Laurel's new normal

The weeks following the "Great Midnight Streak," as the local tabloids relentlessly dubbed it, were a trial by fire for Laurel Lance. She had faced down the Triad, the League of Assassins, and the literal collapse of the Glades, but nothing quite prepared her for the look on the Chief Prosecutor’s face when he read the SCPD incident report.

Laurel held her head high throughout the initial fallout. She appeared in court, she filed her motions, and she looked every smirking defense attorney dead in the eye until they were the ones who looked away. But the internal weight of the trauma—not just the violation of the attack, but the sheer, sustained sensory overload of that night—eventually took its toll. At Oliver and Sara’s urging, she took a three-week leave of absence.

She spent that time in a secluded cabin outside the city, and it was there that the shift began.

Initially, she had packed bags of heavy sweaters and thick leggings, a subconscious desire to layer herself in armor. But the more she sat in the silence, the more she realized that her skin felt... restless. The fabric felt like a reminder of the vulnerability she had been taught to fear. One afternoon, she simply took it all off. She spent the rest of her retreat living in the open air, dissociating the state of her body from the memory of the crime. By the time she returned to Star City, she wasn't just healed; she was fundamentally changed.

The morning of her return to the D.A.’s office was met with a hush. Laurel walked through the glass doors wearing a sharp, charcoal-gray power suit, her heels clicking with rhythmic authority. She was halfway to her desk when a junior associate, a man known more for his lack of filter than his legal mind, stepped into her path.

"Lance! Good to have you back," he said, though his eyes were dancing with a mix of pity and prurient curiosity. He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough so the surrounding cubicles could hear. "Look, I gotta ask. The rumors... is it true? Someone actually ambushed you in the shower and you had to run naked across half of Star City at 2 AM?"

The office went silent. Laurel stopped, adjusted the strap of her briefcase, and turned to face him. She didn't flush. She didn't stammer. She simply looked at him with a cool, detached expression that made him look like a specimen under a microscope.

"It’s true that I was targeted by a criminal syndicate I was successfully prosecuting," Laurel said, her voice carrying clearly across the room. "It is also true that their attempt to humiliate me failed. I survived, I apprehended the suspects, and I did it without needing a three-piece suit to feel like a professional. Now, unless you have the Bertinelli deposition on my desk by noon, I’d suggest you focus on your own 'predicament.'"

She walked away, leaving the associate gaping.

The true transformation, however, happened behind closed doors. For Laurel, the apartment was no longer just a place to live; it was a sanctuary where the concept of "modesty" was recognized as a social construct she no longer required.

The ritual began the second she crossed the threshold after work. The door would click shut, the deadbolt would slide home, and within sixty seconds, her professional attire would be draped neatly over a chair. She didn't do it with a sense of rebellion or provocation; it was a functional, domestic transition.

She lived her life in the clear, honest state of her own skin. She prepared her meals—chopping vegetables and searing proteins—with the sun from the window warming her bare shoulders. She practiced her kata and strength training in the living room, watching the play of muscle and sinew in the mirror without a hint of the self-consciousness that had plagued her for years. When she read her legal briefs, she did so curled up on the sofa, her body unburdened by waistbands or straps.

This wasn't nudism in the sense of a political statement, nor was it exhibitionism. It was a profound, quiet dissociation of nudity from shame. To Laurel, being naked was now the baseline of human existence.

On the rare occasion a visitor arrived—usually Oliver or Diggle—she would casually slip on a silk robe before opening the door. It wasn't because she was ashamed of what they would see, but out of a grounded respect for decorum. She knew the world wasn't where she was yet, and she was happy to accommodate their comfort.

The shift eventually bled into her closest friendships. It started with Sara, who had always been more comfortable with her body due to her years in the League. During a late-night strategy session at Laurel's apartment, Sara had watched Laurel lounging naked while highlighting a brief and simply followed suit, shedding her own tactical gear.

"You're right," Sara had remarked, stretching out on the rug. "It’s a lot easier to think when you aren't sweating through leather."

Eventually, even Felicity joined in during their "girls' nights." The first time had been hesitant, a nervous shedding of her cardigan and dress after a long day of hacking, but seeing the utter normalcy and lack of judgment from the Lance sisters had put her at ease. Now, it was a regular occurrence: the three of them eating pizza, drinking wine, and discussing city security, all completely unclad and completely comfortable.

In the summers, they sought out the most secluded reaches of the lake or hidden mountain springs. They would hike in, shed their clothes at the water’s edge, and swim nude for hours. No towels, no robes, no frantic clutching at fabric when the wind picked up.

For Laurel, the night she was attacked had been meant to be her greatest humiliation. Instead, it had been an accidental liberation. She slept every night now without a stitch of clothing, her body relaxed and her mind at peace, finally and fully comfortable in the only suit that truly mattered.