(A/N: Wow, another chunky chapter. "Damaged" is a cop-heavy episode, so there was a lot to cover. This chapter will bring that episode to a close. And then I will be taking a bit of a break. Not a super-long one. Probably two weeks or so before the next update. Thanks to all my new followers/reviewers!)

Chapter 13—Party Like It's 99 to Life

Felicity followed Detective Lance down the hall at a safe distance. In the squad room, he brushed past Hilton, putting off the other detective with a shake of his head. Hilton approached Felicity instead, and they both turned to watch Lance cross the room in a few long strides and then exit out the other door.

"Where do you think he's headed?" Felicity asked.

"Not a bar, if that's what you're thinking," said Hilton. "As bad as things got, he never drank on duty."

"That wasn't what I was thinking, but, um . . . good?"

Hilton smiled.

"I just wonder how much danger I'd be putting myself in if I went after him," she continued.

"It's better to leave him alone for now," Hilton said. "He'll fume for a while, do some brooding, and then come up with a plan."

"Great." Felicity sank onto her desk chair. "A plan to continue pursuing a suspect in a case that's already on shaky ground, a suspect who just passed a polygraph."

Hilton shrugged. "Quentin has good instincts. Great, even. He hates Oliver Queen and has every right to, but I believe those instincts. It's not just hate driving him—there's something else there."

"Then why aren't you his partner?" Felicity asked.

Detective Hilton grinned. "I was, for a while. But we're too much alike, not to mention that I got fed up with dragging his drunk ass out of bars in the middle of the night. I needed a break, and Quentin needed someone to ground him, you know? To be the Scully to his Mulder."

That made her smile.

Felicity filed a report on the polygraph session, and then she got out her tablet and watched Oliver Queen move around his house for a while. He spent a long time out by the pool, the edge of the house arrest boundary. Was he testing the limits or just chilling in a deck chair?

After about twenty minutes of watching the little green dot move around on her screen, it dawned on her that, while the legality of her actions might be up for debate, there was no doubt that what she was doing was creepy. She shut off her tablet and tried to look busy while she waited on Detective Lance.

Her attention turned to her work computer, she opened the browser to check Google's latest hits on Oliver's name. His arrest for murder was a huge headline, but it was a smaller item that caught her eye. It was less than an hour old, a tiny mention on a local celebrity gossip blog that "billionaire heir and erstwhile murder suspect Oliver Queen" was throwing a huge party at his house that evening, a prison-themed party.

The party must have been what Oliver and Laurel had been talking about as they'd entered the room for the polygraph. Felicity had to agree with Laurel on that one. A big party was crazy and ridiculous and wouldn't do him any favors with his upcoming trial. It would make him look as if he wasn't taking it all seriously.

Detective Lance finally returned from wherever he'd gone to seethe. He seemed energized, like he'd channeled his anger.

"Take off early, Smoak," he said to her. "We have a party to go to tonight. I'll pick you up at nine."

"Wait, what?" Felicity rose from her seat. "Are you talking about the prison party at the Queen mansion?"

"That's the one. It's our last best chance of getting something definitive on Queen."

She frowned. "By crashing his party?"

"It's his home turf. He'll be comfortable there, relaxed," said Lance. "And then we'll catch him with his guard down."

Felicity had no idea what to wear to a billionaire's house party. She wasn't going as a guest, thank God. She didn't have the kind of shiny, slinky dresses she'd seen in tabloid photos. Her work wardrobe was standard fare—button-downs, sweaters, cardigans. And the rest of her clothes were . . .well, they were cute. Striped leggings, Doctor Who shirts, moose pajama pants. Her favorite top, almost threadbare now, had a picture of a Twinkie on it, the white writing proclaiming, "It's what's on the inside that counts." That was definitely not the kind of attire that would allow her to blend in.

Eventually she decided to stay in her work clothes. With her badge and handcuffs on prominent display, it might look like a costume for the prison theme. Hopefully that would give her enough anonymity to move around freely.

