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Oliver twisted his hands together nervously, sweat beading on his brow. This was all part of the plan, he reminded himself. He had this all under control.

Except the police had separated him from Hunter.

Oliver knew that his return back home coinciding with the Vigilante's arrival in Starling City only a few days later was something that eventually people, more specifically his family and police, were going to pick up on. So he'd made a plan - get arrested for being the Vigilante, be seen in public whilst Dig went out to be spotted in the hood, and get acquitted. That way Oliver couldn't be tried for being the Vigilante again, and it would be clear sailing for him there on out. The only issue with this whole plan was the actual getting arrested part.

Oliver hated confinement. He hated feeling trapped and being handcuffed to a pole in a police precinct with just about two dozen officers ready to shoot him if he so much as moved the wrong way - yeah, that was enough to trigger him to start having panic attacks. He kept on having uncontrollable flashbacks to his time being interrogated and tortured by Fyers on the island, and more recently, captured and caged by Reiter. His hands were already shaking, his breathing stuttering, but there was nothing he could do.

Quentin Lance was refusing to allow Hunter to accompany Oliver, despite the fact that Oliver legally could have the service dog accompany him wherever the general public went. That included in a police precinct. There was no doubt in the archer's mind that his mother and step-father were preparing to sue the SCPD for their discrimination against Oliver and his service dog, but right now, all the archer cared about was having Hunter back at his side, and calming down enough to handle this situation with the confidence and fearlessness of a Bratva captain.

His head snapped up as Lance entered the room, file in hand. As he locked the door, the detective turned to glower disdainfully at the archer, taking his seat in front of him whilst shooting him a disgusted look. Oliver shifted in his chair, swallowing, but managed to plaster on a careless and blank façade, one he knew would irritate Lance to no end.

Before the detective could even open his mouth to say anything, Oliver demanded, voice firm and unrelenting, "I want Hunter."

"Excuse me?" Lance glared.

"My service dog. I want Hunter in here. I'm not answering any of your questions until I have my service dog in here with me as per my rights by the Mental Health Rights and Service Animal Act."

Lance's face morphed into a cruel sneer. "I'll add obstruction of justice to your charges then."

"The only thing being obstructed here is my human rights," Oliver replied stoically. "I want my service dog. Now."

"Fine," Lance scowled. "I'll have a talk with the captain after I file the arresting report, alright?" He pulled out a pen and got settled in his seat, opening up the file. "I'll be asking you a few questions, just standard stuff. Have you been arrested before?" Oliver couldn't help but smirk and Lance continued sarcastically, "That's okay, I know the answer to that one. Plenty of times."

"Detective, this is a mistake."

"Far as I can tell, the only mistake I made was not shooting you down at the docks when I had the chance."

Oliver shook his head. "I am not who you think I am."

Lance slammed his pen down onto the table, leaning forwards slightly with a wild glint in his eyes that made the archer anxious. "Oh, you're exactly who I think you are. You're a dangerous menace who doesn't care about who he hurts, except now you're doing it with bows and arrows instead of trust funds and yachts."

Sighing, Oliver wiggled his fingers and wrists in the handcuffs. "Detective... You hate me. I get it. But that doesn't make me a vigilante."

"No. The security camera footage of you at the Unidac auction with a green hood does that pretty well."

"And as I said again, I ran into the stairwell with my service dog once I heard the shooting. Hunter found a duffel hidden in a trash can that I thought maybe belonged to the shooter. I grabbed it, looked inside and saw..." He paused for dramatic effect, forcing himself to smile cockily, "A hood."

Lance wasn't buying it, but then again, Oliver hadn't expected him to. "And what about harassing Adam Hunt? That just happened to take place right across the street from your little homecoming bash."

"Those were coincidences," Oliver tried.

"No. When they pile up like that, it becomes evidence." The detective grinned triumphantly, baring his teeth.

The door opened suddenly, startling Oliver so he jumped in his seat. He yanked at the handcuffs and hissed as they dug into his wrists painfully. His heart rate was already skyrocketing above normal, healthy levels. He needed to find a way to get to Hunter, fast, before his stress built up further and resulted in something more damaging.

"His parents are here," an officer told them.

"Tell them to wait," Lance dismissed.

But the Queens didn't take no for an answer, evidenced by the fact that Moira shouldered past the officer, her voice shrill and angry as she hissed, "I want to see my son."

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation here!" Lance shouted, standing.

"Detective Lance, I know you hate my family, but I had no idea that you'd go so far to arrest my son without any grounds whatsoever!" his mother snarled. She was every bit a mother lion protecting her cub, standing at full height and glaring down at the detective with a fierce gaze.

"I have solid grounds," Lance argued, "And I have evidence."

"Which you can present to Miss Lance, Mr Queen's attorney when she gets here," Walter said smartly, his tone cold, which was only emphasised by his British accent.

Blanching, Lance growled, "My daughter is his attorney?"

"She was ever so eager to take on Oliver as a client, especially after I told her that you were refusing to allow him to be accompanied by his service dog," Walter raised his chin.

"Why the hell does the kid need to have a service dog anyway?" Lance demanded.

"Oliver has no legal obligation to inform you of that," Moira replied stiffly. "Now, until Miss Lance arrives, this interrogation is over, Detective."

Lance glared at Oliver one last time before storming out, his voice thunderous as he called back, "You have fifteen minutes."

The door slammed shut, leaving Oliver alone with his mother and step-father. He attempted to relax but found he was only more tensed, his hands curled into fists and shoulders taut with anxious energy. He could feel a PTSD attack coming on, the panic overwhelming and beginning to gather at the fringes of his mind and thoughts.

"Where's Hunter?" He asked immediately.

"Outside with Thea and Tommy," Walter responded. "He's very upset. As soon as the detective dragged you out of the mansion, he's been frantic. Hopefully, you'll be reunited with him soon; Laurel was livid when we told her that her father wasn't allowing Hunter to accompany you. Mr Diggle is driving her here, she should be ten minutes or so."

Oliver flexed his fingers, muttering, "Good. I need Hunter. Do you think she could convince them to take the handcuffs off as well?"

Moira and Walter exchanged worried glances. "Do you think you're going to have an episode, sweetheart?" his mother questioned gently.

"It's startling to dredge up certain memories I'd rather forget," the archer admitted. "I really need Hunter here."

Walter pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table from Oliver, offering it to his wife. Moira slid into the seat with all the regal grace she usually presented, but she reached out to hesitantly clasp at her son's hands to offer some silent support.

"Detective Lance appears to be on some personal vendetta," Walter mused.

Oliver shrugged. "He is. He blames me for the death of his daughter." A sombre beat passed, the reminder of the events of the Queen's Gambit's sinking looming above the three of them. Leaning back, the archer added, making his tone sound disbelieving, "He also thinks that I dress up in a green hood and shoot people."

"Hopefully Laurel will be able to get him off this vendetta," Moira sighed.

Oliver nodded. "He raised her to do the right thing. She knows how ludicrous these charges are, she should be able to convince him dropping them will result in the best course of action. Detective Lance may hate our family, but he doesn't deserve to have his reputation tarnished - which is what will happen when I get acquitted here."

"When?" Walter repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"I know I'm not some nut job archer shooting up our family friends and business partners," Oliver lied. "You two know that as well. I can barely sign my name using a pen, let alone aim a bow and arrow."

An unexpected knock on the door caused Oliver to jerk in his bonds again and groan quietly at the pain. Moira made a sympathetic noise and tried to gently prise his fingers out of his clenched fists, rubbing soothing circles in his palms as Walter went to get the door. Laurel rushed in as soon as it swung open, instantly walking up to the table with an expression of immense concern.

"Hey, are you alright?" she questioned. "Thea just filled me in on all the things Mrs Queen and Mr Steele couldn't say over the phone."

"I'm fine," he replied quietly. "Getting more and more agitated by the minute, but fine."

