(A/N: I'm very tired and not feeling well, so I really don't know what I can tell you about this chapter. It does contain a bonus scene at the end that I felt was needed. The title is from Billy Joel's song "Honesty." Thanks to thatmasquedgirl for reading this and talking out some issues with me and pointing out a typo. :D)

Chapter 17—Honesty Is Such a Lonely Word

Two days later, a Saturday, Felicity was curled up on the couch with Jpeg in her lap, half-watching a college football game as she worked on her tablet. Lieutenant Pike had ordered her and Detective Lance to take the weekend off because they had maxed out on overtime.

Felicity ought to have been cleaning the kitchen, or grocery shopping, or having her roots done. But she had slept in, and moving from her bed to the couch was enough productivity for one morning. So of course there was a knock at the door, forcing her to move Jpeg off her lap and get up. She rose on tiptoe to check the peephole. It was lance, dressed in civilian clothes and looking fidgety. She undid the locks and opened the door.

"You do remember we were ordered not to work this weekend, right?" she said, standing aside to let him enter.

"We were ordered to go home," he replied. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around. "No one said anything about not working."

"I'm saying something about not working. I'm attempting to relax."

Lance nodded at the tablet in her hand. "Don't tell me you haven't been doing something case-related on that thing."

As someone who always gave immediate voice to her thoughts, Felicity was a terrible liar, so she didn't usually bother. At this moment, though, she couched her lie in terms of the truth.

"I've been trying to identify the Hood," she admitted.

"Any progress?"

She shook her head. "There just isn't enough to go on. The only physical evidence we have is a homemade, untraceable arrow. I'm going super in-depth on everyone he's targeted, but it's a big job." She set down her tablet. "What have you been doing?"

"Staring at my notes. But there's something bothering me."

"Other than the usual?" Felicity asked.

"Funny," he said, but he wasn't smiling. "I feel like I need to go talk to Queen, and I hoped you go with me. Maybe stand between us, hold me back if he says something stupid."

That made her smile. "Yeah, sure," she said. "I'll just go change really quick."

Lance sniffed. "What for? You look fine."

"Are you kidding me?"

Felicity gestured at her dreidel pajamas. Hanukkah hadn't started yet, but they were so warm and comfy. There was a damp spot on her pants where Jpeg had happily drooled. Her ponytail was disheveled from sleep, and though it was almost noon, she hadn't even brushed her teeth yet.

"I'm going to change and do something about my morning breath," she said. "It won't take long. Have a seat."

She went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Digging through her closet, she tried to slow the frantic pace of her thoughts.

It had taken one Google image search the night before for Felicity to confirm the identity of the Hood. Every close-up photo of Oliver, older and more recent, clearly showed the mole just to the right of his lower lip. She'd then had two glasses of wine and nearly a full pint of ice cream, and then she'd worked late into the night trying to reconcile everything she knew about the vigilante with everything she knew about Oliver Queen. But the pieces didn't all fit, and she'd gone to bed frustrated, confused, and a little nauseous.

What Felicity had told her partner was the truth, in a way. She didn't have enough evidence to say for certain that Oliver spent his off time shooting arrows and snapping necks. The mole was big—it was huge.

"But not literally," she said to herself as she randomly grabbed a shirt. "The mole is a big deal. But it's not a fingerprint, or DNA, or a purchase order for a compound bow with his name at the top. I need more."

Felicity quickly changed clothes and combed her hair into a ponytail. After brushing her teeth, she returned to the living room. Detective Lance hadn't taken a seat. He stood near the bookcase, perusing the shelves and glancing at framed photos from her days at MIT.

"So what's this about, exactly?" she asked him, slipping her coat on.

"I gotta square things with Oliver Queen, that's all." Lance withdrew his keys from his jacket. "And you'll be there because you're my partner."

"And to keep you from killing him."

"And that," Lance agreed.

They were pulling into the driveway in front of the Queen mansion when something occurred to Felicity.

"Is Mrs. Queen here?" she asked.

Lance shrugged. "Doubt it. Probably has some charity lunch or board meeting."

Felicity breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. She's a little scary."

His response wasn't totally reassuring, so Felicity trailed a little behind him as he approached the front door and knocked. It seemed like such a big, stately house should have a big, stately doorbell. One that sounded like a gong. She wasn't sure anyone could even hear a knock in a house that big, and she definitely didn't expect Oliver Queen himself to open the door.

She couldn't look at him. Felicity was sure her face would give everything away, just as much as his would. It was ridiculous, but she was putting off seeing that mole live and in person for as long as she could.

"Detectives," he said. "Is everything okay?"

Lance took a deep breath. "Your buddy with the arrows was at Russo's last night."

"And I was there earlier with a date," said Oliver. "So, what, you think I'm the hood guy again?"

"No," Lance scoffed. "Your date, Helena Bertinelli? If I were you, I'd stay away from her. Her family is bad news on a good day."

Felicity risked a glance up, surprised at his display of worry. Big mistake. Her eyes met Oliver's, and her gaze strayed to his lip.

Oliver looked back at Lance. "Why the sudden concern for my well-being?" he asked.

