Your comments helped me through a very busy week and I'm lacking adequate words to tell you how much it means to me. Just: Thank you.

And since I'm busy thanking people: Albi worked her way through this chapter and tightened it where I couldn't. Thanks for all your hard work and critical eye.

Okay, I hope you enjoy this chapter and don't fall asleep in the middle. Love, Jules


Start talking!

A murder, a board meeting, and a Triad drug deal delayed the family dinner three nights in a row. The first reason was police work, the second Donna Smoak-Lance's every day job, the third a secret.

Officially, Oliver Queen had asked Felicity Smoak out to dinner, and Donna had even encouraged her to go with him, because, apparently, you didn't stand up a man offering to cook for you. (Felicity blamed that part of the made-up excuse on Sara. She had a tendency to spin very elaborate stories.) In reality, Oliver had sat in the Factory leading a woman in green leather and a woman dressed all black through the streets of Valley Lamb. Wearing big (identity concealing) helmets, Felicity and Sara had sped on their motorbikes, driving their target—the truck belonging to the Triad—into the previously chosen dead-end street. Knocking the two men in the front out had been simple, evading the bullets aimlessly fired into the night by the two men in the back a bit more challenging. But in the end, the two police officers alerted by a 911 call found four bound men next to crates with waving cat statues—one of them broken to reveal its cocaine-filling.

That had been a rather successful Tuesday evening.

The look on Sara's face told Felicity clearly that her friend would rather spend her Wednesday getting shot at than entering Smoak Mansion to finally have the delayed Sunday family dinner.

Heavy rain splattered against the huge windows leading to the gardens. Big drops met the surface and were pushed in heavy streaks by the strong wind audibly brushing around the house. The rustling was only drowned out by thunder periodically roaring. The storm outside seemed to be gaining intensity and made this feel like a good evening to take a break. It even added a feeling of coziness to the scene greeting Felicity and Sara in the kitchen.

Donna Smoak-Lance stood by the oven, stirring a pot and wearing full CEO-gear (yellow blouse, grey pencil skirt, black stilettos, dangly golden earrings) plus an apron reading I bring home the bacon and I cook it, too. Her hair was pulled back in a low, messy bun and that alone made her mother look unbelievably casual to Felicity. Quentin Lance set the table, adding wine glasses, and welcomed the two blonde women with a smile. "Right on time," he said, sounding pleased. He walked to Sara and greeted her with a long kiss on the forehead. Felicity saw her friend lean in to the touch and, feeling the need to give them a moment, headed over to her mother.

Felicity knew her mother liked cooking. She always had. For a long time Donna Smoak had cooked lunch every Sunday, three courses every week, trying new recipes, enjoying the time with her husband and her daughter, who had both gushed over each triumphant new dish. This tradition had been broken years before Felicity had been lost at sea—partly because Felicity was rarely up for lunch on Sundays, and partly because things between Donna and Edward Smoak had turned sour. Felicity knew that her parents' marriage hadn't been good for almost two years before she and her father had boarded the family yacht. Two days before that, her parents had informed their daughter that they planned on filing for divorce after the trip. It hadn't been a shock exactly. Her father had been living in one of the guest rooms for nearly a year by then.

Edward Smoak drowned in the North China Sea a week later while his daughter held on. Clinging to (and half-resting on) a piece of the yacht broken apart by the forces of nature, Felicity had drifted for days, mourning her dad and feeling somewhat relieved her mom knew that, even though she was taking this trip with her father, Felicity wasn't siding with him. Her last words to her mother had been "I love you."

For many years that had been a very consoling thought to Felicity: her mom didn't doubt her daughter's love, the two women had had a good ending.

Seeing her mother in the kitchen brought back many positive memories, but also clear understanding: Donna and Quentin were striving for casual family bonding. Maids, silver cutlery, the delicate crystal, and that ugly china passed on from Smoak to Smoak for generations were nowhere to be seen. (But there was a vase filled with the big bloomed roses Donna Smoak-Lance loved so much. To Felicity it felt like those belonged on the kitchen counter; Quentin made sure to bring a new one at least once a week.)

"Smells wonderful," Felicity complimented and reached for the lid of a pot to have a look. "What are we having?"

"Roast beef, caramelized onions, peas, and…" Donna gestured to the pot Felicity was gazing into with the spatula in hand, "potatoes." She smiled at her daughter. "I had a conference call with London yesterday and it made me want to spread some British-ness."

Seeing the happy ease on her mother's face, feeling the joy coming from her and knowing what this dinner meant to her, Felicity couldn't help but peck Donna's cheek. Standing by the oven and looking back down at potatoes, the ordinariness of the moment meant a lot to Felicity, too. It felt like finding a missing piece of herself that she'd believed to be lost forever. She met her mother's gaze. "Thanks."

