Part 13: Projectile Pillows

Staring at the endless list of lattes, cappuccinos, frappes, mochachinos, iced teas and other assorted treats, Chloe considered her situation carefully.

"Miss?" The barista tried.

Ignoring the teenager, she continued her internal debate. It wasn't a matter of choice – almond mocha, naturally – but rather, a question of quantity. Buy one and offend the four men she was about to barge in on. Buy four and just offend the one man she was actually mad at. Buy five and take the high road. Tricky.

"Miss, you're holding up the line…"

Cutting her eyes at the impatient boy, she decided that four was a given. Bart, AC and Victor hadn't done anything wrong so there was no reason to punish them. Plus, it might be handy to earn some brownie points with that trio in case the argument she planned on initiating with Oliver ended up going to the judges for a decision.

As for the fifth… well, she still had the walk to the penthouse to decide whether or not she was going to give Oliver a coffee or just a piece of her mind. She'd be more than fine drinking two if she determined that petty was the way to go.

"Fine. I need five almond mochas," she announced, the acidity of her tone making it abundantly clear that she didn't appreciate being hurried.

She heard the patron behind her mutter a disgruntled finally and her blonde head snapped around to shoot the man a withering glare. Once she was satisfied that she'd sufficiently intimidated the other customer, she turned back to the counter and leaned over it, fixing the barista with a nagging scowl until he looked up from his work with a question on his face.

"One of those needs to be heavy on the cream," she added tersely, thinking of Bart.

Keeping on eye on the progress of her order, she reassured herself that buying the five coffees didn't mean she was going to go easy on Oliver for turning traitor on her. After her unceremonious dismissal from the research marathon, she'd returned to her lonely home and spent the better part of the night planning the chewing out she was going to deliver, itching the whole time for morning to hurry the hell up and arrive so she could get back to the penthouse and go toe-to-toe with the jolly green jerk. To add further insult to injury, the banishment she'd been subjected to meant that she hadn't had the opportunity to collect her things from Oliver's apartment; an injustice that loosely translated into Chloe Sullivan being laptopless for nearly ten hours. That, alone, was just cause for a verbal lashing of unmitigated proportions.

"Here you go," the barista announced wearily, presenting her with a caffeine laden tray that he slid towards her cautiously.

"Keep the change," she grumbled as she slapped her money down on the counter and snatched the coffee up none too carefully, spinning on her heel to storm out of the shop with the clock tower in her sights.

She was angry. Really angry. A sensible part of her brain tried to point out that she was probably a lot angrier than the situation warranted, but the stinging sense of betrayal she was harbouring made it impossible to give that sort of reasoning much credence. Her work with Oliver and the boys was more than just important to her – more than just doing her part to make the world better – it was her thing. The part of her life that made her feel whole.

Even before she and Jimmy spiralled out of control, she had started noticing that the once uncompromising plans she'd crafted for herself pretty much at infancy had become distorted, drifty and woefully directionless. She had spent her entire life operating under the certainty that she was going to be the reporter at the Daily Planet, only to have it all yanked right out from under her in the blink of an eye. Fate in the form of a pissed off, bald billionaire had rendered her childhood dream effectively useless, so she'd been forced to pick up the pieces as best as she could and claim the Isis Foundation as her consolation prize, hoping that the help she could offer others would compensate for what she'd lost personally.

And Isis was rewarding – there was no doubt of that – but all the warm, fuzzy feelings and congratulatory pats on the back couldn't change the fact that she was trying to carve out a future for herself from someone else's vision. The passion and driving force behind the Foundation was always going to be Lana, whether she was present or not. Though Chloe was proud to shoulder her friend's cause, Isis had always and would always be imbued with Lana's determination to make amends for her own sins and mistakes. Not Chloe's.

From her broken dreams, to her job, and eventually, her failed marriage, she had discovered that everything in her life stirred up the same painful questions. Namely, how had she managed to get herself where she was? Worse still, where was it all going? Then, just when she needed it the most, there was Oliver with a full-fledged, Justice League membership package. He'd once told her that prior to issuing her the invitation, he had worked out an entire sales pitch designed to lure her into the fold. As it turned out, he never got the chance to trot out his dog and pony show because she'd met his question without any considering or contemplating or debating. She'd automatically said yes and that easy answer had felt like the truest thing she'd done in a long time.

Despite only having a handful of freelance work with the boys under her belt, she'd known the League was her place, plain and simple. It was in her bones and she basked in it every time they charged into a new battle, working as a team and depending on each other to help the greater good along. Being Watchtower was fulfilling, challenging, exciting, and everything else that made her feel alive. It was what she was meant for.

Except, of course, when Oliver – the person who'd been her staunchest supporter – decided to go all pod person on her and tarnish her thing with one, jarring ousting.