"I spoke to the captain about letting Hunter in here," she said, troubled. "But he said he'll only allow him in if a valid copy of your licence and the most recent medical report is provided to the SCPD as proof."

"That's preposterous," Moira shook her head furiously.

"Look, I could go down the legal route to get Hunter in here without needing to provide evidence of any kind, but that could take days. It's awful, but I think we need to comply with the captain's demands."

Oliver gnawed on his lip with his brow furrowed pensively. "Who would get to see my medical report?"

"The captain, the DA, me, the arresting officer -"

"No," he instantly responded. "We can't hand that in then."

"Why not?" Walter asked.

"My father is the arresting officer," Laurel sighed. "He'd have access to the report."

"And lord it above me and blackmail me with it for the rest of time," Oliver said. "No. I won't have your dad seeing it, Laurel."

"I could make a request to the captain asking for my dad to be denied access, considering he's personally involved with you," Laurel suggested. "Everybody at the precinct knows my dad hates your guts, Oliver. He doesn't exactly keep his dislike of you under wraps. He'd probably consider it."

He swallowed. "It would get Hunter in here?"

Moira looked unhappy. "Oliver -"

"Mom, I really need Hunter," he said, and it was a triumph that his voice just wobbled and didn't break at all. "I'm not going to make it through this without him."

Laurel headed for the door. "I'll go speak with him now."

She exited the room, and Walter and Moira just stared at Oliver, resulting in a resounding silence falling over them. The archer hated the way they were gazing at him in pity and worry, but he knew it would work in his favour in this particular instance. As much as he despised his panic attacks and the feelings of helplessness and extreme fear they brought, having one in the police precinct with officers as witnesses could result in a smoother ride throughout this trial and acquittance process.

As uncomfortable as it was, the archer laid his head down on the table and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the freezing hard surface his forehead was set on to draw away from the memories of cages and prisons and pain. His mother's hand came to rest lightly on one of his shoulders, grounding him in the present.

Laurel returned five minutes later with the police captain following her. She told them how she'd handed over the medical report and licence copy under the conditions that Detective Lance does not have access to them, and once the captain had skimmed over them, he understood their insistence on the service dog matter. Hunter wouldn't be allowed in the interrogation room itself due to regulations in the precinct, but the captain offered to move Oliver to his office instead so he could keep Hunter at his side. Both Moira and Walter thanked the man, albeit reluctantly, and the archer had his handcuffs taken off for the transfer to the office so he was able to shake the captain's hand, offering a more appreciative thank you.

As Oliver was having his handcuffs unlocked, yelling could be heard in the main bullpen area. The voice was very distinctive and Laurel ran a hand through her hair with an annoyed huff. Detective Lance had obviously heard about the changes concerning the Queen heir, and he was not particularly pleased. Excusing herself, Laurel left, most likely to try and calm her father down to stop him from trashing the precinct and end up getting arrested himself.

Lance and Laurel's argument could be very clearly heard as Oliver was escorted out of the interrogation room into the bull pen.

"You're defending the man that killed your sister!"

"Oliver did not kill Sara!"

"If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have been on that boat."

"Sara made her own choices, Dad! Oliver didn't kidnap her; she chose to get on the Queen's Gambit."

"Yeah, because he offered! Now she's dead and he's alive! It isn't fair, Laurel!"

"Have you considered the possibility that that's the reason you're trying to make him out to be this... this menace?"

"No. It's the video tape, it's the suspicious timing - that is the reason!"

"This is Oliver Queen we're talking about! He wrecks fancy cars and he dates models. He doesn't kill people!"

"No, he just uses them, like he used Sara and like he used you. And he's only asked you to be his lawyer to get at me!"

"Dad, he didn't ask me to be his lawyer. I offered to be his lawyer because you denied him access to his service dog. And frankly, I'm glad he's my client, because it means I can get through to you! You hate the Hood and you hate Oliver, and you want more than anything for them to be the same person. But Oliver isn't the reason why Sara died."

Her voice suddenly lowered so that the archer couldn't hear her last sentence, but it obviously ignited some anger in Lance, because he spat back at her, "I don't have to listen to this. And I don't have put up with everybody in this damn precinct tiptoeing around the Queens - that kid is guilty, and he is a killer! Fucked up in the head or not, Laurel - or maybe that's WHY he's a killer in the first place! The mentally insane are the most common types of people to turn into murderers, isn't that right?"

"I'm not insane," Oliver said quietly, and a tense hush settled over the bullpen. Laurel shot him an apologetic look but Lance just glowered at him with sheer hatred.

"Could have fooled me," the detective snarled.

"That's enough," Kate Spencer, the DA, ordered firmly. Suitably chastised, Lance backed off, retreating to his desk to grumble and seethe silently. "Miss Lance, I'll give you and your client fifteen minutes or so to get settled in the captain's office and have your client reunited with his service animal."

"Glorified pet, most likely," Lance muttered under his breath, causing the DA to turn and glare at him.

"After that, Detective Lance and I will be joining you to discuss charges and the bail hearing. Is that reasonable to you?"

"Yes, thank you," Laurel replied. "Mr Steele, do you want to go and tell Thea and Tommy they can bring Hunter in? I think Oliver's been separated from him long enough."

The captain used a hand on the archer's shoulder to urge him to take a seat at one of the desks. Oliver shrunk into himself defensively, eyes darting suspiciously around the room as he spotted several officers with their hands resting on their guns in their holsters, watching him warily. It seemed Lance wasn't the only person who thought that Oliver was the Vigilante, although the archer had to admit, with all the coincidences that the police had picked up on, even he would have probably thought he was guilty - not to mention that he actually was.

Frenzied barking snapped the archer out of his thoughts, and he edged forwards to the end of his seat. Hunter always liked to make his presence well-known in new, inhospitable places such as this one; his service dog would establish himself as the alpha of the precinct quite quickly, and he had the feeling that if Lance came anywhere nearby him, Hunter wouldn't be afraid to bare his canines and start biting to defend his master.

The Husky mix appeared in the doorway of the precinct, desperately yanking at the leash attached to his collar. Both Thea and Tommy were straining to hold him at bay, his little sister struggling with the leash whilst Tommy kept losing his grip on the service dog's collar as Hunter expertly twisted his way to the fringes of freedom. Upon seeing Oliver, Hunter's blue eyes zeroed in on him like two tiny lasers, and the dog immediately became more frantic, pulling harshly on the leash and whining.

"Sorry guys," Thea called, sounding out of breath and rather tired. "Gotta let him go, he's going nuts."

Both she and Tommy released Hunter at the same time and the service dog streaked through the bull pen, rushing up to his master. Jumping up onto Oliver's lap and resting his forepaws on his knees, Hunter smothered him in kisses, licking at his face urgently with small huffs and whimpers escaping his throat. His entire body was shaking with the force of his tail wagging back and forth excitedly.

Oliver buried his hands and face into Hunter's scruff, exhaling in relief. His fingers swept through the dog's fur, mapping out all the different patches of tan and chocolate and cream, and second by second, all of his tension and worries drained out of him. "Hey, bud," he murmured. "I missed you too."

Hunter's ears swivelled back and forth as he pulled back from licking at the archer's neck and chin to gaze cautiously around the precinct, lips pulling back to bare his teeth when he saw how surrounded by people and confined they were. The service dog knew that Oliver hated those sort of conditions so began growling to get people to back away. Luckily, Walter and Tommy both understood what the husky mix was doing and asked a few of the officers to take several steps back and give them some space.

"So this is the service dog," Lance said sarcastically, approaching from the side. "Where's his vest, huh? Or is he too glamorous an animal to - uh, what?"