It was the smallest, simplest gesture. Still, Donna's eyes turned moist within a heartbeat, leaving Felicity awkward immediately.

"It really smells good, Donna," Sara complimented from the other side of the kitchen island, bringing the attention of both Smoak women to her. Quentin's arm was around Sara's shoulders, but she still looked unsure and uneasy.

Donna's emotional state swung again and a smile took over her face. It turned teasing as she added a playfully raised eyebrow. "Wait till you taste it! Okay, let's do this." She gestured toward a pot. "Felicity, drain the potatoes. Sara, bowls are in the cupboard over there. Give me two…. No, three. Quentin, you're in charge of the uncorking the wine."

"Yes, ma'am," Quentin confirmed. "Red or white?"

"The internet says roast beef is best served with red," Donna said.

Felicity froze, the potato pot in both hands. "You googled that all by yourself? Oliver'd be so proud."

"Hey," her mother fake chided. "No matter what your boyfriend tells you, I am not that hopeless when it comes to computers. I can google all by myself." She turned toward her husband, winking at him. "Luckily, I mostly don't have to… google myself."

Sara nearly dropped the bowl she'd been fishing from the top shelf.

Felicity groaned and laconically looked at her mother. "You know, when I say stuff like that it's involuntary."

"I don't know if that's better, sweetie."

"Donna," Quentin sent his wife a look full of seriousness and warning, "this is a family dinner. We behave accordingly."

Donna Smoak-Lance huffed. "Way to suck the fun out of being around family." She dumped the spatula into the sink. "Fine. I'll be motherly." She waved at the girls. "Get the potatoes and the peas in the bowls and out of the way. I need to take care of the… meat." She looked at her husband and raised her hands in playful surrender. "Not a euphemism. Serious kitchen talk."

Quentin held his wife's stare, this time failing to hide the hints of amusement sparking in his eyes. Felicity sensed some sort of silent conversation going on and turned away to deal with the potatoes when she saw Sara bite back a smirk.

That was a very rare sight.

Since her return to Starling City, Sara hadn't smiled much. Or smirked. Or grinned. Finding traces of the girl she had struggled through algebra with in the now battle-hardened woman made Felicity realize her mother's genius. Because, obviously, reducing tension had been Donna Smoak-Lance's mission—and it had worked. Entering the kitchen, Sara had been tied in knots. Now she was much more at ease. Her eyes had brightened, her muscles relaxed, her jaw had unclenched. That was the best way to start a family dinner.

It took five more minutes to start the actual eating. The Smoak-Lances gathered around the kitchen table, the parents on one side, the girls on the other, loaded plates and glasses in front of them.

Donna raised her big bellied glass, "To us."

The others followed suit, toasting. Felicity took the smallest sip. Feeling her mother's interested glance on her, she set the glass down. "I might be drunk after two sips. I've been very sober in the last few years."

After years filled with partying (which had been a synonym for drinking whatever, smoking cigarettes and pot, as well as snorting coke—sometimes all in one night), her life at taken a turn to sobriety—first by circumstance, later by choice. Now being drugged meant getting drugged against her will. It meant losing control in a way Felicity wasn't comfortable with anymore. Even in Hong Kong, where drugs in various forms had been available to her, she had remained abstinent because, being a Triad member, she had needed her wits. Everything else was careless and potentially lethal.

It was that thought that made Felicity replay the last sentence in her head and with repetition came the realization that her statement hadn't been as conversationally light as she had intended. It hinted at too many negative things and brought along the possibility of destroying the carefully crafted casual atmosphere. The seconds of silence following were proof enough.

Felicity felt the need to fill the void in conversation. "But I don't think that matters. It's not like you haven't seen me drunk before." After a moment, Felicity again realized that she hadn't exactly improved the situation.

"That's true," Sara confirmed, finding her voice. "There was the fine moment with you getting lost when we crashed at my place. You ended up sleeping in the tub."

Felicity stared at her friend, blankly, wondering how that was supposed to be helping her or the awkward situation. "You got lost at my place, too."

"Yeah," Sara said. "I did. But your place is a mansion with, like, one million rooms. Dad and I lived in a two-bedroom apartment."

"Yes," Felicity huffed, "thank you for stressing that."

"I think one glass with dinner won't end with you sleeping in the tub," Donna cut in and reached for her cutlery. "Please, dig in. Bon appetite."

"Bon appetite," the others echoed and Felicity met Sara's eyes, sending her a silent thank you for the—as she now realized—perfect distraction.

