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Fun and Games

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When Lance meets the Arrow at the door of Starling National Bank, he can't help but ask for a situation report.  If the Clock King—that's what they're calling him, as if this is a cheesy comic book—really is threatening to take down the city gas mains, it's his problem, too.  "Where's your not-wound-quite-right villain of the week?" he asks of the vigilante.

With a green glove, he makes a motion forward.  "Deathstroke and Canary are on him," he answers, moving forward at a sprint with his bow drawn.  Again Lance is struck by the oddity of calling Sara by her codename; he's known Sara's identity for months now.  Shaking his head, he writes it down as a personality quirk.

As the Arrow's words catch up to him, Lance stops for a moment before moving forward again, gun drawn.  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks.  "I don't wanna tell you how to do your... hobby"—the Arrow snorts at that—"but I understand Deathstroke has been a little hot on this one.  I was the one who had to interview Palmer and do damage control."  He shakes his head.  "Between her almost decapitating him and your threats of torture, the poor kid was in tears."

He expects the Arrow to at least try to look apologetic, but he actually grins.  "You should tell her that," he suggests in a low voice.  "It's been a hard week for her—she needs something to laugh at."  He snorts.  "I think she's still disappointed that he was innocent."

Silence passes between them, but an explosion makes them break into a full run.  Lance quickly loses his breath chasing the Arrow, and allows himself to pull back.  He's never noticed before, but the guy is pretty fleet.  When they arrive, the place is in chaos—Sara on the ground with Deathstroke practically on top of her.  The latter reaches for a tablet and presses a single prompt before declaring, "Time flies, asshole."

There's one hell of a fireworks display from the perp's pocket, and it sends him careening backward.  Lance can only stare at it.  That Deathstroke can swing a pair of swords is impressive, but the whatever-the-hell kind of computer voodoo she just managed makes her terrifying.  "What the hell was that?" he calls to her.

"Cell phone go boom," Deathstroke answers with a cough.

At the same time, Sara interjects, "Sweetie, I love you and I appreciate you saving my life..."  She pushes on the arm Deathstroke has around her middle, and the swordmaster slaps her hand away.  "But get off of me.  I'm not that kind of girl."  They pull apart, and the blonde winks.  "I like dinner before romance."

Deathstroke and the Arrow flirting isn't new territory for Lance, but watching Sara flirt with one of her half-crazy partners is a new one on him.  He's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that her girlfriend—the one who brought a nice wine to dinner—is a League of Assassins-trained killer.  It probably isn't a new thing, though, because Deathstroke doesn't bat an eye.  "Please, I wasn't trying to get into your pants.  I was just in need of a nice cuddle."  The Canary throws her a look that says she isn't buying it.  "What, like you've never randomly cuddled with a beautiful woman?"  Sara makes a noise of grudging assent.  "If that's the gratitude I get, next time I'm gonna make you be the big spoon."

"Deathstroke," the Arrow snaps, and if Lance didn't know any better, he'd say the guy was a little agitated for some reason.

Even across the distance, Lance can see the fearsome Deathstroke roll her eyes.  "Green is only a good color on you in the literal sense, Arrow," she calls to him before walking closer to Tockman.  When she draws her sword, the detective makes a warning sound in his throat.  "Don't worry—Sara has a girlfriend and you're still the only one I dream about tied to my bed."  The Arrow makes that awkward choking sound Lance has come to know so well in the last year.

Tockman raises his head a little, as if dazed, just in time for Deathstroke to take him down with the hilt of her sword.  "Boom! Drop the mike!" she yells after sheathing the blade again, causing Lance to jump a little.  She claps her hands together and then throws them up in a pose that screams victorious before turning back to the rest of the group.  "I'm sorry, but you have no idea how good this feels.  It's been a rough week."  She points to Tockman.  "That guy has been raining digital fire down upon me.  Me!"  She points to herself as Lance's eyebrows rise.  "I mean, I hacked into Mossad last summer for fun, and this guy has been hacking circles around me for a week."  She throws her fists up in the air again.  "But we have conquered."

"And you made Ray cry," the Arrow interjects in a way that Lance can only describe as giddy.

She runs and makes a flying leap at the other vigilante with a laugh, and the Arrow takes a step backward to keep his balance.  "This truly is a magical night," is all she responds, her voice muffled in his shoulder.  Sara is laughing and Lance can't help but crack a grin, too.  "I don't care what people say about you, Arrow—you're my favorite person in the universe for taking the time to tell me that.  If I wasn't wearing this face mask, I'd kiss you right now."

His arms just wind around her a little tighter and Lance wonders, not for the first time, if they're together or not.  Sara insists they aren't, but the little half-smile she offers and their behavior make him wonder.  "I don't think I've been this happy since the announcement that they're making a new Star Wars movie."  She makes an odd sound under the modulator that sounds like a laugh.  "It just makes me want to dance."

The moment the words leave her mouth, she breaks out in something that's somewhere between a dance and a seizure.  All he knows to do is shake his head at it; the girl can't dance to save her soul.  The Arrow makes an interesting sound a little higher than usual, and when Lance looks over, he's grinning from ear to ear, laced with a level of adoration that's almost sickening.  Sara has to sit down and wipe tears because she's laughing so hard.

When she finishes, Deathstroke goes over, taking Lance's hand and shaking it in both of hers.  "Mr. Tockman is your problem now, Detective," she declares.  For the first time, he can see that her eyes are a brilliant blue under that mask, sharp and cunning.  "He's your problem now.  Directly to jail—do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

The Arrow moves to the door as police sirens sound.  "Ladies," he barks with a motion of his hand, ushering them out.  "If we don't move now, we'll be in a cell next to Tockman's."

They turn back to Lance, and he makes a motion for them to go.  "Go on," he assures them.  "I'll get this guy out to the uniforms and try to distract them from going in."  He holds out his hands.  "I can give you three minutes."  The Arrow nods, as though it's good enough, and they're nearly out the door before the cop calls at Deathstroke, "You know, some people think you're the scariest thing in Starling City.  I wonder what they'd think if they saw you break out your dance moves."

She sighs.  "Where is it written that I have to be all gloom-and-doom to be the creature of their nightmares?"  Deathstroke pats the Arrow's cheek under the hood.  "That's his job.  And it doesn't mean I won't take down cartel headquarters with nothing but swords and a lot of anger."  She puts her hands on her hips.  "I think of it as like the grim reaper—but riding a cute little undead pony or something."

With a laugh, she adds, "So yeah, I'll gladly take some lives.  And a few Skittles, too."