Chapter Two

AN: My apologies for how long it took to get this chapter up. I discovered I had rather a difficult time getting Oliver's voice until I hit upon Exasperated Oliver. Hopefully, he's recognizable.

"Ollie—"

Oliver didn't bother looking up from his study of the printed out pages from the journal. Felicity's idea so he could more discreetly take his "work"—air quotes emphasis hers—home without fear of getting busted. Not that she approved of his taking "work" home, since she was of the firm opinion that he dwelled too much in the darkness the small leather journal and his own demons generated and that home should be free from those distractions, but considering his mother's role in the Undertaking, it was kind of difficult for home to be free of those distractions, even with Moira Queen secured in a maximum security facility, more for her own protection than because she presented any real danger, the point being home wasn't exactly a refuge from "work" not the way Felicity imagined it should be, so what difference did it make whether or not he brought "work"—air quotes emphasis hers—home with him?

Hell.

Mentally rambling in Felicity-ese could not possibly be a sign of anything good. At least, not for him.

Maybe she had a point about not bringing "work" home with him.

"Ollie!"

He rubbed his throbbing temples, wishing he could make a tea from his trusty medicinal herbs, but those were safely stashed at "work." Away from nosy little sisters who chose to disregard the significance of a closed door with amazing regularity. He half-suspected Roy may have even taught her how to pick a lock—for her own safety, no doubt, but it did add yet another potential danger to his carefully constructed house of cards. No wonder Felicity had insisted on scanning the sheets of the journal and embedding them within a format that more closely resembled a business communiqué—Queen Consolidated letterhead and all.

Not for the first time was he grateful Felicity Smoak harbored no ambitions of becoming a criminal mastermind. That he knew of.

"Not now, Thea."

His sister huffed an impatient, "Yes, now."

"What is it?"

"There's another."

"Another what?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes in patented Thea fashion. "Another delivery. For you. That you have to sign for."

"Crap."

"Eloquent as ever."

"Bite me," he snapped, then winced as a particularly sharp pain shot through his skull as if in reprimand.

It wasn't Thea's fault he had a headache. Their thwarting of the Undertaking, incomplete though it had been, coupled with his mother's confession meant many of the players on the list had been neutralized. That did not, however, mean the threat to Starling City was over. One thing the island had unequivocally cured him of was blind naïveté. The likelihood someone new and equally—if not more so—monstrous than Malcolm Merlyn would step up to fill the void his death had left was not only probable, to Oliver, it was a certainty. The only questions he had were would it be a completely new player from outside the ranks, or would it be someone who'd been toiling in the shadows of another master already known to Oliver through the journal? Moreover, when would it happen? When would the first move be made? Had it already occurred, amidst the chaos and devastation of the Undertaking's aftermath?

There was just no way to know.

But he could be prepared.

Hence, his renewed dedication to working out—to honing body and skills into even deadlier, more effective weapons—and to his work. No air quotes, no added emphasis. Just the knowledge that the work he did as the Hood was more real to him than anything he did as Oliver Queen, current CEO of Queen Consolidated. Especially since in the wake of Moira's arrest he'd extended an appeal to Walter to return and head up the day-to-day operations—an invitation his former stepfather had accepted only after Oliver had appealed to the other man's deeply protective streak with respect to Thea. The idea that Oliver had Thea's best interests at heart—that he wanted nothing more than to protect her future—had tipped the scales and Walter had returned.

Dirty pool, but Oliver wasn't above playing dirty where best interests—his sister's or the city's—were involved.

The unlikely partnership worked well. Despite his marriage to Moira, Walter's character and reputation remained sterling with even his harshest critics backing off when faced with the irrefutable facts of his six months of captivity, while Oliver's former—and present—playboy reputation, coupled with the circumstances surrounding the sinking of the Queen's Gambit and his subsequent five years on the island left little room for anyone to assume he'd had any knowledge of his mother's activities. So with Walter firmly re-ensconced as COO, that left Oliver to simply serve as the public face of the company—a state of affairs that suited him just fine.

Queen Consolidated was stable and in the process of repairing the damage which Moira and Malcolm had inflicted, which left him free to see to the business of protecting the city—and apparently signing for a never ending stream of packages that had been arriving on a daily basis for the past two weeks.

He released a long sigh as he pushed himself away from his father's desk. His desk now, he supposed, although he'd never think of it as such. "I'm sorry, Speedy."

"No worries." She smiled as he reached the doorway and fell into step beside him. "It's not like I'm unaccustomed to you being a massive jerk."

"Hey!"

"Ooh! Hit a sore spot big guy?" She laughed and easily eluded his mock lunge, then settled back beside him, tucking her hand into his arm. "What would your adoring public say if they knew about the gooey center hardened badass playboy Ollie Queen is in possession of?"

Oliver shook his head, but at the same time, felt an unmistakable sense of relief. This was the lightest Thea had been in months—since their mother's confession and the destruction of the Glades and well… everything. He wasn't sure exactly what had brought about this shift in her emotional state—he knew Roy had been doing what he could, but he was equally preoccupied with trying to help out however he could in the Glades—but whatever it was, Oliver was grateful for it. Thea had had way too much of her childhood stolen from her.

"Honestly, though, I can't wait to see what today's delivery is. I'm not sure how it could possibly top the case of AXE body spray. I mean," she went on cheerfully, "first off, AXE body spray? Ew." She wrinkled her nose and shuddered lightly. "But the real offense is choosing 'Anarchy' as your scent. It's like whoever's doing this doesn't even know you."