Oliver was stunned. Because Hunter hadn't snapped or snarled at Lance like he'd expected - instead, the service dog had bowled him over and was scraping his rough tongue across the detective's face, the dog equivalent of a smirk on his face. A laugh burst from his chest and he clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the rest of his chuckles. Hunter was doing what he did best - charming people who didn't like him into loving him. He'd done exactly the same thing with Moira, and now he was doing it to Lance. Everybody else in the precinct was staring in shock, some people alarmed whilst others were amused and laughing as well. Laurel and Tommy were exchanging knowing looks, Walter and Moira as well, whilst Thea waltzed over to her older brother to lean on his shoulder, winking at him.

"Get off me!" Lance yelled.

Hunter slumped down onto the detective so that his body was covering the human's, head resting on his chest. He continued to smirk, ears twitching as his tail thumped against Lance's leg.

"Queen!" Lance shouted. "Get your mutt off me!"

"Sorry, no can do," Oliver laughed. "I think Hunter likes you, Detective."

"I'm allergic to dogs!"

"He's hypoallergenic," Tommy said.

"GET THIS MUTT OFF ME!"

Nobody moved. It was probably just too funny for them to want to end this hilarious scene. Even the captain and DA looked entertained.

"He wants to make friends with you," Oliver said. "Just stroke him a little and he'll be content. He'll get off you himself."

Lance continued to yell angrily about getting Hunter off him for half a minute more before he finally decided that wasn't going to work, and he took Oliver's advice. He reluctantly began petting the service dog, stroking down his back and between his ears with unpractised, awkward hands. After about a minute of this, Hunter gave him one last lick to the face before clambering off him, satisfied.

"Stupid dog," Lance groused, standing and brushing himself off with a scowl.

"I think he's sweet," Laurel replied, smiling when Hunter wandered over to her and Tommy to say hello properly, nuzzling at her palms.

He looked unhappy admitting it, but the detective eventually crossed his arms over his chest and confessed through gritted teeth, "Okay, fine. He's... not that bad." He was watching Hunter in a certain way that Oliver recognised, which made the archer smile. Lance liked Hunter, but didn't like liking him, so was trying to hide it behind a wall of indifference.

"Come on, Oliver, let's head into the office and start prepping for your bail hearing," Laurel suggested.

"Considering your circumstances, I'm going to ask for that to be moved up to later today or tomorrow morning," Kate Spencer slotted in. For somebody who was trying to convict him of being a murderer, she seemed to be acting awfully nice towards Oliver. "As soon as possible, really."

"Thank you," he replied sincerely. He kissed Thea and his mother on their cheeks and shook Tommy and Walter's hands to say goodbye, murmuring to them reassuringly that he would be fine and he'd seen them again soon. "Hunter, come on."

The service dog shook himself before padding after Oliver into the captain's office, tongue lolling out of his mouth and ears pricking. As he passed Lance, he nudged the detective's hand fondly. Lance yanked his hand away to his chest and glared at the dog, but it was half-hearted.

Yeah, Hunter was already winning over Detective Lance.

Perhaps by the time this whole situation was over, the service dog would help Oliver and the detective reach a mutual understanding and respect.

Their meeting with the DA went quickly, Spencer explaining the long list of charges, but with every minute she spent across the table from Oliver, she seemed to believe that he was the Vigilante less and less. Maybe it was the fact that Hunter sat with his head resting in the archer's lap the entire time, crooning softly to comfort him. Hunter had this magical effect of turning most people to mush around him, and Spencer seemed no different. By the time the bail hearing was called in the late afternoon, she was even asking Oliver hesitantly if she could stroke Hunter.

The cameras flashed like crazy during the hearing, the media desperate to get photos of Oliver with his service dog. That, paired with all the reporters screaming and pressing in on Oliver, was enough to almost drive him into a mental breakdown. He must have looked like a mess with his service dog whimpering and sitting in his lap during the actual hearing, because the judge wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, gazing down at the archer with sympathetic, kind eyes. Laurel was absolutely brilliant and managed to convince them to let Oliver out on bail under the agreement he would stay confined to the mansion and wear a UKG45 tracking device. It wasn't exactly what Oliver had been hoping for, but it was better than sitting in Iron Heights waiting for his proper trial.

"Mom. It's not that bad," he tried to reassure Moira, as she watched on with a miserable expression whilst Oliver had the tracking device fitted.

Hunter was lying on the couch beside him, and considering his mother wasn't having a go at the service dog for sitting there, she must have been very distracted by her worry. He sniffed at the ankle device suspiciously but calmed down when Oliver stroked over his head.

The officer doing the fitting pulled back, finished. "Okay, this device has a direct line into the precinct. Stay on the property, you're golden. Any questions?"

He nodded, leaning forwards. "Yes. I'm having a sizable get together here tomorrow evening, and there is a better than likely chance it spills into the outdoor pool."

The officer didn't seem to notice everybody else's disbelieving, astounded looks, answering with a shrug, "Pool, that's fine. Step on the grass, they're sending a SWAT team to forcibly subdue you."

Oliver tilted his head. "Thank you, officer."

"Of course." The man made his exit, giving Hunter a brief pat on the side as he left.

"A 'sizable get together'?" Moira repeated, appalled.

"I'm confined to this house for the foreseeable future. I might as well make the most of it." He shrugged. "And this party is going to be themed. I'm thinking... prison, uh, Burning Man meets Shawshank Redemption. The invite says, 'come before Oliver Queen gets off.'"

Tommy shook his head, aghast as he sat down beside his best friend on the couch, pushing Hunter sideways slightly up onto Oliver's lap to make space for himself. "Oliver, you hate big parties. Hunter hates big parties. What's going on? Why do you want to do this really?"

The archer ran a hand through his hair. Tommy was speaking the truth - he really did despite large parties. The constant loud noise, flocks of people and general atmosphere of them made him want to vomit. "It's not for me. I want people to know that I'm not worried about any of this."

"Well, that makes one of us," Thea muttered, shaking her head and walking off.

Oliver watched her go with an ache in his chest. "She's upset with me."

"She's just worried," Walter said. "We all are."

"You could barely cope in the precinct, sweetheart, you really think you'll be able to cope with a party?" Moira asked concernedly.

"I think I'll have Laurel, Tommy, Thea, Diggle and Hunter with me, and I'll be fine."

"I think you're pretending to be fine right now and you're actually not," Laurel raised an eyebrow.

"I'm calm," Oliver insisted.

"Only because you have Hunter with you and there aren't many people around," Laurel said. "But I think you're going to go stir-crazy stuck in this house when you're unable to go out on runs or long walks. Why cause yourself more pain with this party?"

Frustration pitting at the bottom of his stomach, he stood and began to pace, wringing his hands. Hunter sat up but only watched him with his ears pressed back to his skull and a low whine, knowing that this was nervous energy he needed to work off himself. "Because the public needs to know that I'm not concerned about being accused of vigilantism. I'm innocent. If I hide away until my hearing and nobody hears a peep from me - look, the guilty ones are always reclusive, okay? I'm reclusive and introversive by nature, but they don't know that. Even if I throw the party and hide away in my room with Hunter the entire night, it'll help my image of innocence a lot more than doing nothing."

"I hate to say this, but he does have a point," Laurel sighed.

The archer motioned to her. "See?"

Moira looked annoyed but defeated. "Do whatever you want, Oliver. But if this backfires, I want it noted that we all protested against this."

"Thanks, Mom," he smiled.

He had a quick discussion with Diggle that evening about Hood plans, asking the bodyguard to handle a German gun dealer that had arrived in Starling City to flood the Glades with semi-automatics. He didn't want the streets of his city transformed into a blood bath whilst he was under house arrest if he could help it, and whilst Diggle seemed reluctant to help at first, he finally agreed.

The next morning, Tommy and Thea were put on party prep during whilst Oliver headed to the precinct with Hunter and Laurel for a meeting with the DA and Detective Lance. Apparently, Spencer had contacted Laurel late last night about offering some potential deals, which seeing as Laurel was ecstatic about, the archer reckoned was a good turn of events.

They'd set up in the police captain's office again, Lance glaring at the floor and kicking his feet back and forth like a sulking child, whilst Spencer was the mother who'd told him off, sitting with a fake smile stretching her lips.

