Aftermath

The walk from Oliver’s van into the subterranean levels of A.R.G.U.S. headquarters was, without a doubt, the longest walk of Laurel’s life.

The high-tech facility was bright, sterile, and crawling with highly trained government agents. As Oliver led the way through the secure corridors, every single agent they passed suddenly found the ceiling tiles, their clipboards, or their shoelaces to be the most fascinating things in the world. The military discipline was impressive—no one stared openly—but the sheer, concentrated effort everyone was making not to look at the two completely naked women trailing behind the Green Arrow only made the situation more absurd.

Laurel didn't even care anymore. The soles of her bare feet slapped against the cold linoleum, squeaking slightly. Beside her, Sara walked with her chin held high, though her arms were finally crossed over her chest in a belated, stubborn attempt at modesty.

"You know," Sara muttered out of the side of her mouth, "I've infiltrated League of Assassins strongholds, Russian gulags, and Lian Yu. But this? Walking through a black-ops facility in nothing but my goosebumps? This makes the top three."

"Just keep walking," Laurel sighed, too exhausted to even properly roll her eyes.

The sliding metal doors to the secure briefing room hissed open. Inside, John Diggle was leaning over a holographic map table, while Felicity sat huddled in an office chair, wrapped up in an oversized tactical fleece and nursing a steaming mug of tea.

At the sound of the doors opening, Diggle looked up. He froze. The seasoned soldier, who had stared down metahumans, magicians, and warlords without flinching, went completely rigid. He immediately snapped his gaze to the ceiling, standing at rigid attention.

"Oliver," Diggle said, his voice strained with **** professionalism. "You mentioned the extraction had... logistical complications. You omitted some details."

"Oliver!" Felicity shrieked, nearly spilling her tea as she squeezed her eyes shut. "Why are they still naked?! You were supposed to rescue them!"

"It was a combat situation, Felicity!" Oliver defended himself, pulling back his hood. "I didn't exactly have time to stop at a boutique on the way to the warehouse!"

"There are blankets in the van!" Felicity argued, waving her hand blindly in their direction.

"We left the boss tied up in his own warehouse for the SCPD," Laurel interrupted, her voice a flat, deadpan monotone that immediately silenced the room. She walked right past Oliver and Diggle, completely unfazed by her own nudity, and stopped in front of a metal supply crate. "Someone tell me there are clothes in this building before I lose what's left of my sanity."

Diggle cleared his throat, still staring intently at a corner security camera. "Lyla left a duffel bag on the bench. Standard issue A.R.G.U.S. training gear. Take whatever fits."

Sara didn't need to be told twice. She darted over to the bench, unzipping the black duffel bag and tossing a gray t-shirt and a pair of oversized sweatpants at Laurel before digging out a set for herself.

Laurel caught the clothes. For a second, she just stood there, staring at the gray cotton. After hours of cold night air, dirty alleyways, freezing leather car seats, and the harsh glare of warehouse lights, the simple fabric felt like the Holy Grail. She pulled the shirt over her head, the soft material sliding over her bare shoulders and covering her chest. She stepped into the sweatpants, pulling the drawstring tight around her waist.

It was over. She was dressed.

Laurel let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since she first stepped into the shower at her apartment. Her legs suddenly felt like lead, and she collapsed into the nearest rolling office chair, burying her face in her hands.

"Oh, thank god," Felicity breathed a sigh of relief, finally opening her eyes and lowering her mug. She looked at Laurel and Sara, both now swimming in baggy gray sweats. "I am so, so sorry about tonight. I am literally traumatized. I'm going to have nightmares about zip-ties and closets for a year."

"You're traumatized?" Sara scoffed, tying her hair back into a messy knot. "I was chained to a pillar while a guy in a tailored suit critiqued my bare ass. I think Laurel and I win the trauma Olympics tonight."

Diggle finally allowed his gaze to lower to eye level, letting out a heavy sigh as he crossed his arms. "The SCPD just confirmed they have the Bertinelli mercenaries in custody at Warehouse 52. The boss is already singing. He's claiming the Black Canary and White Canary assaulted his men... in their birthday suits."

Oliver frowned, leaning against the briefing table. "We have friends in the SCPD. We can try to bury the report. Maybe spin it as a psychological warfare tactic to confuse the syndicate."

"No," Laurel said, her voice muffled behind her hands. She dragged her hands down her face, looking up at the team with tired, bloodshot eyes. "Oliver, there were 911 calls. Pedestrians. Half of Star City's underworld knows. If we try to cover it up, it'll just make it worse."

"Laurel, your career—" Oliver started.

"My career is going to feature a very awkward press conference tomorrow," Laurel interrupted, accepting her fate with a heavy, deadpan sigh. "I'll just look the reporters dead in the eye and ask them if they’ve ever had a bad hair day. If the Bertinelli syndicate thought stripping me naked would stop me from putting them away, they're dumber than I thought."

She leaned her head back against the chair, staring up at the sterile fluorescent lights of the A.R.G.U.S. ceiling. The humiliation was still there, burning quietly in the back of her mind, but the sheer exhaustion was a heavy blanket over it all.

"Right now," Laurel murmured, her eyes slipping shut, "I don't care about my reputation. I don't care about the Bertinellis. I don't even care that Felicity used my bare butt as a shield."

"Hey!" Felicity squeaked indignantly, her face turning bright red.

"All I care about," Laurel finished, a tiny, genuine smile finally breaking through her deadpan expression, "is that I am wearing sweatpants, and I am going to sleep for fourteen hours. Someone wake me up when it's Tuesday."