Chapter One—Big Girl

Detective Lance didn't want a partner, and he especially didn't want a girl partner. Felicity could hear him say so, striding into the squad room with the lieutenant in his wake. She kept her head down and continued distributing her belongings about her new desk.

"She's younger than my daughter," Lance growled, "and she came from Internal Affairs."

"As tech support," Lt. Pike clarified.

"And now you're putting her in Major Crimes?"

"She's proven herself," said the lieutenant, "and I'm not going to stand in the way of anyone who wants to get out of IA."

"She's younger than my daughter," Lance said again.

"Top of her class at MIT."

"Zero field experience."

"Actually, I do have some field experience," Felicity finally spoke up. "Mostly I sat in front of monitors and worked the kind of magic your mind couldn't even comprehend, but I have been in the field before. So it's not a lot of experience, but it's not zero either . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized she was rambling.

He was tall—like really tall—and he was kind of looming over her now, taking in every detail as a detective should. His gaze traveled from her face to her clothes to the surface of the desk in front of her, where she'd just set her tablet, her TARDIS mug, and the framed photo of her with her parents at the Navy Pier in Chicago.

His expression was unreadable, and Felicity began to question her every decision. Should she have left the TARDIS mug at home? The cover on her tablet was sky blue with a drawing of an anime boy with silver hair and hearts for eyes. She'd had it for years, but the thought hadn't occurred to her until just now that it might be unprofessional for her new position.

And her clothes . . . She'd been planning this outfit since the day she learned the transfer had been approved. After two unsuccessful shopping trips and a marathon session in front of her closet, she'd gone with black slacks, a blue button-down shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and the most sensible pair of shoes she owned, black Mary Janes with the lowest of heels. Her slacks were pristine and devoid of cat hair because she'd changed into them in her car. Her shirt was freshly ironed, and she knew every hair of her ponytail was in place because she'd checked in each reflective surface between the employee parking lot and the squad room. But maybe she'd dressed too casual. Or maybe not casual enough, judging by Detective Lance's slightly disheveled attire.

"Detective Lance, meet Detective Smoak," the lieutenant said.

Felicity held out her hand, but Lance ignored it. His gaze had returned to her clothes but not, she was relieved to note, to her chest. Frequent breast ogling was one of the many reasons she'd been desperate to get out of IA.

"Is that how you're going to dress from now on?" he asked, meeting her eyes for the first time.

"Um, I guess? I mean, it's a limited wardrobe, but I'm sure I can—"

He cut her off with a quick gesture. "You look like an intern. Maybe put your hair up and try some big-girl shoes tomorrow." He turned back to Lt. Pike, who looked disappointed to be caught halfway to the door, making a break for it. "But no heels," Lance called back before walking away.

Felicity sank into her chair and put her head in her hands. Big-girl shoes? She'd have to go on another shopping trip now, and she'd have to consult her mom on what kind of style "big-girl" translated to.

"I expected to see that posture eventually, but not this soon," said a wry female voice.

Felicity looked up. The woman standing before her was tall, toned, and gorgeous. Laurel Lance. Felicity recognized her from all the internet research she'd done on her new partner. Some of it not, strictly speaking, legal.

"I'm Laurel, Detective Lance's daughter." She extended her hand and Felicity stood up to shake it. At least someone was glad to see her.

"Oh, uh, he's not here," Felicity stammered. "He just left with—"

"Don't tell me," said Laurel, closing her eyes briefly. "He stomped off in a pout, didn't he?"

"Well . . ." Felicity didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound judgmental or rude.

Laurel smiled, tucking a honey strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to be diplomatic with me, Detective."

"Smoak. Felicity Smoak."

"Good to meet you, Detective Smoak," said Laurel, shaking her hand again. "I'm glad you're here. My dad's been working on his own too long. It's not good for him." Her green eyes clouded with unspoken emotions. "We'll probably be seeing more of each other, but I wanted to make sure my dad was behaving himself on your first day."

" 'Behaving himself'?" To Felicity, that only meant one thing. The heat of a blush began to creep up her neck.

"Oh, God no, not like that. I don't think he's even looked at another woman since my mom left," Laurel assured her. "He's not like that anyway, and you look too much like my sister."

"I do?" Felicity hadn't noticed any resemblance at all when she was looking at pictures of Lance family members that had been all over the papers following the yacht accident that had killed billionaire CEO Robert Queen, his son Oliver, and Oliver's date for that weekend, Sara Lance.

"Kind of," said Laurel. "She's—she was—young and blonde. And shorter than me," she added. "My point is, you have nothing to worry about on that score."

"Okay, good," Felicity said slowly. She didn't know how else to respond. At least she hadn't gone off on a babbling tangent about Detective Lance keeping his hands to himself or something.

"Checking up on me, Laurel?"

The young woman turned as Detective Lance approached. "Hey, Dad," she said. "Just introducing myself to your new partner."

"Just warning my new partner," he grumbled.

"Now, Daddy," said Laurel, batting her eyelashes, "why on earth would I want to do that? Could it be because I know you too well?"

"Shouldn't you be getting back to work?" he asked, taking her elbow. "Let me walk you out."

Laurel turned and winked at Felicity before letting Detective Lance lead her from the squad room.