigger target to Helena, and I wanted you away from her."
She takes his hand, not quite ready to forgive him, but understanding nonetheless. "I understand," she states firmly. "But that doesn't matter right now." She pulls him over toward the couch, and she sits down next to him, leg brushing hers. Saphira, who has been asleep on her bed in the corner, wakes with a jolt and jumps up on the sofa, lying down across both of them. "What happened tonight?"
He frowns, and another hand over his face tells her that the story won't end well. "I need your help," he admits finally. "Helena was compromised—both vans were empty and it was a trap set for her." He shakes his head. "By the time I got there, she was already in handcuffs. The police have her now. I don't want to break her out, but if I don't—"
Felicity already knows the end of this story. "She'll give you up so that you'll both go down together," she finishes, and he nods once. She's had a lot of time to think about the possibility of things like this while pacing the house, so she already knows what she's going to say: "What do you need me to do?" He seems surprised by her reaction, and she rolls her eyes. "Please, Oliver. I'd feel safer with her in jail, it's true, but never at the expense of you going down with her." She crosses her arms before stating, "Tell me what you need me to do."
Oliver smiles as he takes a deep breath, acting as though the weight of the world has lifted from his shoulders. Part of her is insulted that he feels he needs to ask, but she thinks that he might be used to trading favors for favors; it's probably a foreign concept to him that she'll help him and expect nothing in return. "The SCPD is probably taking her in for questioning right now. I have a plan to extract her, but I'll need you to scrub any video surveillance."
She frowns, wishing he could give her tasks that are less impossible than the ones he does. "I can't do that remotely," she answers. "The SCPD's surveillance systems are offline to prevent people like me from doing things like this. But I can hack them on-site without any problems—I saw the setup a few months ago when Lance had me check out that phone you sent him. It shouldn't be that hard." Without waiting for a response, she slides Saphira onto his lap and rises to her feet.
He apparently isn't far behind, following her into her bedroom with Saphira on his heels, and only his voice gives away his position as she doesn't turn around. "What are you doing?" he asks her, his voice turning up into a higher pitch at the end.
She ignores him, reaching into her closet for the zipup hoodie Oliver gave her during the Laurel thing, then a thermal shirt and a pair of dark jeans to replace her skirt. "I'm going with you," she says finally, crossing her arms in a defiant gesture, daring him to argue. "You need someone to scrub the feeds, and I can do it from the security room." He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "I'll stay in there, lock the door, and wait for you to come get me."
Even with the calm rationale behind her statement, his answer is still exactly what she feared. "No," he states flatly, sharply, but then he sighs and revisits his argument. "Felicity, what happens if I don't come back to get you?" She blinks twice at the question, trying hard to figure out in what possible scenarios he wouldn't come back for her. She draws a blank. "I'm going to be breaking into a police station to help a criminal escape police custody. It's after hours, but there will still be plenty of police officers around. What happens to you if I get caught? If Helena turns on me and leaves me to the police?" He runs that hand over his face again. "At least the last time, you were next to the bike, had a way out. That's not an option in this plan." She starts to argue, and he cups her jaw. "I promised to keep you safe. This is the opposite of that."
He pulls away as though he's won the argument, and she decides to let him know just how wrong he is to assume that. "Well, I've spent the last few months keeping you safe," she answers, her voice rising without her permission. His eyes widen, but he lets her continue. "I am not letting you get arrested when I can help you out. You helped me, you've kept me safe, and you've taken risks in the process." She grips his forearms. "Now it's my turn." She can tell he's still not going to listen to her, so she tries another tactic. "Look, you're out there in the field every night, leaving me to worry about if you'll come back or not." His mouth opens, but she puts her fingers over his mouth. "And while you being the Arrow is one of the many things I love about you, I am not going to sit idly by while you break into a police station and wonder if you're going to get out." She hesitates before standing on her toes to kiss his jaw. "We're in this together, Oliver."
He heaves a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head ever so slightly, but he finally goes to the window and pulls the curtain closed for her. "It's cold tonight," he says finally, though he looks as if it pains him to do so. "Dress warm."
He moves at the same time she does; he makes to exit the room as she starts pulling the jeans on under her skirt since time is of the essence. He immediately turns his back to her, and she continues changing into the new set of clothes, shaking her head at his behavior. They both know she isn't going to let him see anything she doesn't want him to see, but he still reacts the same way. "You didn't have to turn," she finally says after she's changed jeans, as she unbuttons her blouse to reveal the white tank underneath. "If I was uncomfortable, I would have kicked you out and shut the door. Or carried everything into the bathroom."