Hunter bounded into the room, immediately approaching Lance, much to Oliver's amusement. The detective stiffened up and sat up a little bit straighter, narrowing his eyes at the service dog. After a brief tense moment, he pulled a small baggie out of his pocket and to the archer's shock and absolute delight, began palming Hunter baby carrots to try and stop him from jumping up onto him.

"Thank you for coming," Spencer greeted them both as Oliver and Laurel took their chairs.

As Oliver slipped into his seat, Hunter padded away from the detective and skunk under the table, settling at the archer's feet. He nuzzled Oliver's knees, which prompted him to stoop down to gently stroke the husky mix's ears for a moment. He managed to hide his grin as Lance hurriedly fed the service dog another baby carrot when Hunter poked his nose into the detective's shoes curiously.

"No, thank you," Oliver smiled. "It's nice to get out of the house. I think Hunter appreciates it more than me, though, he didn't get his run this morning."

"I'll cut right to it," Spencer said, turning to Laurel with an irritated sigh. "Detective Lance arrested your client without consulting my office first. So congratulations. I am willing to consider a plea in this case."

"Absolutely not," Oliver responded immediately.

The DA ignored him, continuing to speak to Laurel. "Mr Queen spent five years in seclusion on a deserted island, cut off from civilisation. As it says in his medical file, he's suffering from post traumatic stress, anxiety and depression. Given that, we would support a plea of insanity. Conditional on a period of indeterminate incarceration at a psychiatric facility."

Laurel pursed her lips and glanced sideways at Oliver, who was staring at Spencer, quite insulted. "No, thank you. Just because I'm mentally ill and have a service dog doesn't mean I'm crazy."

"Finally something we agree on," Lance snapped, tapping his fingers along the table top angrily. "He's not a nut, he's a killing machine."

"Actually, I'm neither."

"There is nothing you can say to me that I would believe," the detective growled. Hunter nipped his fingers in reprimand under the desk. Lance yelled and yanked his hands out, glowering. "Keep your mutt under control, Queen."

"Keep your tone civil, Detective," Spencer replied, shooting him a stern look.

Oliver sighed. Obviously, it was going to take more work to convince Lance than they'd expected - Laurel hadn't managed to get through to him yet, and it would take another day or so before Hunter's charm took effect. "I'll take a polygraph."

Laurel leant over the table towards him, her voice low as she said, "Uh, polygraphs are inadmissible -"

"In front of the jury," Oliver finished. He nodded his head towards Lance. "I'll take a polygraph in front of him. He's the one I need to convince."

Laurel stared at him for a moment, before glancing over at Spencer and her father. "I'm going to need a minute," she said apologetically.

Rolling his eyes, Lance left as if he had sharks snapping at his heels, Spencer following at a more casual pace behind him. As soon as they were alone, Laurel dropped into a chair in front of Oliver, bracing her elbows on the table.

"You're looking at life in prison, Oliver," she sighed. "What Spencer just offered you is a gift."

"Laurel, I'm not crazy," he insisted.

"I know that."

"Really? Because if I accepted that deal, then I'd be labelled as insane for the rest of my life. I'm not insane, Laurel! I'm mentally ill, but I'm not crazy. I'm not accepting that deal!"

"Fine!" She threw up her arms. "What about this whole polygraph idea?"

"I kind of want to take the polygraph," he admitted.

"Polygraphs rely on a measure of stress to determine truth," Laurel explained, frustrated. "You have anxiety and PTSD - you get stressed when a door shuts, Oliver. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you will fail this - not because you're lying, but because of medical reasons. This isn't going to help your case at all."

"I have Hunter." The archer gently nudged the service dog's side with his foot, and Hunter raised his head from his paws and huffed, tail thumping against Laurel's leg as if to remind her he was there.

"So my stress levels are under control at the moment. Look, Laurel... If I take it and I fail, then..." He grimaced. "I will consider making a deal."

Laurel worried her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment, brow furrowed with thought. "Fine. I'll set up the poly," she eventually agreed. "And I will tell Spencer that we're not pleading out, but Oliver," she paused, waiting until he looked her directly in the eyes, despite how uncomfortable it made him. "You have a family. Friends. People who actually care about you. So don't, for one second, think you're the only person with something to lose here." She exhaled slowly, standing and wearily rubbing his shoulder with one hand. "I'll be right back."

She made her exit, and Oliver was left alone in the office. Inhaling with a shudder, he pushed himself off the chair and slid onto the floor, crossing his legs and beckoning his service dog to him. Hunter crawled over with a whine, nuzzling his head into the archer's hands and licking daintily at his fingers.

"What have I got myself into here, buddy?" He murmured, forcing out a weak laugh. "I'm beginning to think any control I have over this situation is just a figment of imagination to help me cope better." He scratched under Hunter's chin, smiling fondly. "At least I have you. You're the one thing in life I can rely on."

The door opened, but this time Oliver didn't startle, simply looking up with a frown. Lance stared down at the archer and his service dog, looking incredibly uncomfortable at having caught them in his position.

"Laurel's gone to ask the technician for the poly," he said roughly.

"Great," Oliver nodded, turning his attention back to Hunter.

"They wouldn't let me see your medical file, ya know." The detective leant against the wall, arms crossed. Oliver expected him to be shooting a scornful look at the archer, but instead, he was gazing at Hunter on Oliver's lap with mild interest. "Certainly wouldn't let me know why you have him."

"I asked them not to let you see my file," Oliver confessed quietly with a shrug. "Thought you might use the information in it to blackmail me."

"What, the information that valuable?" Lance replied with a scoff.

"It is to me," Oliver responded. "Considering it's about my mental health, it is to me." He heaved a sigh. "People think that mental illness equals insanity. It's nothing like that. It's people treating the mentally ill like that that results in insanity."

Lance looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else but in this room with the argued and his service dog. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about and frankly I don't care."

Shrugging, Oliver muttered, "Didn't expect you to. You'd only be interested in me if I'd done something you could arrest me for, behind bars or dead."

Lance straightened up with an enraged expression, but before he could shout in reply, Laurel and the SPCD technician returned, carrying a larger machine between them. Oliver hurriedly stood and swept to the back of the room, Hunter at his heels, to give them enough space to set it up on the table.

The technician motioned the archer over after five minutes or so or twiddling the buttons, and attached the blood pressure cuff and pulse monitor clip to Oliver's arm and index finger.

"Is your name Oliver Queen?" Lance questioned.

He quirked an eyebrow. "You don't know who I am, Detective?"

"The questions are to calibrate the polygraph," Lance rolled his eyes. "Is your name Oliver Queen?"

"Yes."

"Were you born in Starling City, May 16th, 1985?"

"Yes."

"Is your hair blue?"

"No."

"Have you ever been to Iron Heights prison?"

Onto the important questions then. Oliver calmed himself, forcing himself to keep breathing normally whilst regulating his heartbeat. He had to stay calm. He focused on Hunter's warm body pressing into his legs as he answered firmly, "No."

Lance glanced over at the technician with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. The technician turned to him and gave a firm nod - Oliver was telling the truth. Anger brimming below the surface of his skin, Lance licked his lips and switched his gaze back to the archer, raising the police sketch of the Hood into the air. "Are you the man in this picture?"

Those precise words immediately caused Oliver to flash back to his interrogation with Fyers, Wintergreen's sword glinting in his vision, and he tensed up. Hunter, sensing something was wrong, lifted his head from under the table worriedly, but stayed silent.

"No," Oliver replied stoically.

"You steal 40 million dollars off Adam Hunt?"

"No, I didn't."

"Were you marooned on an island called Lian Yu for five years?"

"Yes," he whispered, averting his eyes at the same time Laurel demanded, "How is that even relevant?"

"I don't need to show relevance, but since you asked, whatever happened to your client on that island turned him into a cold blooded killer."