The two younger women busied themselves with chewing, complimenting the meal after a few bites, bringing a happy smile to Donna's face. Her husband sent her a fond glance that told Felicity a lot about how much Quentin cared for her mother.

Quiet peacefulness settled over the table while everybody ate. Donna was the one to end it, addressing Felicity. "I met Janice Bowen today, Carter's mother."

"Carter Bowen," Felicity barely kept from rolling her eyes. "Did he cure cancer yet?"

A snort escaped her mother. "No, but he managed to cheat on the wrong girl. She sent all the information on his Cayman accounts to the tax office. His practice was raided and everything. Janice insists it's all one big misunderstanding."

"Of course, she does," Quentin shook his head before stuffing a big chunk of roast beef into his mouth.

"We hate the Bowens," Donna explained. "They always call Quentin 'that social climber cop.' They think we don't know." Donna paused deliberately. Her eyes and voice were steel when she continued. "But we know."

"Our revenge was not inviting them to the Fundraiser," Quentin said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Because such foggledy-foo is part of my life now." He cut his meat with more force than necessary. "As if dealing with the commissioner and his godforsaken Arrow taskforce wasn't enough." A screeching filled the room as his knife scraped over the porcelain of his plate.

"I thought you were investigating a murder." Sara said. "Wasn't that where you were Sunday? Did the Arrow kill somebody?"

"No. I was on call Sunday." He was upset. It showed in the way his lips curled and how his words blurred together a little as he talked more quickly. "And that's what I should be doing. Going after a guy who stabbed an old woman twenty-five times. I'm a homicide-detective. That's my job. Not fronting the commissioner's publicity project because he thinks its prestige will butter up my wife."

Felicity filled her mouth with a piece of potato and focused on chewing. She didn't want to talk to her mother's husband about the taskforce. She didn't want to think about the fact that the man her mother shared a bed with only a few rooms down the hall was supposed to stop her. Maybe she should try to get some information, some insight on the state of the Arrow investigations, but she couldn't bring herself to ask. It felt safer not to address it at all.

Donna sighed, heavily. "I'd offer to talk to the commissioner, but I know you don't want that."

"Damn right," Her husband growled. "I don't want that."

Another moment of silence followed, only disturbed by the sounds of the storm outside. Surprisingly, Quentin was the one to end it. "Now that we discussed my wonderful day. What did you do today?"

His eyes settled on his daughter. Inquiringly, unwaveringly, he watched her chew until all that was left for Sara to do was swallow. "Nothing special."

"Then tell me about the not special things you did."

"I went to the gym."

"You never enjoyed working out much when you were younger."

"I learned the value of being in shape."

"I can imagine," Quentin Lance said and set his fork down. "Tell me about it."

"Quentin," Donna warned quietly.

The warning seemed to bounce off him, his eyes glued to his daughter. He seemed prepared to take whatever chiding, discomfort, or awkwardness a possible future held to finally get some answers. Felicity noticed Sara shifting in the seat next to her, felt the other woman's mask of calm slip with each passing second, and she knew that she had to help her best friend. But she didn't know how, didn't know what to say that would work as a distraction—without turning unwanted attention to her and potentially making this worse.

Again, it was Donna Smoak-Lance who tried to keep the peace. "She clearly doesn't want to talk about it, and we should respect that."

"No," came the instant objection. "For five years I was convinced that my daughter was dead." His eyes snapped to Felicity. "That our daughters were dead. I want to know what happened." He softened the barest bit. "There's something eating you up from the inside, Sara. I can see it—and if you just shared some of it that might make things easier. I want to help."

"I appreciate that," Sara answered, flatly. "But there's nothing to tell."

"See!" Quentin's hand curled into a fist; he stopped himself from slamming it to the table in the last moment. "That's a lie. I know you, Sara. And I know you're lying to me." He forced himself to take a deep breath.

Felicity's heart was hammering in her chest. The longing to jump to her friend's rescue was overwhelming but the situation left her helpless, unequipped to deal with the tension filling up the room.

"Airplane."

The word was past Felicity's lips before she really registered it. It escaped her in a half-shout, gaining everybody's attention. Six eyes settled on her. She evaded them by staring through the space between her mother and her mother's husband. Her grip tightened around her cutlery and she forced herself to continue talking, "On the island there was wreckage from an airplane. I mostly stayed there, because it offered basic shelter. That was lucky, really," she dared to glance at her mother. "Because you know I was never very crafty."

Nobody said anything for a long second. Finally, Donna swallowed heavily and found the strength to move her tongue, her voice was coated. "That's true. Just remember those mugs you made for mother's day. They always leaked."