Detective Lance rang her doorbell at nine sharp. She opened the door and Jpeg immediately twined around Lance's legs, purring. Her partner frowned at the cat. Felicity scooped up Jpeg, deposited him in the entryway, and shut and locked the door behind her.

The Queen mansion was intimidating enough by day, but at night, packed inside and out with partygoers, it had a whole different vibe. This was the kind of party she'd never been invited to. Smart girls who looked like Skipper dolls and dressed like nine-year-olds did not get to sit with the cool kids.

As they walked up the long driveway, Lance went over the game plan. "We'll have to split up," he said. "You go in the house—you're young enough to blend in better. I'll head out to the pool deck where I can get lost in the crowd. If you see or hear anything, text me."

Felicity didn't ask him what she should be looking for, or what he expected to find in the crush of people around the stage by the pool. She kind of figured their presence was supposed to be less practical and more about showing Oliver Queen that he wasn't in the clear just because he'd passed a polygraph.

She wished their positions had been reversed. Outside, she could have been just another face in the crowd. But there were far fewer people in the house, and most of them appeared to be staff. She clutched her purse, with her gun in its zippered compartment, closer to her side and wandered through the house, trying to look casual. Then she heard a voice coming from somewhere down the hallway ahead of her.

"It's sweet of you to be so inclusive, man. Really, it's adorable. But there's a difference between inviting cops to your party and stepping across the boundary to set off a SWAT team invasion. I hope I don't have to tell you which one would look worse."

"Tommy, I'm not going to—"

Oliver Queen strode out of a room off the hallway and crashed right into Felicity. He caught her before she landed on the floor.

"Felicity? What are you doing here?" he asked.

His hand lingered on her waist, and she took a step back, moving out of his reach. "Crashing your party to overhear some shady dealings or maybe stumble across a murder weapon," she blurted out.

Oliver frowned in confusion, and the guy behind him was gaping at her.

"Oh my God, I'm going to lose my job if I can't keep my mouth shut," Felicity said. "I didn't mean all that. I just meant . . . it was Detective Lance's idea to—"

Oliver held up a hand. He was wearing a blue work shirt with a prison number on it. "He's here to intimidate me. I get it."

"You two know each other?" said the other guy.

Oliver made introductions, but Felicity had already recognized his best friend Tommy Merlyn. In ever paparazzi photo she'd seen, Tommy was always right next to Oliver, egging him on.

Tommy's dark eyebrows arched when Oliver introduced her as Detective Smoak. He flashed a blinding smile as he shook her hand, but his eyes were troubled.

"I should go greet my guests," Oliver said. "Enjoy the party, Felicity."

They moved past her down the hall, and she could hear them speaking before they were out of earshot.

"Did you actually invite cops?" Tommy asked.

"No," said Oliver. "She's Detective Lance's new partner. I'm sure he's skulking around somewhere."

"I'll admit she's hot in a sexy librarian kind of way, but maybe nailing a chick who's investigating you for murder isn't in your best interests."

Felicity couldn't hear Oliver's response as they went around a corner and out of sight.

"Jerk," she muttered. She would make Tommy Merlyn eat those words if she ever got a chance.

Eventually, she wandered out onto a balcony overlooking the pool area. It was more crowded than she'd imagined. The press of people surrounding the DJ parted and Oliver jumped onto the stage.

"Hi, everybody!" he shouted, arms flung wide. "I'm very pleased that you came to celebrate before I am sent up the river!"

Felicity stared. His voice was different—higher-pitched, maybe, younger. And the wide grin on his face was nothing like the smile she'd seen when he recognized her just a few minutes before. It was as if he'd shrugged off one personality and donned another on his way outside.

"The closest neighbors are six miles away, so don't worry about the noise," Oliver continued. "Actually, on second thought, let's wake those losers up!"

A responding roar went up from the partygoers and Oliver hopped off the stage, disappearing into the crowd.