If she only knew. It was more like did know him. At least somewhat. Which was what had him worried. It was innocent so far, but what if that was merely to lull him into a false sense of security before lowering the boom? What could the boom possibly be and what quarter would it come from? Thea was right about one thing, though—he really was amassing the most curious collection and it was making him crazy as hell he couldn't figure out why or how. His natural paranoia had him checking every package before opening them. Not to mention, opening them in an old abandoned workshop where, if there was anything dangerous in the deliveries, they'd be likely to do the least amount of damage.

At the door, he signed for the latest delivery, grateful the size of this box was at least manageable, unlike the stack of crates containing the supplies to construct an elaborate—and authentic—outdoor pizza oven. Or the unwieldy boxes containing roll upon roll of wallpaper, each pattern more hideous than the last. Then there was the full set of what seemed like every film and television series released on DVD in the past five years, according to Thea, followed by the discs containing every issue of Entertainment Weekly for the same time period.

At least Thea had been pleased with the shipment of French macarons that he'd been more than happy to hand over to her—after he'd called the bakery and enquired as to the pastries' provenance. After enduring a string of extremely colorful and descriptive French epithets from world-renowned and award-winning pastry chef Jean-Pierre along with curses being heaped upon him, his children, his children's children and their children's children for daring to impugn Jean-Pierre's reputation and abilities and perhaps his manhood—Oliver had gotten a little lost in translation at that point—he'd been assured as to their safety and quality and Thea had proceeded to gorge herself into a sugar coma.

And he was mentally rambling in Felicity-ese again.

Dammit.

"Come on, Ollie."

He studied the relatively small box he held. "Come on, Ollie, what?"

Thea huffed out an impatient breath. "Come on, Ollie, open it."

"No."

She crossed her arms and hit him with the "You're being ridiculous" stare. "You're being ridiculous," she said, adding the "You're seriously bordering on stupid," stare to the mix.

"I'm being cautious."

"You're being an old man."

"Thea, our family name is not exactly high up on anyone's list of favorites right now and where we live isn't any great secret. If I slip up—if I'm careless for even a second and anything happens to you as a result—"

His voice lowered with each word finally drifting off with what he was absolutely unable to say. Unable to articulate had badly he'd failed.

Thea gazed up at him, the precocious wisdom that seemed to overtake her more and more often clearly reflected in her expression. Tacitly understanding, even if she couldn't fully grasp the magnitude.

How could she?

Only two people in this world knew who he was. What he was. And what he'd done.

He'd die before he let Thea into that part of his existence. He knew she was far from innocent, but some things he wanted to keep as… normal for her as possible.

"You miss Tommy, don't you?" she observed quietly. "A lot."

Yes he did. And Laurel, too. But Thea didn't know a thing about that and thank God. She simply thought Laurel, upon her release from Starling General six months earlier, had opted to retreat to her aunt's remote home in the San Juan Islands. A place to heal. A place to hide. And with CNRI shuttered for the foreseeable future, it had been easy to claim she had nothing to return for.

Not that she'd actually spoken to him about it—or anything else, really. Not a word since Tommy's funeral.

"It's not your fault, you know," she said. "It's not your fault Tommy's dad turned out to be a whacked out psycho who ultimately cost Tommy his life. And it's definitely not your fault Tommy went to rescue Laurel when she was too stupid to leave the office."

Startled, Oliver glanced up from his dogged study of the box. "How did you know that?"

Once again, she leveled the "You're seriously bordering on stupid," stare at him. "I'd have had to have been living under a rock to not know, Ollie."

"She wasn't being stupid," he said softly, although even to his ears, he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Yes, she was." Thea, on the other hand, sounded utterly convinced and implacable. "She risked her life and cost Tommy his for what? Some stupid files?"

"She thought she was helping."

"God, Ollie—when are you gonna stop making excuses for her? She has so always been your Kryptonite." With another sigh, this one underscored with a definite layer of concern, she patted his arm. "Look, I gotta jet. Let me know what's in this box, 'kay? Dibs if it's chocolate."

He stared after her as she disappeared up the stairs, marveling at the changes the past fifteen months had wrought in his flighty, headstrong little sister.

Suddenly, he wished he could tell her about who he was, even though he knew he never would. If she was mad at Laurel for staying behind to rescue some stupid files—and yes, he could acknowledge now she'd been exceedingly reckless and stupid—he could only imagine how furious his sister would be if she ever discovered his identity as Starling City's resident vigilante.

Shaking off the maudlin mood that had overtaken him, because nothing but madness lay down the paths of "What if?" with their attendant doubts and recriminations, he made his way toward the workshop where he'd taken to inspecting and opening the package. After making certain the door was locked—and alarm set—against any "accidental" invasions by nosy little sisters, he carefully began the process of unwrapping his latest "gift."

Later, he'd be profoundly grateful for his caution and paranoia. Later.

Much, much later.

Right now, he was too busy being appalled at the creation he held in his hand—one of dozens, maybe hundreds, lovingly nestled amidst layers of tissue, packed with what had been obvious care and pride in the workmanship.

And all of a sudden, he experienced the horrible, dawning sensation of knowing exactly who was behind the special deliveries.

Oh, now it was on.