Felicity dared to meet her mother's eyes then, finding an emotional storm in them. Compassion, pain, horror, love turned them darker despite the tears pooling in them. A heavy silence settled over the gathered Smoak-Lances, thickening the air.

The tension vanished with an explosion of noise.

The floor-length windows burst in, shattered as four armed commandos crashed through them and fanned out in the room. Rain and wind ripped at the curtains, making them flap, swaying the lamp above the dining table—the dining table Sara now jumped over, causing wine to spill and the bowl with the peas to crash to the floor, green beads rolling over the white tiles. Trained reflexes brought Felicity to her feet (in high heels, the ultimate proof that she hadn't expected anything like this), trampling a few peas as she rose. The chair fell to the floor as she rushed around the table and toward the people dressed in all black, heavily armed.

Her mother's yelp and Quentin's curse hit Felicity's ears, but neither really registered within her. It was a blur of instinct, and it drove Felicity between her mother and the aimed gun in the hands of a man hiding his face underneath a ski mask. Next to her stood Sara, shielding her father the same way from another man with another gun.

"What the—" Quentin started and Felicity felt more than saw him reach for the holster that wasn't there, because he hadn't come armed to a casual family dinner.

Felicity fixed the man aiming at her while mapping the room and the intruder's positions, evaluating the situation: four people—three male, one female—strategically positioned throughout the dining area of the kitchen, their backs to the crashed window and the crashed double door leading to the garden. They used the layout to their advantage, spreading through the empty space of the big room, while the Smoak-Lances were crowded together close the dinner table, the kitchen counter to their left. All opponents were armed with semiautomatic handguns—Glocks to be precise. All wore the same black combat gear without any identifying symbols and covered the faces with ski masks.

"What?!" Sara said, addressing the man closest to her. "No Suicide Squad? I'm disappointed."

"Don't flatter yourself, Lance," the woman standing farthest away from Felicity snarled.

"You took something that isn't yours," the man aiming at Felicity said. "Give it back, and nobody gets hurt."

"I can't do that," Sara sounded deadly calm. "It's my insurance. To make sure Waller accepts that I'm out."

"Waller wants it back," the man snapped. "Don't tempt us—or your friend with the butter-knife's the first to go."

Felicity's grip tightened. The knife she had used to cut the roast beef was still in her hand; she had learned to never let go of pointy objects in moments of danger. She had also learned to never underestimate an opponent—a lesson she was very much looking forward to teaching the dude opposite her.

"Enough!" Quentin's voice sounded from behind Felicity. It was like a go signal to her, because the detective getting into cop-mode could only make the situation worse, could only put her mother into more danger. It was time to leave an impression, improve the situation by balancing out the scales.

In one fluent movement, Felicity threw the knife across the room. It was still slicing through the air (to ultimately sink into the upper arm of the female intruder, cutting the tendon, making her lose her grip on her gun) when Felicity jammed her hand against the wrist of the man closest to her, loosening his grip on his gun. In one fluent motion, she reached for his arm, gripped it tightly and jumped around him, twisting and breaking it at the same time she brought the man to his knees. Her knee connected with the back of his head, knocking him out. In the next second she stood over his limp body on the floor, aiming the gun at the man aiming at Sara in time for the woman's scream to fill the room. It mixed with a knocking sound of a Glock hitting the floor.

Two audible gasps filled the momentary silence following. Felicity felt the eyes of her mother and her mother's husband on her. She felt the stunned shock but couldn't react to it. Her sole attention was on the two men left in the room, and a third whose silhouette she had seen outside the window when lightning had struck one second ago.

"Tell Waller I want nothing but peace and quiet," Sara's voice was measured but self-assured. "We're good, if you leave now."

"Oh," the man directly in front of Sara said, "we're far from good."

Two shots were fired simultaneously. Felicity shifted her aim in an instant, taking out the second man closer to the window just when the guy threatening Sara shot at her. But Sara had anticipated it. She was already moving, reaching for him and redirecting the shot toward the ceiling. Plaster rained down on her as she took out her opponent with only a few skilled moves. Another bang followed as Sara shot the female who had grabbed the gun in her other hand to aim at Felicity.

Felicity registered that only out of the corner of her eyes as she turned to Quentin, stepping toward him and handing him the gun. "Protect her." It was a clear order and Quentin reached for the firearm without hesitation, pushing a completely stunned Donna behind himself.

A loud clacking sounded. Felicity whipped around to see the man she had noticed before racing into the room. Whatever he had thrown at Sara's hand, he had managed to disarm her. The Glock slid over the kitchen floor and banged against the wall. The man, tall and bulky, jumped at Sara with his arms raised, a stick in his hands. He thrust it at Sara, but she ducked and twirled. The stick hit the ground with a loud crack.