Civility be damned. There was no way he was getting any coffee.

Arriving at her destination, she swung the building's main door open forcefully and didn't even feel the tiniest bit bad about the coffee she sent sloshing onto the gleaming floor. Striding to the elevator, she punched the call button and hustled herself aboard, the enclosed space filling quickly with the hum of her inner turmoil as she watched the little numbers slowly light up in ascending order. Within seconds, she felt the conveyor come to a halt and she turned glowering eyes to the camera in the upper left corner, fully expecting some sort of snarky comment about her obvious disposition to come falling out of the silent speaker at any moment.

She was left a little surprised, however, when the only thing that ended up marking her arrival was the quiet beep that signalled that the doors were unlocked. Jostling her load about, she freed up a hand and pulled the gate open loudly, ready to unleash hell Gladiator style as she stomped noisily into the living room.

Unfortunately, her tirade had to be put on pause when she was greeted by the deafening sound of AC and Bart's combined snoring. The older man's huge frame was spread languidly over the couch, while the younger was tied up in a tangled heap of blankets and pillows as he slept awkwardly on the floor. Cutting her eyes down the hallway to the guest bedroom, she noted the closed door at the end and surmised that Victor had won yet another round of rock/paper/scissor and was most likely enjoying a considerably more comfortable rest in an actual bed.

Wanting an outlet for her rage, she glanced to the desk at the back of the room and was promptly disappointed when she found it empty. Circling around, she looked to see if she had somehow missed the apartment's fourth occupant during her dramatic entrance, but realized it really was just her and the slumbering boys doing their chainsaw impressions.

Undeterred, she made her way over to the kitchen and peered inside, frowning when she discovered that it too held no trace of Oliver. Frustrated, she wandered aimlessly, wondering where he had gotten to because she knew somebody had let her in.

Just then, the familiar sound of fingers rapping against a keyboard filtered down the hallway from Oliver's bedroom and caught her ears. Moving slowly through the darkened corridor, she listened as the tapping grew and through the open door, she could clearly see the light a small lamp was casting within the space. She paused as she reached the threshold, feeling awkward at the idea of entering his room despite the fact that she had a truck load of aggravation with his name on it.

"Are you coming in or are you just going to lurk?" His deep voice rumbled knowingly, the implied taunt in his question instantly dispelling all of her awkwardness and stoking her anger back to a steady burn.

Shoulders pressed back and head held high, she stalked into his room purposefully.

Clad only in a pair of green pyjama pants, he was stretched out on his bed with pillows propped behind his back, ankles loosely crossed, and the computer he was working on resting on his legs. His hair was pure bed head and his face looked worn, but his dark eyes were sharp and alert, glued to the screen as he continued typing, not even looking up to take note of her arrival.

"Well," she bit out through gritted teeth, offended that he couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge her, "aren't we casual."

"Long night," he replied simply, eyes still trained on his computer. "Figured I'd stay in here and give the guys as much sleep as possible, though you might have ruined that with all that stomping around you were doing."

"A rampaging SWAT team wouldn't be able to shake them out of their comas," she refuted. "Besides, the stomping was intended solely for you."

That finally got his attention and his hands stilled as he looked up and met her glare.

"Oh?" He asked, his brows drawing together in a quizzical frown, "and I'm on your shit list because…?"

Her glare narrowed as she tilted her head at him accusingly. "Gee, I wonder?" She snapped.

Eyes rolling, he went back to the laptop. "Should have guessed you'd take last night the wrong way," he stated plainly as his fingers tappity-tapped annoyingly upon the keyboard. "You know as well as I do that a Boy Scout sized hissy fit could have very likely ended with me in traction. I was just trying to head that off."

"I'd already done that," she argued. "All you did was make me look dumb. And stupid. Not to mention naïve."

"Look," he sighed, giving up on his efforts to work as he picked up his computer and set it aside. "I wasn't trying to demean your girl power, I just did what I thought would bring about a peaceful resolution."

"By cutting me off at the knees!" She exclaimed, trying to clamp down on her emotions and failing miserably. "What happened to me being part of the team and us being the same kind of idiots? Did you mean any of that?"

"Of course I did," he defended.

"Then why'd you let me down like that?"

He stared at her silently; the same, inscrutable look she'd seen on his face during their argument at the gala returning and staying just as undecipherable now as it had been at its first appearance. She watched as he struggled to say something, wanting desperately for him to shed some light on whatever it was that was thrashing between them, but instead, he drew in a breath and fixed her with a bored expression.

"You're being a Drama Queen," he scolded dismissively.