She'd seen enough. Felicity went back inside. At a loss for what to do next, she wandered through the massive house and managed to get thoroughly lost. She found herself in a section—a wing?—that seemed less formally decorated and more lived in. She had been walking aimlessly for ten minutes, hoping she'd run into someone from the house staff who could point her in the right direction.

Voices came from behind an open door. Felicity approached it, planning to appeal to whoever was inside, but stopped short when she recognized Laurel Lance's voice.

"What happened to you on that island was far more than you deserved," she said, sounding choked up. "And I was wrong that I didn't ask you before, but I'm asking you now. I need to know. I need to see."

Felicity heard a murmured response but couldn't make out Oliver's words. She wasn't exactly sure what Laurel was talking about, but it seemed like the kind of conversation Detective Lance would be interested in. Plus, she just wanted to hear. So she peeked into the room.

Oliver was turned slightly away from the door, and Laurel was totally focused on her task, which seemed to be ogling—and maybe caressing—Oliver's bare chest through his open shirt. Her eyes were filled with tears.

"How did you survive this?" she asked.

"There were times when I wanted to die," Oliver said. His voice sounded normal again. Lower, quiet. "In the end, there was something I wanted more."

Felicity took a step backward, thinking that the conversation had nothing to do with the murder charges, when suddenly the space between them no longer existed. They were kissing, and while it had happened so fast that she didn't see who made the first move, it was pretty clear that this was not an attorney-client kiss. It was a searing, stomach-flipping, I've-been-dreaming-about-this-for-five-years kiss.

Right as Laurel began to pull back, it occurred to Felicity that she was being a total creeper. She backed out of the doorway and hurried down the hall, slipping behind a pillar.

Laurel rushed out of the room, tears falling as she swiped a hand across her mouth. Felicity followed at a distance, figuring Laurel would know the fastest way downstairs. But her phone buzzed loudly, and she had to duck into the nearest room, a half bathroom that in a fancy house like this was probably called a powder room.

It was a text from Detective Lance, asking her how it was going. She typed out a response that she was in a bathroom somewhere on the third floor and she was totally lost. Lance told her to stay put, that he would come get her. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

Felicity sat on a padded bench in the powder room, facing the open door so Lance could find her. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was an alert from the program she'd set up to track Oliver's ankle monitor. Somehow the device had been broken. She quickly speed-dialed her partner, drumming her fingers on the cushion as she waited for him to pick up.

"What's going—"

She cut him off. "The ankle monitor's been broken. You need to get up here now before the entire department swoops down on this place."

"What was the last location before it stopped transmitting?" Lance asked.

She checked the program. "This floor," she said. "Uh, third door on the left when you come up the main stairs."

Felicity got up and peeked out into the hall. Lance was creeping toward her, gun drawn. He motioned for her to stay where she was. He disappeared into one of the rooms. As she reached into her purse, she heard the loud crack of two gunshots.

When Felicity entered the room at a run, the sharp smell of cordite still hung in the air. The bedroom was a mess. Broken glass and pottery littered the floor. Lamps were overturned, and she recognized the remains of at least two chairs. Lance stood just inside and to the right of the doorway, gun still raised. A man in a waiter's uniform lay on the floor amid the debris. Felicity stepped over him and kicked a gun with a silencer on it out of his reach.

Oliver was nearby, red-faced and coughing. He struggled to sit up. Lance took a step forward and extended his hand. Oliver took it, and the detective pulled him to his feet.

"The cavalry's on its way," said Lance. "Why don't we exit the crime scene and you can get rid of your party guests, Mr. Queen?"

"Uh, yeah," Oliver said, rubbing his throat.

The SWAT team that showed up minutes later was helpful in dispersing the party crowd. Lance spoke in low tones with the SWAT commander and then had Felicity herd the Queen family into the living room where Oliver had originally been arrested. Oliver sat on a plump beige sofa. Thea had procured an ice pack and was holding it to Oliver's injured hand.

