The Way We Talk

Protective (Little Talks #10)

Prompt:  "You're bleeding..."

It's a pretty quiet night on call for Officer Quentin Lance.  For once, Starling City is quiet at night, and he's been patrol all evening almost wishing for something to happen.  As if to answer his call, though, it does.  Suddenly, the building he's driving by explodes, fire shooting out of the top floor of the building.  He radios it in as he starts driving toward it, trying to dodge around some of the wreckage left from the Undertaking that blew up half the Glades.

When he finally gets there, he's not really surprised by what he sees; he expects to see a few people running away from the rubble, stragglers who have holed up in abandoned buildings nearby.  But he's surprised to see Felicity Smoak among them.  Knowing that her presence indicates that the Vigilante is nearby, and that she'll most likely give the best information, he goes to her.  His words fall away, though, when he notices the red blot on her blouse; he's been to enough crime scenes to know blood when he sees it.

"You're bleeding," he points out to her carefully, not wanting to startle her or draw attention from passersby.

It takes her a moment to react, examining the arm of her multicolored silk blouse.  When she turns her head, she exposes the bluetooth headset on her ear that most likely connects her to the Vigilante.  She makes a sound of disgust, before moaning, "I love this shirt—I'm never going to be able to get this out."  She huffs before assuring him, "Oh, it's not mine."  He can feel his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  In response, she turns a delicate shade of crimson as she realizes the implications of her words.  "Oh, no, I didn't—"  She stops abruptly, and a haunted expression masks her features—one that Lance knows all too well.  "Well, what I mean is this is spatter."  She looks around her twice before whispering, "Our mutual friend, he—"  She stops, miming the action of shooting an arrow from a bow.

He ignores her rambling speech, pulling her attention away from the blood on the sleeve.  "No, you're bleeding," he tries again, this time motioning to the gradually expanding red blossom on her torso.  He's pretty sure that indicates she's wounded.She puts a hand to the spot quickly, wincing in surprise when pain shoots through her.  "Oh, wow," she says, and her voice seems far too calm for the shock on her face.  "Will you look at that?  I guess I am bleeding.  And from a bullet wound, no less.  I don't remember—"  Before she can continue her speech, she stumbles, gasping as pain shoots through her.

He reaches for her elbow, catching her before she can collapse.  "Take it easy there, kiddo," he says gently, the way he would speak to one of his own daughters.  It's so funny how she brings out that side of him—not that he can understand why.  "I think you need to take a moment and sit down here."  He motions to the curb, and she sits down on the curb by his car.  He leans closer to her before asking, "Where's our masked friend?"

She sighs before pointing to the top of a cathedral across the road, to something that looks like a statue.  It takes a minute for his eyes to recognize that the rest of the statues don't seem to be wearing bows.  Or wearing green hoods, for that matter.  "He won't leave without me," she says in a huff, as if this is some sort of insult to her.

"The police will be on scene soon," he replies.  "Do you want to stay for treatment or—"

"No, we can take care of this at the lair," she assures him, and he's not exactly sure he likes the thought of her receiving medical treatment at a place she calls a "lair."  As if she reads his mind, she adds, "It's fine Detective."  Not that he'll ever admit it aloud, but he likes that she still calls him "Detective," even though he lost that title after the Undertaking.  "He has medical training, and—believe me—he's stitched up worse sounds than this."

Something in his tone makes him believe her, but before he can speak further, a modulated voice says from behind him, "Detective, we need to go."  Faintly, he can hear the sounds of sirens responding to the call he put in.

He nods twice, turning stiffly toward the man who protects this city.  "Of course."  He hesitates before adding, "Take care of her, alright?"

The hooded vigilante offers him a solid nod.  "Of course, Detective."  Call him crazy, but he almost thinks the hooded psychopath sounds insulted by the implication that he wouldn't watch out for the girl.

Without waiting for a response, the Arrow gathers her up in his arms, and they both disappear into the night.