A soft, distressed noise escaped Oliver's throat without warning. He hasn't signed up to be interrogated about the island. Laurel glanced over at him when Hunter whined worriedly, rising to his paws to nose at his hands.

"Oliver?" Laurel questioned, concern clear in her tone.

He clenched his hands in Hunter's fur, grounding himself. "I'm fine."

Lance pushed on. "The physician that examined you reported that 20% of your body is covered in scar tissue."

That horrific memory of Wintergreen's blade slicing into his skin flashed through his thoughts and the onslaught of mental pain caused the archer to jerk in his seat, unseeing eyes fixated dazedly on the counter.

Laurel was still watching his reactions carefully. "The machine won't work unless you ask a question," she said.

"Did that happen to you there?" Lance ended his statement, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Oliver gulped and laced his trembling hands together. "Yes."

Lance nodded. "When you came back, you told everyone that you were alone on that island. Are you claiming that your scars were... self-inflicted?"

Oliver's breath hitched, and Hunter whimpered, this time slinking out from under the table to stand by the archer's side, one of his paws resting on the edge of the chair. He forced himself to look Lance in the eyes, and the detective looked surprised by what he saw there - Oliver wasn't trying to hide his fear and pain like he usually did during PTSD episodes "No. I wasn't alone. I didn't want to talk about what happened to me on the island."

"Why not?" Lance asked.

"Because the people that were there tortured me."

The room suddenly felt frigid. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Laurel was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes and even Lance seemed stunned by his admittance. Oliver didn't come into this polygraph session expecting to be questioned about the island, but the detective's vendetta against him had resulted in it turning into that.

Lance nodded, and questioned, "Have you killed anyone?"

A long silence. One of Oliver's hands was shaking and he was clenching his jaw, anger and agony set into his face. He swallowed and glanced down at Hunter. The service dog's doleful blue eyes gazed back up at him, innocent and unblinking. Was there any point in lying? He'd killed in self-defence before. But they didn't need to know that - Lance especially didn't need to. Finally, Oliver answered, his voice raspy with guilt and devastation, "Yes. When I asked your daughter Sara to come on my father's yacht with me." He knew that tears were brimming in his eyes at that point. Hunter fully jumped up onto the chair, nuzzling to try and comfort him. "I killed your daughter."

Lance appeared stunned for a moment. He probably hadn't been expecting that Oliver had accepted the fact that he had killed Sara. But the archer had - and he felt an immense, crushing guilt about it every day. Laurel was hunched, looking as if she was about to cry about the subject matter and also as if she was deeply appalled and furious with her father for even bringing it up.

Oliver couldn't stand the heat and tension of the room anymore, even with Hunter supporting him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and stood suddenly, shoving the chair back under the table, grabbing his coat and storming out, feeling broken and fractured internally. Hunter rushed out after him, whining and latching his teeth into Oliver's pant-leg to try and slow him down so that Laurel could catch up with them, but it didn't work.

The polygraph results would say that he had been telling the truth on every single question. Which technically proved on a piece of paper that Oliver wasn't the vigilante - but also was written proof that he had endured a hell of a lot on the island. That was evidence that his psychiatrist at the hospital and family would kill for.

He strode through the bullpen with his hand on his aching chest and what felt like a million pairs of eyes knifing into his back, as all the officers were staring at him as if he was some sort of zoo specimen. Oliver didn't realise that he was struggling to breathe, the panic and agitation brought on by the interrogation triggered flashbacks, until his legs suddenly felt too weak to hold him.

He collapsed to his knees, shaking like a leaf and making small pained, distressed noises. He saw his reflection in the glass SCPD plaque in the hallway; he was as pale as a sheet and his face just looked wrong. Everything was so overwhelming - every noise felt like an explosion in his ears, the sharp lights blinding him. His head was pounding. The archer closed his eyes and whimpered, his fingers twitching. He just wanted the pain to be over.

Then Hunter was there. Warm and grounding and quiet, his head buried into Oliver's neck and body plastered over his to protect him, but also to keep him in the present. The archer grabbed handfuls of the service dog's soft pelt as if he was his lifeline, eyes screwed shut tight as he desperately willed away the terrible memories of torture and agony and death. He felt like he was on the island, although logic told him he wasn't. Mentally, he was stuck with Fyers and Wintergreen in that tent being tortured, even if he physically wasn't.

His name was shouted anxiously, "Oliver?!", making him flinch, the voice creating vibrations through the floorboards which hit him like tiny sledgehammers in the chest, his sensitivity off the charts.

The archer felt a presence looming over him and flinched away, preparing himself for harmful touch, but it didn't come, because another voice, familiar yet low and stern, ordered, "No, stay back, Laurel. He's having a PTSD episode, he could lash out and hurt you."

"You can't possibly think he's dangerous! Dad, he needs help!"

"He's got that service dog of his helping him. Just let the dog do his thing, okay. If you try and touch him, you could make it worse."

Oliver very gradually opened his eyes, wincing at the painful light. He was curled up in the tight space between a desk and the wall, Hunter lying on top of him and licking his face desperately. Lance was crouched a few feet away, staring at him anxiously, with Laurel standing behind him, biting her nails.

"Queen," Lance said, "I'm not sure where you're at, in your head at the moment, but you're not on that Island. You're in Starling, and you're safe. Laurel's here just behind me, and nobody's gonna hurt you."

Lance took another step closer and Oliver reacted as quick as a flash, leaping up so he was crouching, rocking back onto his heels, one arm bracing himself against the wall whilst the other wrapped around Hunter's neck. He mashed his face into the service dog's soft fur with a low, tortured sound. No, he couldn't have them coming any closer. He could instinctively lash out and hurt them, and he really didn't want that.

"Queen. Queen. Oliver." On hearing his first name, he reacted, slightly lifting his head. "Hey. Come on, kid. Come back to us. Come on. You're safe. You're safe."

But was he? He didn't feel safe. Hunter was the only safe one here, the only real one he could trust. The detective had been interrogating him about the island and now he was on the island but not on it at the same time, and everything was so confusing and scary and painful. His narrowed, feral eyes darted about in terror and fear, trying to determine his definite location because he couldn't be on the island and in Starling at the same time. Oliver made a small agonised noise like a kicked puppy, but his whole posture was a predatorial crouch, muscles tensed, prepared to attack at any moment if any threat was presented.

At the back of his mind, he could see endless dark forest, dull beaches and soldiers lurking in the black, but he could smell coffee, doughnuts, aftershave and Hunter's dog shampoo. That didn't match up at all. He inhaled deeply with his nose buried in the service dog's scruff to get a stronger whiff of that shampoo scent. There was a wetness on his neck from Hunter licking him steadily, and he was never on the island, so logically he couldn't be on Lian Yu anymore.

"You're safe, you're safe, Oliver. It's okay, we're in Starling City, it's not the Island, we're safe. Come back to us, kid. You're fine, we're safe."

And finally, Oliver blinked and fully looked at the detective. He wasn't on the island. He was home in Starling. Hunter was lying on top of him and Lance and Laurel were crouched a few feet away. They were in the police precinct, with officers and detectives whispering quietly and watching them with concern. The wildness and panic swimming in Oliver's mind faded to be replaced by nervousness and shock and suspicion. His gaze flickered upwards to assess every possible danger and threat.

"Mr Lance?" He asked, guarded and quiet, his eyes narrowed. "What-"

"Oh, thank god," Laurel sighed in relief, pushing her father aside to scoot up to the archer on the floor. She gently set her hand on Oliver's arm and he flinched at first, but after following the limb with his eyes up to Laurel's face, he relaxed. "Are you okay? Are you back?"

"Yeah," he croaked. "I'm back."

"Good. Where are you?"

"I'm in the precinct with you and your dad and Hunter. This isn't the island."

"Thank god," Laurel repeated again, although much softer this time.

A sudden tiredness swamped the archer's body, the adrenaline from the panic attack leaching away to leave him boneless and weak. The tense, predator position vanished as he fell back and slumped in exhaustion against the wall.