"I wanted to give you some privacy," he says slowly, and his voice is… strained, as though she's testing his resolve, even if by accident. It makes Felicity wonder if he really wasn't joking about those fantasies, and then the bizarre nature of the thought strikes her; men like Oliver Queen do not fantasize about women like Felicity Smoak. For a moment, she's almost glad he is so quick to give her privacy, as she's fairly certain her blush spreads down her neck and across her chest.
Felicity pulls on the long-sleeved shirt before saying, "You can turn around now." When he does, she's pulling up the zipper on the hoodie he bought her, and she holds up a finger before remembering to trade her glasses for contacts. The last thing she wants is to have to stop halfway through this mess to grab her glasses. Her hair is still up in a ponytail, and she figures it will do fine for this. Absently, she mutters, "Someone really should write a dress code for this."
Oliver chuckles, but then his expression goes serious again. "Felicity?" he asks hesitantly, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. "Thank you." Before she can respond, he presses his mouth against hers, then pulls the mask and hood into place before darting out the window.
She follows by locking her door and taking the stairs like a normal person, hoping one day Oliver can actually enter her apartment through the actual door instead of the fire escape. He's in the garage waiting for her, and she slides on the helmet before climbing on behind him. The drive doesn't take more than a few minutes, and Oliver parks them a block or so away.
Felicity attempts to start toward the building, but Oliver catches her wrist, turning her back toward him. "This is different from the last time," he states, an edge in his voice, "because you're going in with me." He takes a deep breath. "I want you to stay behind me. Do exactly what I tell you to do, even if you don't agree with it. And when I put you in the surveillance room, I want you to stay there until I come back for you. Do you understand?"
She nods her head twice, and then he pulls something over her head. It's bulky and heavy, and it takes her a moment to realize it's a gas mask. "Oliver," she starts, a high edge to her voice, "what—?"
"I'm not going to hurt anyone," he answers, "but the police won't hesitate to put a bullet in me. "I'm going to release a sedative gas before I go in, so that no one gets hurt." He pulls the hood of her jacket up over her head. "Remember, stay behind me."
She follows him into the building, staying behind him as he asked. The first police officer doesn't even notice his presence before Oliver drops him, charging across the room and locking him into some sort of chokehold until he collapses to the ground in a heap. The second doesn't find a much better fate; he falls after a sturdy punch that makes Felicity flinch—both at the blood and at the sound it makes. The third officer actually manages to draw his gun, but Oliver wrestles it out of his hand before knocking him over the head with it. Both the officer and his gun hit the floor at about the same time.
It's the first time Felicity has ever seen him fight—really fight, as in not sparring against Diggle, but instead actually taking down criminals. She decides Oliver must have been holding back when she watched him spar with Diggle, judging by the way he's moving and striking. He's faster this time, more efficient. Felicity has often seen fighting compared to a dance in books and movies, but there's nothing graceful or lyrical about this; it's violent, brutal, and cleanly efficient in the way he incapacitates foes.
It's one of the most fascinating things she's ever seen.
She loses track of the action after a few moments, but when he finishes, several police officers—eight, by her count, though it sounded like more—are on the ground, all very much unconscious. She's too busy glancing around to notice how Oliver sets off the gas canisters, but he guides her through the thick fog of chemicals into a room at the far end of the hall.
The first thing she notices is a set of outdated computers, but it doesn't take her long to dig through the surveillance footage and scrub what little evidence there is thus far. "Okay, we're good," she tells him, turning to find him positioning an unused table in front of the door. "What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer the question directly, as is his wont. "Slide this under the lock once I leave. Don't move it unless I tell you." His voice sounds ominous under the synthesizer now. A week ago, she wouldn't have noticed, but now she does because she knows the voice underneath. Still, it's not particularly scary—just dark and angry, and she believes Oliver is probably both right now. He offers her the Bluetooth headset she remembers leaving on her coffee table, but then changes his mind and slides it over the top of her ear. "Stay in touch—let me know if you need anything."
He slides out of the doorway, then, and she pushes the table in front of it, if only to humor him. The door has a lock on it that she makes sure is locked before pulling up the cameras, looking for Helena. She finds her quickly. "It looks like she's in Interview One," Felicity says to him. "I'm trying to figure out how to pull up audio, but she's in with Detective Lance and Detective Hall." She bites her lip as she presses a button, and then she can hear Lance's gravelly voice in the background.