"A few weeks ago, I made a mistake. I almost got you killed," Lance said.

"And you felt like you owed me one?"

"If I did, as far as I'm concerned, this clears the books." He turned on his heel and walked away.

Felicity lingered on the porch for a moment because her brain was just totally silent and apparently it was connected to her feet, which wouldn't move.

"Thank you for being discreet," Oliver said, putting his hand on her arm.

Her eyes snapped up to his again. Was it written on her face?

"I realize I'm asking you to keep secrets from your partner, but trust me, this has nothing to do with Detective Lance, and there's nothing to be gained from him knowing about the things I've asked you to do for me," he continued.

She sighed again. He didn't know. But she still couldn't speak. She just nodded and then followed Lance back to the car.

"That actually went well," he said, buckling his seatbelt. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Yeah."

Lance paused with his hand on the key in the ignition. "You okay?"

"Me? I'm awesome," Felicity said after a moment's hesitation. "Ready to go home and put my

pajamas back on."

She could feel him giving her the side-eye. He was a good detective, and she was crap at lying. So she stared out the window as he drove off the Queens' property.

Neither of them spoke again until he pulled up in front of Felicity's place. She thanked him for the ride, which started a ramble about how silly it was to thank him for dragging her out on her day off. Thankfully, she was able to stop before she could blurt out any of the secrets she was keeping from him.

Once inside, Felicity didn't take the time to change into her pj's again. She shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it onto a bar stool, and sat on the couch, tablet in hand. Jpeg, purring as he rubbed his face against the edge of the screen, soon settled next to her.

"Look," she said to him as she opened an app she'd created herself, "I'm about to break the law, so avert your eyes, okay?"

Jpeg ignored her, tucking his pink nose between his paws.

"All right, then," Felicity muttered. "Time to commit yet another felony."

Nothing about her deep search app was legal. It culled from dozens of law enforcement databases and Interpol, as well as extensive searches into online news sources. As the search ran, she scribbled a few notes for improvements she could make. Piggyback hacks of e-mail accounts, for instance, to gain access to information that might not have made it into news articles and official reports.

The search would take hours. Felicity set her tablet aside and curled up around Jpeg, a comma curving next to his backslash. The remote was within easy reach, but she picked up her phone instead. Scrolling through her list of contacts, she stopped at his number and opened a new text message.

What would she say? "I know who you are, maybe"? She shook her head and closed the text without typing anything. She used her phone's browser to look for articles on Helena Bertinelli, but there was very little. Either the mobster's daughter flew under the radar or she wasn't involved in the shadier side of her dad's business. The few articles Felicity did find were about the murder of her fiancé, Michael, and contained only brief references to Helena.

But still, mobster's daughter. What was Oliver thinking, dating her? If he had done any checking into the guy who'd been shot in front of his mother, he had to know who Helena was. Felicity had sort of thought he was done with casual hookups, that his island experience had turned him serious, but maybe she was wrong. He might know about Helena's father or he might not. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe it was only dinner with a beautiful woman.

Her stomach was growling, so she went grocery shopping. Then, feeling industrious, she cleaned her apartment, started a load of laundry, and touched up her roots with a kit from the store. She refused to let herself check the tablet even once, knowing the search would still be running.

It was getting late when her phone rang. She was tucking into a massive salad after chopping a ton of fresh vegetables. The amount of dressing she'd poured on it probably canceled out the benefits of the roughage, but it still made her feel like she was doing something good for herself.

The call was short. With a sigh, Felicity covered her salad and put it in the fridge. She slipped on a pair of flats and grabbed her jacket.

"So much for a weekend off," she muttered as she went out the door.

There was no shortage of creepy abandoned warehouses in the Glades and at the docks. Nick Salvati, Frank Bertinelli's right hand man, lay dead on the gritty floor of a warehouse deep in the Glades. As Felicity had pulled up outside, she wondered if her car would still be there when she came back out.

The scene was quiet. Big, with yellow crime scene tape roping off the entire place, which was basically one big room. Lance had kicked everyone out but the crime scene techs. They went to work. Felicity looked away from the three bodies and tried to concentrate on telling Lance what the fingerprint tech had just told her.

"No usable prints except for the victims'", she said, "So we have one GSW to the chest—"

"Then who broke the necks of Salvati and his buddy?" Lance asked, indicating the corpses. "Last time we saw something like that was the kidnapping of Queen and Merlyn."

"It's been a while since the Hood broke anyone's neck," Felicity said. "And I don't see any arrows lying around."

"Well, better pray that Frank Bertinelli blames the Hood for this. Otherwise Starling City will be ground zero to World War Three."

She wasn't listening anymore. She was staring at the dead man with the hole in his chest.

"That's not . . ." She edged around a tech who was photographing some miniscule piece of evidence on the floor.

"What are you thinking, Smoak?" asked Detective Lance.

"Two chairs," she said, pointing. One was upright. The other was twenty feet away, toppled over next to Salvati. "Did you find any restraints?" she asked the tech with the camera.

He shrugged. "We haven't processed over there yet."