More noise followed, this time a loud shattering mixing with a dull bang. It came from where Donna and Quentin were, but Felicity ignored it. She was moving already, taking off her shoes, eyes on Sara. Her friend was evading blows of the stick, once, twice, a third time, before it connected with her side, throwing her off balance, making her to stumble and crash to the floor.

Before the big guy could go after her, Felicity was stabbing one stiletto heel into his thigh (that was the first time she had used that particular pointy object). She had expected her opponent's leg to give in, but he stood tall, screaming more in anger than in pain, and surprised Felicity with a perfect blow that sent her crashing into the wall. She found herself on the floor, surrounded by fallen family photos. Angrily Felicity brushed her tousled hair out of her face (that's why she always tied it back, long hair was nothing but a hassle during fights) and pushed herself up, eyes on the fight.

A staccato of clacking filled the room as the battle stick connected with the rod Sara was wielding—the curtain rail, Felicity realized. Sara and her opponent moved quickly and efficiently. Felicity's eyes scanned the room, looking for a suitable weapon to enter the fight. The Glock next to her on the floor wouldn't do her any good, the chances of hitting Sara were too high. A realization Quentin had come to, too. In her peripheral vision Felicity saw him behind the tipped over dinner table, trying to aim but not daring to press the trigger.

Felicity reached for one of the wooden chairs. Her mother loved them—despite the fact that they had belonged to her mother-in-law. Edith Smoak had more than earned the title monster-in-law as well as grandmonster. She had been a petty, spiteful woman. But she had a taste in furniture that Donna Smoak shared. Holding on to two legs, Felicity crashed the family heirloom to the floor, leaving her with two wooden sticks in her hands. Her feet and legs bare (wearing a colorful pretty dress had never felt more wrong. She owned pants now, damn it), she recrossed the room, her eyes on Sara.

Ducking, Sara evaded the jabbed stick to bring the curtain rod up and against her opponent's chest, sending him stumbling back. Using the opportunity, she jumped up, brought the curtain rod far back, gathered force, and brought her improvised weapon down to the man's head. The following crac resounded through the room.

Not hesitating, Sara turned to the still conscious man lying on the floor, bleeding from the gunshot wounds in his leg and his shoulder that Felicity was responsible for. Aggressively, Sara pulled him up, his back to her chest, pressing the rod against his throat. Her breathing was heavy and the battle adrenaline was audible in her voice, "Tell the two guys I know are waiting outside to come in."
i
"Sara," Quentin called, getting up behind the improvised barricade. There was a clear warning in his voice.

Felicity stood next to the man whose skull Sara had cracked in battle, glaring at the woman laying on the floor, who was also conscious.

Two more men soaked to the bone from the pouring rain appeared in the glassless windows. Sara added more pressure to the man's throat. "Take your men to Waller. Tell her to forget I exist—and I will do the same." Her voice was ice cold, threatening, and calculating. "Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, they nodded. Once more Sara tightened her grip on the man at her mercy before letting go and stepping back. The masked men moved efficiently as the guy Felicity had knocked out first regained consciousness, visibly groggy and disorientated.

One minute later the seven masked intruders were gone, leaving behind a trashed kitchen, a floor slippery from rain, and absolutely no traces of a casual dinner.

Donna Smoak-Lance stood on wobbly legs behind her tipped over dining table, looking around the room with huge eyes. "What the fuck just happened?!"

"OKAY!" Quentin Lance marched toward his daughter, sending Felicity a dark glance filled with fury. "Sara! Who were those people? And why did they want you?!"

"Dad, I—"

"Don't Dad me!" he snapped. "You'll tell me what's going on right NOW!"

"Shouldn't we…" Felicity said carefully, "check on our security? I mean, they got on the grounds somehow."

Quentin Lance's eyes snapped from one woman to the other, studying them in the midst of chaos, their blonde hair billowing around them with the wind shooting into the room. Aggravation leaked from him, his hands clenching around the gun Felicity had given him. His eyes wandered to his wife. A silent communication followed.

Donna nodded. "I'll call the police. We were attacked in our home."

With a jolt, movement came back to Quentin. "Do that. I'll check on our guards." He marched out of the room.

"Mom—" Felicity started, but fell quiet when her mother practically pinned her down with a stare.

"You two stay here. Don't you dare disappear!" Donna's voice was shaken but firm. "First, Quentin and I will deal with this situation, then we'll deal with the two of you!"