"I'm on it," Oliver offers tersely, and she thinks it's interesting how quickly he can slide in and out of Arrow-mode and normal-Oliver-mode.
With nothing else to listen to, the audio of the interview room takes up the space. "...murder your old man," Lance is saying in a very growly voice. "You want to tell us why?"
"Not particularly," is Helena's answer, looking and sounding incredibly bored, despite the way her hands are cuffed to the metal bar on the table. Felicity can't understand how she manages to stay so blasé, but then she figures Helena Bertinelli was probably born without a heart. Or, at least, lost hers somewhere along the way. She's a reminder to Felicity of what Oliver could have become, if he wasn't so very different than the Huntress.
"You should reconsider," Detective Hall answers. "We have you, but the Vigilante managed to escape before our guys could move on him." She leans over the table, still standing for whatever reason—maybe it makes her feel taller. Then Felicity realizes she's being catty and frowns. "You know who he is—who he really is."
Felicity's stomach drops, and she knows Oliver better get there soon before Helena throws him to the wolves—or police officers, as the case may be. Instead of singing like a canary, she instead responds, "I think all of us know who he is." It's a powerful, enigmatic statement that rings with the truth, but neither officer notices what a hint she's giving them.
Then again, the mind sees what it chooses to see; Felicity is just as guilty of that as anyone.
Lance tries the approach this time, and Felicity is rather surprised to see him playing the good cop to Hall's bad cop; she'd always figured Lance for the bad cop. "Look, Ms. Bertinelli," he starts slowly, "you're going to jail." He holds up his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "We can't change that. But that doesn't mean there aren't variations of good and bad in there. We can make things better. Or"—suddenly his voice is different, dark and more threatening—"they could be worse." He pushes a pen and paper toward her. "You tell me his name, and we will do everything we can to make things better."
Felicity holds her breath, waiting for the moment to happen—for Helena to open her mouth, for her to pick up the pen, for Oliver to burst through the doors. Unfortunately, Helena is faster than Oliver, sulking back in her seat as casually as possible with her hands thrown in front of her on the bar. "Oliver Queen," she says casually, as though she's simply discussing the weather. Then her eyes narrow as she leans forward, continuing into, "He's an old friend of yours, right?" Felicity lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding as the tension on the screen transforms into a different kind. "I believe you two went out to dinner a few weeks ago," she mentions casually, and Felicity frowns before she remembers the bug she made for McKenna's phone. She's not exactly a betting woman, but she'd bet that had something to do with it. "Did he mention that we used to be lovers?"
"Wow, nice," Felicity mutters to herself. "McKenna should thank you for being the bigger person and not throwing that up in her face." She shakes her head. "With all the subtlety and finesse of a battering ram, too."
A snort in her headset reminds her that other things are happening elsewhere in the building. "Accurate description," Oliver offers through the synthesizer, between grunts of exertion, as though he's fighting someone.
On the security camera footage, McKenna responds frostily, "We want to know about the Hood, not Oliver Queen." Maybe Felicity judged the detective a little harshly; she seems quick to rise to the defense of her friend, and Felicity has always been a sucker for blind loyalty.
Helena doesn't even miss a beat, her dismissal of the detective's words so masterful it almost qualifies as art. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she continues in a conspiratorial voice. "It's not going to work out between you two." She smiles, but it's probably similar to the way the evil queen used to smile at Snow White: all poison and malice, coated with a thick layer of false honey and innocence. "You see, Oliver has a special talent—he uses people. Especially women." She shrugs. "I'm not too proud to admit he used me." She motions to Lance. "He used the detective here's daughter." She throws him another of those smiles. "Excuse me, I meant daughters." She turns back to McKenna. "And he seems to particularly enjoy using Felicity Smoak." She muses that for a moment as Felicity rolls her eyes. "I guess he has his favorites, even if we don't mean anything to him. I would get out of it before you get yourself hurt."
She's made a mistake by setting off Lance, and he slaps the table angrily, rising to his feet. Felicity jumps at the sudden movement, but Helena doesn't even flinch. "Last chance," he growls this time, and it's a warning. "I want his name."
Helena's response is laced with an enigmatic smile. "The Arrow."
Felicity doesn't have time to dwell on that before Oliver asks her, "Felicity, can you cut the power to the interrogation room?"