Even though one Chloe Sullivan was usually worth a thousand words, she hadn't been expecting the hurt that suddenly claimed the inside of her chest; it's apparition keeping her from coming up with a single thing she could say that properly encompassed her disappointment in him. The part of her brain that was usually reserved for all her verbal judo tricks felt utterly beat into submission by his brush off and she knew instinctively that the longer she lingered in his doorway, tight-lipped and pained, the more she risked making a complete fool of herself. Quickly realizing that she was no longer in a position to fight, she abandoned her plans and picked flight, turning away from him to beat a hasty retreat.

She'd barely made it half-way down the hall before he was at her side, pulling back on her arm.

"Sorry," he stuttered quickly. "That was… I'm an ass."

Her lips stayed clamped together and her eyes refused to look at him, unwilling to chance the tentative hold she had on her wobbling self-control.

"What I just said… what I said last night… I didn't mean any of it like that," he promised vaguely, his free hand going to her shoulder, trying to encourage her to look at him. "I didn't do it to hurt you."

"I'm not hurt," she lied bitterly, her voice roaring back to life at the very hint of pity. "I just think you're an ass."

"I just admitted that," he pointed out gently.

"Well, it's true," she snapped tensely.

She wanted to run up to his building's roof so she could scream out her frustrations, or sprint back to her car so she could drive around aimlessly and let herself cry. Maybe even break something expensive of his so she could turn around and give him a so there. All she knew was that she needed something that would alleviate all the messy feelings he was stirring up in her.

"Look at me," he requested, his hands holding her in place.

Refusing him, she turned her head to give him her profile, her chin jerking up proudly while her eyes remained downcast and far away from his searching look.

"Please?" He pressed, despite her stubbornness.

Abated ever so slightly by his efforts, she puffed out an angry breath before letting her eyes slide to him, her concession doing little to erase the challenging expression she wore across her features.

"I'm sorry," he told her sincerely, simply.

She could only fidget before him, still too upset to forgive him, but too moved by his dark, earnest eyes to completely ignore the apology.

"I really am," he insisted softly, his expression bare and honest.

"Fine," she mumbled, her head nodding as she shrugged her arms out of his grip.

"We good?" He checked tentatively, crouching to try and catch the gaze that she was still pointedly keeping away from him.

"Yeah," she muttered, needing a bit more time to fully come down off the emotional cliff their fight had sent her clamouring up.

"Good," he breathed, relief creeping unchecked into the word.

They stood together uneasily, both at a loss for what to say as they tried to get back to their norm, each one rattled from the exchange and using this respite to sort themselves out.

"One of those for me?" He asked carefully, his eyes dropping down to the tray full of cooling coffee she still clutched.

Having forgotten what she was even holding, she let her eyes glance down as well then looked back up at him archly when she grasped his meaning.

"No," she told him plainly.

He smirked at her just a bit. "There's five," he observed.

"Two for me."

"Did you get extra shots of petulant in those?" He kidded, deliberately keeping any bite out of his tone.

"You don't deserve one," she reprimanded, but the corner of her mouth kept quirking up tellingly.

"Fair enough," he mused as their comfortable repartee finally slipped back into its proper place.

She studied him for a second more before she forgave him completely, divesting herself of the last few shreds of resentment that were lingering around.

"What are you working on?" She asked quietly as she gestured back to his room, the question her own unspoken apology for her share of the outburst.

"What else?" He sighed as he turned and wandered back down the hall, Chloe following him automatically.

They returned to his room and he went straight to his bed to sit down heavily, scooping his laptop back up, while she made her way over to his dresser to deposit the coffees, plucking one out for herself and cracking it open.

"Took us the whole night," he continued tiredly, "but I think we've finally got the Wynlie Group's number."

"And this mystery has been brought to us by the number…?" She prompted, just a little thrilled by the prospect of an actual answer, but also, mildly disappointed that she hadn't been able to be part of discovering it.

Forgive and forget, she reminded herself.

"Embezzling," Oliver explained succinctly.

She shrugged, finding the great reveal a little less earth shattering than she'd hoped for.

"Yeah, kinda had a hunch that we were headed in that direction, what with the money trail doing all those figure-eights," she noted as she downed a mouthful of her mocha and frowned a bit. In the future, she'd have to make sure to time any fighting a bit better so she could avoid the travesty that was lukewarm brew.

"Well, sorry to disappoint," he smiled, clearly trying to imagine what sort of elaborate scheme her busy brain had been wishing for. "Would it buck you up any if I told you we have a name?"

Her eyes went bright and the excited anticipation she'd just cast aside zipped back up her spine.

"Colour me intrigued, Mr. Queen," she grinned eagerly, raising her cup to her lips.

"Riley Flynn," Oliver announced.

"Who?" She coughed out, very nearly choking on her drink.