Three hours later, the Smoak-Lances had, indeed, dealt with the situation. Felicity was impressed how seamlessly her mother and her mother's husband worked together, how they complimented each other. Quentin took care of his colleagues—lying to them. Felicity felt the relief radiating off Sara when she heard her father tell Captain Banks, who'd had come personally, about the guys crashing into their house, threatening his family, trashing their home and hurting his "helpless girls" (Felicity and Sara didn't have to look at each other to know they both resented that description. But they could hardly protest it) before disappearing with the contents of the safe, including money and jewelry.

Not once did he look at Felicity or Sara while SCPD took their statements, mapped the scene, bagged evidence (like a gun Detective Quentin Lance had ripped out of the hands of an attacker while directing his shot into ceiling), and measured the boot prints on the wet ground outside.

Meanwhile Donna Smoak-Lance arranged for the windows to be covered and dealt with the housing staff. They had all been in the eastern wing of Smoak Mansion because their boss had wanted privacy for the first Smoak-Lance family dinner. Donna took charge and control of the situation—avoiding even looking in the general direction of her daughter.

The silent treatment.

Felicity had never been on the receiving end of that. Donna Smoak had never fallen silent. The fact that her mother couldn't look at her, couldn't even acknowledge her presence turned Felicity's insides. A ball of fearful nervousness settled in her stomach.

It had grown by the time all statements were made and the assembled police officers and the medics left. (SCPD had brought the latter along to patch up the cut on Felicity's forehead and Sara's split lip. Felicity hadn't mentioned her ribs, bruised when she'd connected with a wall.)

The Smoak-Lances were alone again.

The evening had begun with an uneasy tension, especially Sara had been uncertain about the possibilities this evening might bring. The tension had dissolved very quickly—but now it was back full force, a more hostile air to it.

With an angrily pointed index finger Donna Smoak-Lance directed her daughter and her stepdaughter into the sitting room. The gesture was unfamiliar, too. It didn't fit Felicity's memory of her mother, but it matched the woman she met coming back; the take-charge CEO was taking charge. With a jerk of her head, she made Felicity and Sara sit down on one of the plush couches, taking a seat opposite.

Quentin Lance didn't sit down. With much care, he closed the door and walked over to the gathered women. Nobody said anything. Felicity could feel the nerves coming off Sara, mixing with her own unease. Her best friend stared at the coffee table placed between the two couches, evading eye-contact with everybody, breathing in a way that Felicity knew was a calming technique.

Felicity wasn't calm either. She had worked overtime to come up with a reasonable explanation—and failed. The realization hadn't helped her nervousness at all, but it had helped her make a decision based on everything happening since Felicity had made the mistake of initiating the fight. (And it had been a mistake. It had been too stupid.) The way everybody had acted and reacted sent Felicity a clear message: there was only one thing left for her to do. She wished she didn't have to, she knew Sara wouldn't like this, she knew that her mother might never look at her again afterward, but she had to dare it and hope for the best. She didn't have another choice.

Quentin Lance straightened up. His eyes snapped between his daughter and his stepdaughter. His voice was demanding. "Which one of you is the vigilante?"

"I am."

Without hesitation the words left Felicity's lips. She met his eyes but noticed the way her mother flinched. Donna stared at Felicity, her gaze practically burning into the side of her daughter's. This time it was Felicity avoiding eye-contact, fixing Quentin in fear of everything she might see in her mother's eyes.

"Fe!" Sara breathed.

Holding Quentin Lance's gaze for another moment, Felicity gathered all her determination. This was it, the moment to stick to her decision and come clean. It might burst the bubble that was the Smoak-Lance family, but Felicity couldn't keep on bullshitting her mother and her mother's husband, because it was simply insulting their intelligence. Donna and Quentin Lance were too smart to believe any lie their daughters might try to feed them after the night's disastrous family dinner—as proven by Quentin's question starting this conversation. (It might be a confrontation, really but she liked to stay positive for now.)

Felicity had made a decision, knowing Sara wouldn't agree, knowing she was dragging her friend along and forcing Sara to take a huge risk with her. It wasn't exactly fair but Felicity couldn't change anything about that. There hadn't been any time to discuss it beforehand, not with SCPD around. Slowly, she turned to face the woman sitting next to her. "Sara, we have to tell them the truth. It's all that's left for us to do."

"No," Sara objected, jumping up from the couch. "I don't want him, them, around that darkness. You don—"

"Sit down!" Quentin Lance practically barked the order. Sara's eyes grew huge, hearing her father's hard voice. He stood on their right, practically shaking with anger and Felicity couldn't remember ever seeing the man like that. Judging from Sara's reaction neither had she: her legs gave in instantaneously. She fell back on the cushions heavily.

Quentin glared at his daughter. "I have had enough of all those secrets. I'm done accepting your bullshit, Sara. What just happened in there…" he gestured in the direction of their trashed kitchen, "means whatever trouble you've been in has already followed you home. And it's my job to keep this family safe—I can't do that if I don't what we're facing."