Hunter managed to dart forwards to stop him from hitting his head on the floor just in time, slinking underneath Oliver's body and rolling onto his back so that the archer's head was cushioned on his stomach. He whimpered and nipped at his fingers worriedly as Lance ignored the small flinches Oliver gave whilst helping him to his feet. The detective had an expression on his face that was unreadable, but the archer could tell by his body language that he felt guilty about triggering this PTSD episode by bringing up the island.

"We're gonna get some tea into you, huh?" Lance said, motioning Laurel to come forwards to support Oliver's other side. "And then I'll call your bodyguard to come pick you up."

Oliver wouldn't meet his eyes, ashamed that they'd just witnessed a full mental breakdown - that the entire precinct had just witnessed him breaking into pieces. He just nodded silently and allowed the two Lances to pull him back into the captain's office, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the police force. Everybody else in the station was staring and shooting curious looks, but Laurel fended them off with a vicious glower that sent them scurrying for cover. They sat him down in a chair carefully, pulling up another one just beside it so Hunter could jump up onto it and lie half on Oliver's lap and half on the chair, as to better ground and comfort him. The archer lowered his head so it was resting on top of Hunter's to hide the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He hated other people seeing him so vulnerable, and the fact that one of those people was Lance was just making it all the more unbearable.

Laurel wrapped a blanket around him and gave him steaming sweet tea and chocolate digestive biscuits. Staring down at the hot drink, Oliver wondered very briefly if it could possibly be poisoned. He refused to even touch the biscuits - a rush of sugar in his system after such a large adrenalin spike could cause more harm than good. A lump formed in the archer's throat as he noticed that Lance was staring at him.

"Sweetheart, why don't you go and get you and I some coffee?" He suggested to Laurel, shooting her a pointed look as he did so.

Laurel's face softened in understanding and she nodded. "Of course." She squeezed Oliver's shoulder with one hand as she passed, and looked relieved when he didn't flinch.

Oliver's eyes snapped upwards from his tea and he watched Laurel with an unreadable expression on his face as she left the room. He wasn't sure whether or not he was happy to see her leave, as there would be fewer people and therefore fewer threats in the room, or ready to leap up and race after her, afraid of being left alone with Lance, even with Hunter at his side.

After a few seconds, Oliver's eye line dropped again to his tea and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Hunter whined and nibbled at his thumbs, pressing his cold nose into the archer's stomach every so often to provide a soothing anchor to the present. There was no doubt in Oliver's mind that the detective would want to discuss what just happened, but he really wasn't in the correct mental state to do that.

"So," Lance said, sitting down in front of Oliver and raising an eyebrow. "You wanna talk about it?"

"No thank you," Oliver replied flatly, refusing to look into the other man's eyes.

"I think you probably should."

Oliver eyed him cautiously. "Why should I talk to you? You're trying to get me arrested and put in prison."

"Because, I'm the one that triggered your panic attack, and as much as I hate you, I regret that. Talking about it'll help, and to be honest, I don't think you'd really wanna talk about it to your family or Laurel."

Oliver blinked at him. Then he looked down again. "Well, you're right in that aspect," he muttered, kicking the legs of his chair. He finally took a gulp of tea and was satisfied to find that it wasn't poisoned. "You don't need to be worried, Mr Lance. I decided I didn't want to put the insanity plea forwards in court."

"I'm not worried about the court," Lance scowled. He scooted forwards in his chair, ignoring the way Oliver stiffened. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm worried about you. God help me. You hardly talk to anybody about what happened to you on that Island. Keeping it bottled up isn't gonna help you deal with it."

Oliver chuckled darkly. "Now you sound like a psychiatrist. I don't need a psychiatrist, Detective. I have Hunter instead of that."

"You really think some mutt is gonna help you more than a professionally trained psychiatrist?"

Recognising that they were discussing him, the husky mix lifted his head from Oliver's lap and tilted it sideways towards Lance with a huff, ears twitching. The detective quickly pulled out the bag of baby carrots from his pocket and fed the dog one so he wouldn't try and start paying attention to Lance.

"Hunter's a trained PTSD therapy service dog," Oliver responded, his voice firm. "And he helps me far more than some random stranger who would listen to me babble and prescribe useless pills for an obscene amount of money."

"Fine then," Lance said, irritated now. "I'll call your mom and tell her exactly what you said in that polygraph test. I bet she would love to know you were tortured."

Oliver's head slowly raised up and he plastered a look on his face that was enough to make any man nervous. "Stay away from my mother," Oliver said quietly, but he was utterly terrifying as he did so.

"What, would you prefer for me to tell your sister?"

That definitely pressed the wrong button. Fury swept over him and he leant forwards in his seat warningly. "Don't you dare tell Thea!" Oliver growled threateningly, eyes flashing in anger.

Annoyed, Lance rolled his eyes. "Calm down, kid. I'm the good guy here. I'm trying to help."

"Yeah, well it doesn't feel like it," Oliver muttered, glaring.

"If you're not gonna let me help you, then I suppose I'll just tell your family you need proper psychiatrist appointments and that service dog isn't working for you."

"Hunter helps me far more than anybody could possibly understand!" the archer argued.

"So having him taken away wouldn't be productive to your mental health, right?" Lance cocked an eyebrow, his tone sarcastic. "So you probably wouldn't want me to tell your family about this little attack of yours that your service dog wasn't able to prevent."

"You caused it!" Oliver said furiously. "The attack would have been a lot longer if Hunter hadn't been there."

"You're gonna have to talk, then, because I'm not gonna promise to not tell your family about this until you give me some sort of explanation for what just happened."

"That's blackmail."

"I'm a police detective, any charges you'd try to press on me for it would never stick."

Oliver was truly annoyed now, and finally, he gave in and snapped. "Fine. Do you want to know what happened on the island that fucked me up in the head so much that I need a service dog? I almost drowned. I was tortured too many times to count. I had to fight to survive. You think that island didn't change me? Well, news flash: it did. And it didn't turn me into some bow-wielding nut job in fancy green leather pants." He glowered at his tea. "I'm terrified of large bodies of water. I can't sleep because whenever I close my eyes, I see a knife, or a gun, or a sword cutting through my chest. I don't go out without thinking that somebody out there could possibly try to kill me." He glared at Lance. "I had a panic attack. So what? I have them every day. Every conversation I have with somebody these days, they bring up the Island, and ask about what happened, and all they do is make me remember the loneliness, the hopelessness, the pain. If I didn't have Hunter, I probably would be insane." He laughed bitterly. "So now you know. You wanted me to talk. Do you feel any better now that I have?"

A long silence reigned. Lance looked too shocked to speak. It was as if time itself was frozen for a moment, the impact of the archer's words striking repeatedly. Oliver finally realised what he had just revealed, and his face fell into one of despair and horror. Hunter began making small whimpering sounds as he sensed his master's distress, arching his neck to nuzzle at Oliver's neck and chin.

"You've been hiding an awful lot of emotions behind that mask, haven't you, Queen?" Lance eventually deadpanned.

"Which one are you referring to?" Oliver replied, his voice quiet and weak. "The one I wear every day to stop the people I care about from worrying about me, or the one you think I wear when I supposedly shoot arrows at evil people?"

Lance opened his mouth but it clicked shut after a second, any reply he was thinking of failing him. He still seemed to be lost in a sense of astonishment.

Wanting out of this awkward situation, the archer gently urged Hunter to sit up and leap down from the chair so that Oliver could stand from his chair. He placed his half-empty cup of tea and untouched biscuits to the side, folding up the blanket and pulling on his jacket.

Hunter approached Lance for one last time, snatching a baby carrot that was resting in the detective's loosely curled palm and nipping his hands. For once, the detective didn't pull his hands away, just staring at the husky mix and then hesitantly ruffling his scruff.