"Even though you have to go all over the place to find it," he proclaimed proudly, trying not to look too pleased over the reaction he'd managed to get out of her, "the Wynlie Group can be traced to a Riley Flynn. It's all ultimately in his name."

"Get out!" She exclaimed as she crossed the room and hopped up beside him on the bed, oblivious to the fact that she shouldn't be sharing the space with Oliver Queen, no matter what the circumstance.

"Did you go through your security's personnel files yet?" She questioned enthusiastically.

"No," he answered slowly, wondering what she'd figured out. "I was waiting for you."

"Bring 'em up," she instructed, practically giddy as she waited to see if she was finally going to get her turn to put a puzzle piece into place.

Glancing at her curiously, he did as he was told and they watched as file after file after file materialized on the screen in quick succession.

"Gimme," she ordered impatiently, grabbing the computer away from him.

Dropping the machine into her lap, her fingers quickly flew across the keys as her eyes darted around the files expertly, seeking out what she was sure she was about to find.

"Gonna share with the class?" Oliver asked, brow quirked as he leaned his head next to hers and tracked the actions she was feverishly plugging into the laptop.

"And spoil the surprise?" She scoffed.

"Suspense has never been my thing," he divulged, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"Fine," she groused, still working away. "Last night, when I caught my security guard out in the garden, he checked in as Riley."

"You're kidding," Oliver breathed, his head swivelling towards her.

"I am not," she replied.

"And you didn't think to tell me this?" He questioned dryly.

Her fingers paused and her hair whipped about as she turned to face him, their noses just inches apart.

"Hmm, let's see," she mused sarcastically as she tapped her chin thoughtfully, "there wasn't much of an opportunity to broach the subject when you were ripping my head off at the Grand, and then, your royal rumble with Clark didn't really allow for many segue ways…"

Oliver's eyes rolled guiltily.

"Oh, and as for this morning," she continued flippantly, "I was kinda distracted by my urge to kick your ass, so I have to confess, it slipped my mind… When, exactly, was I expected to tell you about this?"

He reached up and pinched her cheek gently.

"That's cute," he smirked, "you thinking you could kick my ass."

She swatted his hand away and scowled.

"Care to test that?" She snarked.

"Maybe some other time," he grinned as he nodded back to the computer. "For now, consider me properly chastised."

Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, but she accepted his surrender and slowly focused her attention back on the waiting computer. Letting her fingers go back to sailing over the keys, she stayed silent and focused until she hit one final button and sucked in a breath, her hands hovering mid-air as the machine carried out her order and began loading.

A second later, a Queen Industries' employee file popped up on the screen; the personnel data and ID photo filling the frame.

"Ta-dah!" She declared victoriously. "Meet Malcolm Riley, better known to us as the security guard that tried to pile-drive me into dust."

"This is the guy?" Oliver mumbled as he reached forward and turned the screen in his direction, taking a better look.

"The one and only," Chloe confirmed lightly.

"Could somebody really be so stupid as to use their last name as part of their alias?" He wondered aloud, eyes still trained on Malcolm Riley's stoic photograph.

Her head tilted as she too studied the picture, mulling over the question.

"Well, it only seems stupid now that we know," she pointed out. "Up until this, his tracks have been exceptionally well covered."

"I suppose," Oliver frowned. "If he really is the mastermind, then who's money is he stealing?"

"Yours," a voice announced from the doorway, causing both Chloe and Oliver to look up from the computer they had balanced between them.

"The money Riley's embezzling is getting skimmed out of Queen Industries," Victor finished gravely.

Chloe grew weary as she felt all of Oliver's muscles tighten furiously beside her and she wondered if there was a way for her to slip off of the bed and distance herself from the impending explosion without his noticing.

"You're sure?" Oliver questioned tightly, his eyes firmly locked on the man leaning against the door frame.

"Unfortunately, yes," Victor proclaimed.

The room went quiet as both Chloe and Victor watched Oliver cautiously, the muted rage playing out over his face unmistakable and it promised only the most severe retribution.

"First thing tonight," he stated darkly, his voice way too calm and coolly measured, "me and Malcolm Riley are going to have a chat."

"Maybe the guys should join you," Chloe suggested, her eyes darting to Victor for a little back up. "Just, you know, to keep you from doing anything you might regret."

"I wouldn't regret it," he promised.

"And that would be the problem," Chloe offered dryly.

"Get Bart and AC up," Oliver ordered, his eyes landing on Victor, "we've got some planning to do."

"Will do," Victor said with a nod, turning to leave, but pausing to fix Chloe and Oliver with a look.

"Just a thought," he began blandly, "but you two might want to consider wrapping up this little slumber party… Bart'll have kittens if he finds the pair of you sharing a king sized mattress."

Thanks to his enhanced reflexes, Victor was able to effortlessly dodge the pillows turned projectiles the two heaved at him.