A/N: Thanks again for everything! As usual, this one doesn't interconnect with any of the previous ones. I have no beta, mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: this is the work and play of fan fiction. i don't own anything. everything belongs to their respective owners.
you pick the storm or you pick the shore (both take you to the floor)
summary: it cuts him, like he didn't think it would, but he's the only one to blame. || au. something in season 9, before warrior, like possible future for Oliver?
Out of all the places he could've gone Oliver winds up here. He doesn't exactly know why either just that he's here and that it's been a long time since he's stepped foot into Watchtower.
A flash of red and distinguishable voices that are yelling start to form in his mind and he stops them before they can manifest completely. Some things are better left where they are, in the back of his mind, for the sake of his sanity.
He hasn't stepped foot since the whole Davis-Jimmy tragedy occurred. Hasn't really had a reason too, not since he gave up his whole green arrow double identity phase. A phase because really, he was nothing more than a man playing at hero... at something he's far from. He let an innocent die. What kind of hero does that? Clark definitely doesn't.
That's not why he's here though. He needs something and the only person that might remotely do something about it resides within the vicinity, Chloe. He doesn't understand why she still keeps tabs on him. Because she does and she knows, he knows that she's still looking out for him. She shouldn't though, he thinks. Not after what happened with Jimmy.
Oliver steps further into the tower and walks over to the screens closest to him. Chloe seems to have been doing extensive research; there are a great amount of tabs opened on her screen. Old news, new obituaries, old arrest forms, police file... at first glance they appear random. Different people, different cities, but after glancing at a few of the files he notices the cause of the death. They're all similar. He looks down to the table and there is a manila file slightly ajar. To say he wasn't curious was an understatement. Some habits are harder to kick than others.
He makes to take a look but doesn't quite get to do so because Chloe's voice cuts through the air.
"What are you doing here, Oliver?" she asks, not bothering to mask her surprise. He doesn't fail to notice the slight detachment in her voice.
He turns and is a bit stunned by her appearance. She has dark circles under her eyes and is thinner than he remembers. How long has it been? With a coffee mug in her hand she makes way towards him. She sets down the mug on top of the manila folder and he doesn't miss that she did it on purpose. Guess that's what happens when you walk away, he muses to himself. He doesn't stop the disappointment that starts to settle inside of him.
Oliver clears his throat and shifts on his feet before handing her a piece of paper he had in his back pocket.
"I found this in my suite," he says. She stares up at him for a few seconds before looking down at the paper he handed to her. She reads it over and says, "We'll handle it."
He wants to ask who 'we' are but given to how she responded earlier with the folder, he knows she won't disclose that information.
"Chloe-"
"Is that all Oliver?" She asks, cutting him off.
He opens his mouth, he wants to say something but the look she's giving him tells him that he's overstepping a boundary he, himself placed the moment he decided to turn away from it all. The reason why he was here in the first place, forgotten.
He clears his throat once again and shakes his head. She turns back to her computers and without missing a beat, "You know the way out."
It cuts him, like he didn't think it would, but he's the only one to blame. He asked to be left alone and they did, she did. He takes in her profile one last time and turns to walk away.
Right before he makes it into the elevator, her voice drifts to him, soft and broken.
"Things could've been different, you know." There's a hidden undertone, an unspoken promise of something more. Something great that could've been his and it sends a shiver down his spine.
He hesitates before he steps into the elevator.
He wants to say, Yes. Yes, a million times yes. Take all from me as long as you give me whatever that something more is.
Instead he says, "Maybe," and watches as her shoulders tense.
He should've kept his mouth shut, but it doesn't really matter. He's lying out loud, she knows it. He knows she knows he is.
The elevator dings signaling its arrival and he steps in.
. . .
Things would've definitely been different, he muses as the doors shut and the elevator begins to descend.
"But they're not," he murmurs to himself as he steps out into the cold winter night.
.
.
FIN.