That meant she couldn't check for herself. She didn't want to risk contaminating evidence.

"Smoak."

Felicity looked up. "There were two of them," she said, adrenaline beginning to sizzle through her veins. "Two chairs." She pointed again. "Two causes of death—bullet, broken necks."

"You think Salvati grabbed a couple people and they killed their way out of here?" Lance crossed his arms.

"I know it sounds a little crazy," Felicity began.

"Not crazy," said Lance. "There were two at Russo's. The Hood and the motorcyclist."

"But the Hood was chasing the motorcyclist," Felicity said.

"You sure of that?"

She shrugged.

"Could be our vigilante's got himself a partner," Lance suggested.

"The same two at Russo's and here?" she asked. "That's a big leap, assuming the Hood would even bother teaming up with someone who can barely shoot straight."

"Eh, you may be right." Lance scrubbed a hand over the back of his head, ruffling up his hair. "I can't really see the Hood letting Salvati get the drop on him. Subtle, Salvati was not."

The Batman theme began to echo in the large space, the dark and brooding tones from the Michael Keaton movie, heavy on the strings. Felicity whipped out her phone and hit the ignore button, but she wasn't fast enough to escape Lance's notice.

"I know, I know," she said, dropping the phone back in her pocket. "Customized ringtones aren't exactly professional."

"Who gets Batman?" the detective asked, sounding a little envious. "Your dad?"

Felicity choked on a bitter laugh. "My father gets the sound of silence, and I don't mean the Simon and Garfunkel song. He took off when I was little," she explained.

"Sorry," Lance muttered.

"Nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "I barely remember him."

"Well, he's an idiot anyway for leaving you and your mom."

Her laugh was genuine this time. "Have you met my mom? I almost don't blame him, sometimes."

"Still. Everyone needs their dad." His hand rose like he was going to give her shoulder a fatherly squeeze or something. He stared at it, then let his arm fall back to his side. "Let's get out of here so the coroner can do his thing."

Getting out of there meant heading into the department to start working the case. But Felicity needed to check the progress of the search running on her tablet. And she'd have to do something about that phone call, because the Batman ringtone was assigned to Oliver Queen's number.

As Felicity left the warehouse, her phone buzzed, this time with a text message from Oliver.

Can we talk?

Glancing around, making sure no one could see the screen, she deleted the text and rushed to her car. With a squeal of tires, she fled the Glades.

Felicity pulled into the brightly lit parking lot in front of police headquarters. Employees didn't typically park there, but it felt safe, and she needed the extra light.

A quick check of her tablet told her the search was still running, but the app had come up with one item of note, a report from a police station in Hong Kong. Felicity skimmed the contents, knowing Lance would be waiting for her inside.

Tommy Merlyn had gone to Hong Kong, it seemed. The report was vague, and the story Tommy gave was confusing, like he had revised it as he was telling it. He may or may not have gotten an e-mail from Oliver two years after the Queen's Gambit had gone down, saying that Oliver was alive and in Hong Kong. But then Tommy had backtracked, saying something about coming out there for a vacation, and there was a kidnapping, or a kidnapping attempt. Whoever had talked to Tommy hadn't been able to straighten out his story.

A soft click sounded, the app's signal that it had uncovered another piece of information. Felicity tapped on the screen. A picture of Oliver Queen, a recent paparazzi snap, was side by side with a close-up photo of the Hood. The picture of the vigilante was black and white, so it had probably come from some kind of security footage, maybe from one of the banks the Hood had showed up at when the Royal Flush Gang was in town. Facial recognition was one of the side functions built into the app, which confirmed what Felicity's eyes had refused to. Oliver Queen was the Hood.

"Thank you for being discreet," he'd said.

After Oliver closed the door behind her, he walked back into the living room, wishing he'd said more. But what? He thanked Felicity every time she helped him. He'd apologized more than once for his secrets coming between her and her partner. Yet it didn't seem like enough.

Then Thea had come in, apologizing for the way she'd come down on him at the hospital. She must have had a talk with Mom, because she tossed out a few un-Thea-like words. What she said had stuck with him, though, that he should share his secrets with someone.

Oliver took a deep breath and let it out. Thea had no idea how awful some of his secrets were. They were dark, festering things that he tried to keep hidden away, but they kept reaching fingers out to touch different parts of his life. It was getting harder to compartmentalize, and it was very, very lonely.

He took out his phone and scrolled through the list of contacts. Her picture made him smile. He'd snapped it the first time they'd met, just before he'd left her office. Felicity's pink shirt contrasted with her bright red lips, and the expression on her face said that she wasn't buying his dumb excuses.

Oliver tapped on her picture and opened a new text message. Can we talk? he typed. Then he waited. And waited. The longer he waited for a response, the more it seemed like a bad idea. Felicity Smoak was the first person since he came back who had accepted him for who he was. For whatever reason, she trusted him. He couldn't bring the darkness within him to her door.

So he went to another door, and let himself in. And waited.

"I'd ask how you got in here," Helena said, her smooth voice soothing something restless inside him, "but the Starling City vigilante comes and goes as he pleases. Doesn't he?"