"I'm insulted you feel the need to ask," she replies quickly, earning a chuckle for her trouble, causing her to smile in victory. "They have a generator, though, so I'll have to cut it, too. And when I do, I'm fairly certain there's a loud, obnoxious alarm waiting to go off. You won't have much time."
"I don't need much time," he assures her, his voice taking on a softer sound as he tries to reassure any doubts she has. And she does have doubts, but she's trying to hide them for his sake. "Cut them… now."
She types the command in the prompt screen, and then she waits as her bird's-eye view goes dark.
Quentin Lance is approximately five seconds away from slapping the sardonic smile from Helena Bertinelli's face—if his new partner, Detective Hall, doesn't beat him to it—when the building suddenly goes dark. Thirty years' experience as a police officer tells him it isn't coincidence, especially when the back-up generator fails to kick like it should.
Sensing the worst, Lance turns to Hall, barking out orders. "There's something wrong here—go check with security. I'll stay with the prisoner." The sound of someone hitting the ground causes Lance to reassess his former priority, and he manages to exit the room before Hall does. She's on his tail, but they both realize the horrible mistake they've made when they see the thick cloud of smoke rolling in. One breath causes his vision to blur, and he immediately throws a sleeve over his mouth, noticing that his partner does the same while still moving toward security.
He's about to follow her when a thought strikes him: the lights are still on outside the room. That means that someone deliberately shut off power to the interview room, and there are only a handful of ways that can be done. The one that strikes him first is the simplest, the one that best fits the situation.
Their electrical system is computer-controlled, and the Arrow has access to the best IT girl Lance knows.
He changes paths immediately, turning on his heel and moving in the opposite direction, hoping to at least stop one of them. While he's starting to go soft around Felicity Smoak, those two have kicked in the doors of his house this time—the police aren't going to let that go without a fight, and they've succeeded in angering Lance himself. As he continues, the haze of knock-out gas in the room starts to overpower him, and he knows it's futile to go after them, even now. But it's worth the impossibly slim odds to give it a shot, so he does anyway.
It pays off, because, sure as the world, the Vigilante turns the corner toward Lance, his gloved hand around a smaller one. The girl is the right height and build for Felicity, but her features are masked by the cloud of gas, the black hood pulled over her head, and the gas mask. But, judging by the way the hooded psychopath is watching his surroundings and the hold he has on her hand, Lance would bet every last dime of his pension that it was her.
Usually, Lance sees Felicity's antics with equal parts parental disdain and amusement. After all, she's helping a vigilante with multiple homicides under his belt, yet still manages to communicate in creative statements and wild hand gestures, as though the Hood's presence in her life hasn't tarnished her personality in any way. But this time is different for Lance. This time they've gone too far, kicking in the front door of the station and breaking out a prisoner ten times worse than the Hood himself.
This time he's angry about it.
He doesn't hesitate to draw his gun, though he'd very much like not to. But he can't let anyone escape now, not if he can avoid it. "Freeze," he commands sharply, and the two stop mid-step. The Arrow doesn't hesitate to slide in front of the girl, careful to protect her from any threat presented. "You're under arrest."
"Detective, that's not going to happen," the Vigilante answers in that modulated voice that sound robotic and soulless, as though he's not truly human. Even Lance understands why this guy makes the big shots in Starling City wet their pants; there's something about him that makes everyone forget he's just a person wearing a mask, not a faceless urban legend of the night. "No one is injured, and you'll be unconscious before you can stop us." There's no threat or arrogance in the tone; he's just stating fact now.
Lance hates to admit the green-hooded psychopath is right, but, damn it, he's right. Already he can feel himself swaying on his feet, trying desperately to stay upright. He knows it's a losing battle, but stopping the Vigilante is his number-one priority. "Drop the bow," he tries again anyway, not one to give up. He's practically at point-blank range with the gun, and, if he wanted to, he could see if he could finish what Moira Queen started.
The Arrow seems to know what he's thinking, tilting his head to the side in thought for a long moment. Then he looks back at the girl, and his expression is dark when he turns back to Lance. "If you don't lower that gun soon," he warns in a low tone, "I'm going to take it from you." There's no threat or malice; again he's only stating fact, with the glance backward making Lance think that his first priority is getting the girl out safely.
Lance isn't quite sure what he's going to do, but he never gets the chance. The fog finally permeates his brain and his legs buckle underneath him. He's barely conscious enough to feel something—someone—catch the gun, and he hears the lock on the safety click back into place before it slides back into his holster.
He manages to keep his eyes open long enough to watch the two slip out of the building, the Arrow's hand at the small of her back.