With one short nod, Oliver left, Hunter brushing up at against his legs as he trotted at the archer's side. They went to wait on the precinct steps for Diggle's arrival to pick them up and take them back to the mansion.

Oliver didn't think he'd be seeing Lance again, if he had any say in it, for a long time.

Turns out he was wrong.

He was attacked the next night during his prison-themed party.

Tommy and Thea agreed to run most of it, the archer only having to make a single appearance at the beginning to rile up the crowds before he, Hunter and Laurel took refuge in his bedroom to escape the horrific noise and drunk atmosphere.

Laurel asked hesitantly about the torture. It was only natural for her to be curious - nobody else knew about the suffering he's experienced at another's hands (or many others hands, but she didn't need to know that) and although she promised to keep it secret from the rest of his family and close friends, she requested to see the scars that her father had mentioned during the polygraph.

It took an immense amount of shed his t-shirt, shaking uncontrollably as he did so. Hunter crooned softly, lying at the edge of Oliver's bed a few feet away and watching him carefully with anxious blue eyes.

Laurel looked visually pained by his scar tissue, tears in her eyes and trembling hands cupping her mouth. "How did you survive this?" She whispered in horror.
"There were times where I wanted to die," he admitted quietly. "But in the end, I wanted to survive more."

She left in a flood of tears, called away by a coworker at CNRI. It was a good thing she departed when she did because Oliver settled down onto the floor by the open window with Hunter lying on his lap. The cool breeze helped clear his head, and he could have very nearly drifted to sleep due to the comforting feeling of Hunter's chest rising and falling on his legs, if it weren't for the pounding, thudding music.

His cell rang. He picked up begrudgingly and nodded in satisfaction when Diggle announced that the Hood had stopped the arms deal going down in the Glades. Hopefully, one of the gangbangers involved would go to the police to report the Vigilante's involvement, resulting in him being acquitted and released from all charges. Oliver couldn't very well be the Hood if the Vigilante was active tonight, after all, since he was holding a very public party at the Queen mansion. He shook his head, amused. Nobody would even stop to think that there was the possibility the archer had a partner. That was the perfect part of having Diggle working with him on the crusade.

"Mr Queen," a voice called through his door. "If you're entertaining guests upstairs, should I bring up some drinks?"

"No, it's just me up here, and I'm heading down," he called back. He forced himself to his feet, brushing himself down. He ruffled his service dog's scruff affectionately as the two of them headed for the door. "Thanks, bud. Once this is all over, I'll take you out to the National Park for being such a good -"

A gun was jammed in his face. Oliver panicked, and reacted instinctively. The fight lasted around a minute or so, both parties making powerful blows, but in the end, Oliver tripped and stumbled to the floor, dazed. His arteries were burning with adrenalin, his heart thrumming almost painfully as he attempted to stagger back to his feet.

The man raised his gun again, but he was too far away for Oliver to even think of attempting to grab the pistol from him. The weapon was aimed towards him and the archer cried out, curling into himself as he prepared himself for that flare of agony and oncoming darkness. Except it never came.

Hunter gave a ferocious snarl, blue eyes alight with a feral protectiveness as he lanced upwards and snapped his powerful jaws around the man’s gun arm, yanking him downwards. The attacker screamed out in pain, desperately trying to shake the service dog off, but the husky mix latched his canines into his flesh with a rumbling, fierce growl, hackles raised and fur on end. Hunter’s ears were pricked forwards aggressively, and he only released the man once the gun tumbled from his hand, his limb now useless. Oliver could tell from his position slumped against the counter that the nerves and arteries in the man’s limb had been severed by the service dog’s fangs tearing through his arm.

“Fuck! Boss never said anything about a fucking wolf!” the attacker screeched.

The archer lunged forwards and slugged the guy in the face, striking him with a strong kick in his right knee. Hunter rounded out to stand by Oliver’s side, looking every bit the wild canine that the attacker had accused him of being with his bared, dripping teeth, blood stained muzzle and bristling pelt.

The man lunged across the room for his gun, but two shots - one to his shoulder, and one directly to his skull - caused him to fall silent and unmoving onto the floor. Oliver whipped around, grabbing the nearest object to throw at the new intruder, which just so happened to be a glass paperweight from his desk. He was still very much in defensive mode, his time on the island and working for ARGUS and the Bratva having ingrained into him that trust was an illusion, and everybody in the world was out to get him.

Lance was standing in the doorway, lowering his gun from shooting and killing Oliver’s attacker. He swung his firearm from side to side, surveying the rest of the bedroom for more intruders, but seeing how Oliver and Hunter were now safe, holstered his weapon and raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat.

Oliver’s breathing was laboured and his hands were trembling as he slowly put the paperweight back on the desk. Hunter calmed almost instantly upon seeing the detective, ears perking back as he delicately cleaned his canines and face of blood, tail swishing back and forth in a friendly greeting; a sharp turn from the vicious, menacing animal he’d been only a few seconds ago.

“What the hell happened in here?” the detective asked, his tone annoyed and disdained as he glared at the archer with every inch of hatred he’d displayed from the moment that Oliver had returned from the island. Good to see that his panic attack in the precinct, and consequent emotional and difficult conversation afterwards, hadn’t changed much in their relationship.

Oliver shook his head, still dazed. There was a throbbing pain in his left knee from where the attacker had kicked him earlier, a dull ache in his right elbow as well. “Apparently you’re not the only one who’d prefer for me not to be around anymore, Detective,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat due to the way his voice was shaking.

The adrenaline was fading in his system now, leaving him exhausted. It was only Hunter’s reassuring presence as the service dog pressed into his legs protectively that stopped Oliver from succumbing to flashbacks, memories of all the past times he’d been unexpectedly assaulted arising in his mind.

“Don’t fucking joke, Queen,” Lance barked. The archer winced. His morbid humour wasn’t appreciated then. “Jesus, this is a mess.” The detective stepped into the room, gazing down at the dead man lying on the ground, a crimson pool slowly spreading out through the rug beneath him. The strong smell of iron was enough to cause nausea in the archer, and he turned his head away sharply, closing his eyes. “You okay? He didn’t shoot you at all?”

“He tried,” Oliver responded.

“Yeah,” Lance’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “When did you learn to fight like that?”

Shit, so he’d arrived early enough to see Oliver’s last attempts at fighting him, with his power kick and punch. His normal excuse would have been to claim self-defence classes, but Lance had known Oliver since he was seven - the detective knew he’d never taken any lessons of the sort. The truth was probably the best way to go with this - or part of the truth.

“Told you people on the island tortured me,” he replied, fingers rubbing against his thumbs anxiously as he watched his service dog cautiously approach the dead body, sniffing at it whilst growling quietly. “Had to learn how to defend myself.”

The reminder of the island caused Lance’s expression to shift into one of hard resolve, the detective realising this was most likely a triggering situation for Oliver due to its similarity to past events he’d suffered through on Lian Yu. He marched forwards and steered the archer out of the room, muttering, “Come on, let’s get outta here. Already called in the cavalry, they’ll be here soon. CSIs will skin me if we contaminate the scene.”

Oliver nodded, allowing himself to be guided out of his bedroom and down the stairs, but seeing how Hunter wasn’t following him immediately, still crouched over the dead body and eyeing it suspiciously, turned back to call for him. He didn’t have to, however, as Lance gave a piercing whistle, and the service dog glanced up and bounded after them. It was surprising to the archer to say the least - Hunter didn’t usually obey anybody else other than Oliver, and occasionally the rest of his family, Tommy and Laurel. As Hunter trotted towards them, he perceived why the service dog had listened to the detective despite his normal stubbornness. Lance was coaxing the husky mix down to them using baby carrots.

“This gonna be a regular thing?” he questioned, a teasing lilt to his voice, despite its flatness due to him slipping into light shock. “You treating my dog with baby carrots?”

“You sure he’s a dog and not a wolf?” Lance raised an eyebrow, eyeing Hunter warily as the service dog snuffled the treat from his palm.