A rebuttal that Sara and Felicity were very much capable of handling themselves and if anybody was keeping anybody safe it would be them protecting their parents danced on Felicity's tongue, but she was quick enough to swallow it. She looked at her mother's husband, who had snapped into action three hours ago and had instinctively made up a cover story to hide the true proceedings in the family kitchen. He had lied for them—and for that he deserved the truth.

Still unable to look at her mother, Felicity focused on the standing man. "What do you want to know?"

"Felicity!" Sara chided in an angry whisper full of warning.

Her father ignored her. "How did you learn to fight like that?" His eyes wandered to his daughter. "Why are those people after you?" His attention turned back to Felicity. "How can running around with a bow and arrows seem like a good idea to you?"

A quick glance at her friend told Felicity that Sara wouldn't be opening her mouth anytime soon. Hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair, she fixed her gaze on the coffee table again. The message was clear: Felicity had started it, she had to see this through.

Felicity took a deep breath. She couldn't look at anybody anymore, because if she did she wouldn't get this out. Staring ahead, she said, her voice quiet, forcing herself to stay calm. "After the boat when down, I was washed up at the island. It's called Lian Yu, that's Mandarin for Purgatory, and it wasn't deserted." Felicity found that, because she'd already told Oliver, her tongue moved easier—but, still, this was anything but easy. The stakes were different this time. Her mother's husband was a cop and believed in the law, in doing the right thing—and Felicity had done so many wrong things. She still acted outside the law most of the time. Quentin Lance might want to arrest her for that.

Which was bad.

Worse was the idea of her mother rejecting her. Finding out the truth might make Donna Smoak-Lance hate her daughter. The thought of losing somebody as important as her mother fed the ball of fear in Felicity's stomach.

Donna's measured inhale cut through Felicity's worried thoughts. "Is that why you have all these scars? Because of the people on that island?"

Hearing the softness in her mother's voice, a shudder raced through Felicity. Unable to keep traces of hope from flaring up, she dared to meet her eyes and answered, honestly. "Some of them, yes."

"What scars?" Quentin asked, somewhat aggravated. "What people?"

"Soldiers," Felicity answered the second question. "It's a long story, but they built this camp to bring down a plane. But there were also people… on my side. I started my training with them. Living in the airplane I told you about."

"I lived there, too. For a while." Sara's tentative voice was barely audible.

"You? What?!" In his shock Quentin deflated a little. He gawked at his daughter. "You were on the island, too?"

"I was. The second year."

"You knew she was alive?" He glared at Felicity. "WHY didn't you tell me?"

"Because I thought she was dead. I thought she drowned. Both times. When our boat went down and when the freighter exploded two years later."

"What freighter? What explosion?"

"Fe didn't know I was alive," Sara said, slowly lifting her eyes to plead with her father. "It's better if you don't know more, dad. Can you, please, let this be enough?"

"NO!" He exploded, but visibly pulled himself together. Closing his eyes, he audibly sucked air into his lungs. Aggravated, he shook his head and started pacing, muttering more to himself than addressing the women in the room with him. "I cannot believe this. My daughter's some kind of Amazonian warrior and I'm sharing a house with the vigilante I'm supposed to arrest. I'm standing here like the village idiot, because the girls I'm supposed to protect decide what's best for me to know."

"Dad, you have to trust me on this, I—"

"I have to trust you?!" Quentin stopped his pacing and shot around to glare at his daughter. "When you don't trust me?!"

"Sara," Felicity said in a near whisper. "Four armed man trashed their home. They deserve answers."

"They wouldn't have trashed their home if you hadn't initiated a fight," Sara whispered back, heatedly.

"I evened out the numbers," Felicity defended in a strong whisper of her own.

"No. You acted impulsively—like you did with the tank."

"Not the tank again. That's so four years ago."

"You nearly got us blown up. That doesn't lapse!"

"Okay. Fine." Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. "Then how about the time when I wanted to come clean to Slade and you said we had to keep it secret?"

Sara's face hardened. "That was different." She spared a glance at Donna. Then, she spoke even more quietly, but with emphasis. "And I especially don't want them to know that."

"Keeping quiet was a mistake. That did get us blown up!"

"I kept you from getting blown up the other day. I think that—"

"That's enough." Quentin's shout sounded disbelieving but ended the whispered argument. His eyes ping-ponged between the two women sitting on the couch and all he could do was shake his head. "Is this a joke to you?" he asked, hard. "Because I can't find anything funny about this."

"It's not," Sara confirmed.