"How did you know I was in trouble?" Oliver asked Detective Lance.

He ran a hand through his already crazy hair. "Because when the guy was fighting you, he broke the ankle monitor. Detective Smoak here directed me to your exact whereabouts."

Oliver nodded at Felicity. She smiled back. A smile was okay, right? She glanced at Lance, who was frowning. No more smiles, then.

Moira Queen rushed into the room, followed by Walter Steele. "Are you all right?" she asked her son.

"I'm fine," said Oliver.

"Oliver," she said, a warning in her voice.

Oliver smiled a little. "Mom, I promise."

Moira turned on Detective Lance. "This is on you," she spat. "Accusing my son publicly, you've made him a target."

Walter put his hand on her arm. "Do you have any idea who attacked Oliver?" he asked Lance.

"We haven't identified him yet," said the detective. "There must be someone with a grudge against the Hood, obviously." He crouched before Oliver and unsnapped the ankle device.

"What are you doing?" asked Oliver.

"I just got a call from my lieutenant," he replied. "An arms dealer was attacked across town tonight. By the vigilante. Multiple witnesses put him there." He turned to Moira. "In light of that, all charges against your son are being dropped."

Moira twitched, and Walter squeezed her arm. "I'm truly sorry for what's happened to your family, Quentin," she said. "But would you kindly get the hell out of my house?"

Detective Lance glanced at Felicity in a silent command to follow. They turned to leave.

"Mr. Lance?" Oliver called.

The detective turned to face him.

"Thank you," said Oliver.

Lance did what Felicity had always called "the bro head nod," a quick, sharp incline of the head, then left the mansion, his young partner following in his wake. He said nothing as they trekked back down the long driveway to the spot Lance had parked his car. Hilton and his new partner had caught the case investigating the man who'd tried to shoot Oliver, and since Lance was the one who shot him, they couldn't be involved.

For once, Felicity kept her mouth shut. There were too many thoughts rushing through her head to separate out into speech anyway. They'd be getting a fresh start on the vigilante case first thing in the morning, beginning with the new attack that Lance had mentioned to the Queens.

"What are you going to do now?" Felicity asked as Lance pulled up in front of her apartment building.

"Go home," he said. "Get some sleep. Figure out how I could have read that kid so totally wrong. I mean, mostly wrong. He's not the vigilante, but he's still bad news."

Felicity felt relieved when she entered her apartment, relieved that Oliver had been exonerated. She kind of liked him. The side of him she thought was real, anyway, not the jerk who'd throw a prison party and yell at his guests to wake up the neighbors.

About two hours later, her phone woke her up.

"Smoak."

"Detective Lance?" Felicity asked. She fumbled around on the night stand for her glasses and put them on.

"Smoak," he repeated. "Drive me home, Smoak?"

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"Most definitely."

"Where are you?"

He named a bar she didn't recognize. She had to look it up online before throwing on a jacket over her pj's and shoving her feet into a pair of flip-flops.

The bar, which wasn't all that far from her apartment, was mostly empty except for the bartender rolling his eyes as he washed glasses, Lance, who was swaying on his bar stool, and Laurel.

"Come on, Dad. Let's get you home," she said.

Lance threw his arm around her neck, then caught sight of Felicity.

"Smoak!" he hollered into Laurel's ear. She winced. "I thought it was getting Smoaky in here."

Laurel gave Felicity a death glare, daring her to try to help. She got her arm around her father's waist and helped him to his feet.

"Thanks for calling me, Mike," she said to the bartender.

"You know," Lance whispered loudly in Laurel's ear, "they say where there's Smoak, there's fire."

He stumbled toward the door, leaning heavily on his daughter. Laurel gave Felicity another look as they passed her, as if somehow Felicity had been complicit in Detective Lance's getting totally smashed. The tension did not go unnoticed by Lance. He giggled drunkenly and then stage-whispered to Laurel, "Hey. Hey. Smoak gets in your eyes."