“Funny, that guy called him a wolf as well,” he muttered. There were already police officers in the lobby, the party having been dispersed by them. He could hear Tommy and Thea’s angry, raised voices from the living room, demanding to see Oliver. “He’s ex-military, you know. Hunter knows how to precisely target people. He aimed for that guy’s arm because he knew if he injured it, he wouldn’t be able to aim the gun at me properly.”

“Shouldn’t have needed to maim that guy in the first place,” Lance shot back at him. “Where the hell’s your bodyguard, huh?”

“It’s Diggle’s night off.”

The detective arched an eyebrow. “You serious?”

He shrugged. “He’s watching some soccer World Cup thing with his nephew. I’m not an awful employer. Besides, I had you and ten other armed officers at the party tonight. I should have been safe.” Quirking an eyebrow, Oliver added, “It’s a good thing my dog was there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance muttered, shooting him the stink-eye. “Rub it in, Queen.”

They entered the living room side by side, and Thea immediately shot to her feet, looking horrified by her big brother’s battered appearance. Tommy’s gaze instantly sought out Hunter, his jaw dropping at the visible caking of crimson on the service dog’s face.

“Oh my god, Ollie!” She rushed up to him, hands hovering over where bruises were emerging on his face and shoulders. “Are you okay?!”

“Hey, hey,” he caught her wrists and pulled them down, wincing as she prodded her fingers into the sore spots. “It’s not that bad.”

“Moira’s gonna go ballistic,” Tommy said. “She’s actually going to go insane. No offence to you, Mr Lance, but I don’t think you should be here when she gets back, for your sake.”

The detective glowered at him, gesturing at Oliver to sit down on one of the couches. The archer collapsed down, flinching at the pain that rippled through his body due to his harsh movement, releasing a small groan as he tipped his head, eyes closed. Tommy quickly left the room to come back with ice packs for his injured knee and elbow, patting him on the shoulder lightly. Both Thea and Tommy appeared very concerned about him as they took their seats on the couch either side of him.

Oliver tapped his hand, silently ordering Hunter over to him. The service dog jumped to his paws from where he’d been resting on his haunches, patiently watching the exchange between the group, and rested his head on the archer’s lap with a whine, squeezing his body between his legs. Oliver rubbed his thumb over a splatter of dried blood in the husky mix’s fur with a grimace. They needed to clean that out.

“It’s not just the police Mom’s going to be mad at,” Thea shook her head. “This must be, what, the third time you’ve almost been killed since you’ve been back, Ollie?”

“The first time was just a kidnapping,” he replied. “And the second time they weren’t trying to kill me, they were trying to kill Walter.”

“You were still attacked both times,” she argued. “Where’s Mr Diggle? I thought as your bodyguard he’s meant to keep you safe from stuff like this!”

“Exactly what I said,” Lance grumbled.

“Thea, he’s entitled to days off, you know.”

“Pretty poor choice of day,” Thea said.

Lance had to leave briefly to coordinate the CSIs that were arriving to cordon off and examine Oliver’s bedroom for evidence, and remove the dead body. As Oliver was apparently looking more worn out and exhausted than he thought, Tommy offered to fetch him some chamomile tea, whilst Thea rapidly ran upstairs to grab a flannel from the bathroom closet, to clean the blood of Hunter’s face.

All three of them returned at roughly the same time, Lance tucking his cell phone in his pants as Tommy pressed the cup of chamomile into the archer’s hands, popping new ice packs for his knee and elbow. Biting her lip in concentration, Thea started wiping the blood out of the husky mix’s fur.

A question that had been irritating Oliver since Lance had burst into his bedroom finally broke the surface. The archer glanced up at the detective, asking curiously, “How did you know I was in trouble?”

Lance looked slightly uncomfortable. “When the guy was fighting you, he broke the ankle monitor.”

The front door slammed open with a bang, startling Oliver so much that he leapt practically a foot off the couch, eyes wide. Lance shot him a rather sympathetic look, quirking an eyebrow. Thea and Tommy scooted back onto the cushions and lifted their legs up so that Hunter could dash out under them to growl vigilantly, on high alert after his master was attacked and nearly killed.

Moira hurried into the room with Walter behind her. Her alarmed and concerned eyes desperately scanned the room until they landed on her son. “Are you alright?!” she questioned agitatedly.

“I'm fine.”

A distressed noise erupted from her throat as she rushed closer, gaze flittering over his form, checking for injuries. She appeared even more upset when she saw the ice packs. “Oliver…”

“Mom, I promise,” he tried to comfort her. “Hunter was there to protect me, I’m okay.”

Her eyes skittered over to the service dog, and she gasped lowly. “Oh my, is that blood on Hunter’s face?”

“It’s not mine,” Oliver briskly returned.

“That’s not exactly reassuring, Oliver!” she cried out.

“Mom, please! Everything’s fine! I mean, sure, I’m definitely going to need to use a spare room for the next week or two, but I’m not dead, which was clearly what they guy’s aim was. He failed. I’m alive, and I’m okay.”

Her concern transformed into boiling, unbridled rage as she wheeled around and pointed a finger at Lance accusingly. “This is on you! By accusing my son publicly, you've made him a target!”

The detective responded, sounding irritated and yet contrite at the same time: “I didn’t intend for this to happen, Mrs Queen.”

“Do you have any idea who attacked Oliver?” Walter questioned stiffly.

“We haven't identified him,” Lance informed, switching back into business mode. “Obviously, it must be someone with a grudge against the Hood.”

Heaving an aggravated sigh, the detective bent over and began fiddling with the device wrapped around Oliver’s ankle, which was currently propped on the coffee table. Hunter made an interested noise, tilting his head sideways as he watched the man from his position now on the archer’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Oliver asked, wiggling his toes.

“Just got a call from my lieutenant. An arms dealer was attacked across town tonight.” The detective straightened, ankle device free in his hand. Oliver’s ankle was finally free. Pursing his lips in displeasure, he finished with a glare aimed towards the ground: “By the vigilante. Multiple witnesses put him there. In light of that, all charges against you are being dropped, Queen.”

Moira took a step towards him, radiating anger. ““I'm truly sorry for what's happened to your family, Quentin,” she said, her tone cold and rigid. HIs mother was keeping her fury tightly constrained, but she was still a forbidding and intimidating woman, which was probably why the detective shrunk under her hardened gaze. “But would you kindly get the hell out of my house?”

Lance nodded, morose as he replied in a quiet, sullen voice, “Yeah, that’s fair.” He tipped his head towards Walter in respect, swiftly glancing towards Tommy and Thea. When his eyes landed on Oliver, his surly expression morphed into one of regret and resentful regard. “I apologise for any inconvenience I’ve caused you, Mr Queen. You can expect a formal apology tomorrow morning from the SCPD.”

“No need,” Oliver replied, smiling weakly. He’d won. His plan to get acquitted worked, and he would be free to operate as the vigilante in Starling City for the rest of his time here without being accused again. “Keep feeding Hunter those baby carrots whenever we bump into each other, and I think we’ll be good.”

The man narrowed his eyes at the archer. There was a glint of approval there that caused Oliver’s heart to soar. Maybe he and Detective Lance weren’t going to remain on rocky ground with each other for forever.

He stood, offering his hand. “Thank you, Mr Lance.”

“Stay out of trouble, Queen,” the detective replied gruffly.

“Unfortunately, trouble always seems to find me.”

“That service dog of yours seems to be pretty good at his job at keeping you out of it, though.” As he said this, he reached into his pocket to fish out that baggie of vegetables. Hunter perked up as the detective offered him one last baby carrot before he departed, snapping it up and then licking his fingers, whiskers tickling the man’s palm.

Oliver grinned. “Yeah. He is.”

Lance headed for the exit. He paused for a second in the living room doorway so he could call back to the archer: “Hey, Queen.”

“Yep?”

“Stay away from bows and arrows.”

“Don’t count on it.”