"Good. One thing we agree on." He fixed his daughter with an angry glare. "Sara. Start talking!"

Helplessly, Sara's eyes darted to Felicity. Reluctance and uneasiness were shining in Sara's eyes. Felicity could relate to that. Sara feared her father's reaction, and her father's rejection, as much as Felicity feared losing her mother's love. But Felicity was convinced now more than before that coming clean was the only possible move left for them. And whatever the outcome, the friends would deal with it together, because they had each other's back. Sending her friend a look filled with compassion, Felicity tried to assure Sara of that and reached for her hand to give it a comforting, encouraging squeeze.

Finally, Sara swallowed heavily. Her voice was coated and very quiet. "After the boat when down I was picked up by a freighter belonging to a scientist…." Felicity huffed, but Sara ignored her. "He headed for Lian Yu, because there was some information he wanted. That's how I found Felicity. The scientist was conducting experiments that came with unwanted side-effects for one of the guys with us on the island, and ultimately we tried to blow the freighter up. I was caught in the explosion, but survived—again. I ended up with a secret agency that continued my training. I've worked for them the past three years. When Felicity decided to come home, I heard about it and did the same. I took some information as leverage—and that's why those operatives came. I was sure that my leverage would be enough to keep them away. I apologize. I miscalculated."

"You apologize?" Quentin repeated.

"I do."

"Oh, good." He raised his eyebrows, mockingly, his words laced with sarcasm. "Then it's all settled." He paused, hrew his hands up. "When were you gonna tell me all this?"

"Never," Sara admitted, quietly. "The work I did in the last three years isn't anything you'd be proud of me for."

Father and daughter stared at each other and Donna used that moment to ask. "What does that mean? 'Felicity decided to come home'?"

Felicity felt her breath hitch in her throat, felt her heart beat faster, stronger than before. Nerves flared within her. She felt caught and afraid at the same time. Again, she couldn't bring herself to face her mother but forced herself to answer her question. "It means that, after the freighter exploded, a military commando got me out of there and to Moscow to fulfill a mission. After that I was kind of messed up and I thought it would be better if you continued to believe I was dead. So, I didn't come home. I went to Hong Kong instead."

"You thought it was better to have me believe you were dead?" Donna's pronunciation was sharp as a knife, suggesting barely suppressed anger and a coming explosion.

Felicity steeled herself and nodded.

Donna stared at her—and burst into tears.

That wasn't what Felicity had expected at all. Helplessly, she looked at her mother, unable to deal with the emotional overload. "Mom," she breathed, feeling truly, truly horrible for the first time since she had returned. Sara's elbow nudged her side and Felicity took the hint to get off the couch. Awkwardly she sank down next to her mother and reached for her hand. Donna's fingers tightened around hers instantly, almost desperately.

Felicity dug her brain for words. "I was a mess, Mom. I know it was stupid. Everything I did in the last two years was stupid and horrible. I'm sorry, Mom. I know that's not enough, but I'm sorry. Please, don't hate me."

Donna Smoak-Lance let go of her daughter's hand and instead pulled her into her arms. "I could never hate you. You're my child. I love you."

Felicity felt her own eyes prickle. "But I'm a horrible person. I did horrible things. In Moscow and in Hong Kong. I…." She trailed off, tears taking her voice from her.

"I don't care," Donna said and tightened her grip. "You're my daughter—and what you did before with the man and gun and the stuff—that was so badass."

Felicity huffed out a laugh through her tears.

"We have a lot to talk about. You have a lot to tell me." Donna's arms stayed around Felicity but her mascara-run eyes landed on Sara. "Both of you have a lot to tell us. We need to talk and figure this out, because we're family now. And you two girls, you went through hell. We know that." She looked at her husband. "We will find a way to deal with that. Work on trusting each other."

Still standing stiffly, Quentin Lance nodded, an emotional turmoil clouding his features.

"I'm sorry," Felicity addressed him. "I know I put you in an impossible position. Because of the taskforce."

"Felicity," Quentin said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You saved 200 teenage girls from slavery. I may disapprove of your measures but I see your results. Give me… some time to come to terms with this."

"Of course."

"Good." He fixed his eyes to his daughter again. "Donna's right: we're family. And whatever you went through, whatever you did, we'll handle it."

"Dad," Sara began, even more hesitant than before. "You don't have to. And it's not really safe for you. For either of you." She shook her head and looked at Felicity. Their breathing fell into the same rhythm the longer they looked, until Sara was able to look back into her father's face and finish, "You don't have to do this."

"Sara," Quentin said, finally bridging the gap between them. "This is what family does," he said, sinking down on the couch next to his daughter. "We're the Smoak-Lances now. And that's final."