26. A lair of our own
"Hi, Mrs. Martinez," Laurel perked up when she heard the beeping stop. "This is Laurel Lance…"
"Oh, Laurel, dear, yes, how have you been?"
"Oh," Laurel paused. It's not that the question surprised her – even when grief-stricken Grace Martinez had found time to bundle lunches for Laurel, because – 'a girl needs to eat to catch criminals' – whenever she came around CNRI for updates on her son's case.
"I'm good, Mrs. Martinez," Laurel replied, a moment later. What did surprise her was the realization that there was a hefty ding of truth in her words. Which one is it now? Seven? Eight? "Really good, actually. How have you been?" she dropped the pen on the small notepad where she'd been doodling out of habit and relaxed into the conversation.
"Moved to Florida, dear. The weather is much nicer than in Starling and my old bones need more sun."
"That is good to hear! I remember you had a niece in Tallahassee, I hope you get to see her more often now."
"I live few streets from her, Sophia, my niece… She wanted me to move in, but you know… Young people need their own place," the lady huffed. "It is wonderful to hear from you, dear. Is there anything I can help with? Not something with…"
"No, no," Laurel rushed to reassure the kind woman. "Your sons' murderers are in Iron Heights and it's not going to change for a very long time. I'm sorry if I brought up bad memories…"
"Nonsense, dear. You helped me when nobody else wanted to."
"I'm sure that…," Laurel started her old defense of everybody else who had dropped the Martinez case, because that would have involved going against the local charter of Russian mob whose enforcers had killed Mrs. Martinez's son for missed 'protection' payments, but… It was on the tip of her tongue – that the case had been rightfully intimidating, that in the end she didn't get the main guys, just the guilty ones, but she stopped herself. Slade was right. Sometimes she apologized entirely too much. "I was wondering if you had already sold his garage or if you were willing to sell it? Or even rent it?"
"Oh, I tried to, but with that awful business in the Glades, the one buyer that was interested rescinded the offer," Mrs. Martinez sighed on the other end of the phone.
"Would you sell it to me?"
"To you, dear? Why do you want it?" it wasn't nosiness or even the natural curiosity of somebody willing to part with their property. For the old lady the young lawyer and a garage for fixing cars just didn't go together.
Laurel had expected a question like that and had prepared an answer that was as close to truth as possible. "I am looking to expand my work in the Glades, and I think it is in ideal location." Close to Verdant, large space, hard to trace to her if she were to rent.
"Oh, you want to help more people? Bless your heart, dear," her voice sounded a little teary at the end of it. "You may use it as long as you need, dear. Anything to help."
"To rent?" Laurel frowned, confused.
"No, no, I'll call the man I asked to look after it to give you keys. You use it for good as long as you need to. No rent for you," Mrs. Martinez insisted.
"No, there has to be something…" Laurel tried to argue.
"Now, dear," the motherly woman on the other end of the call took on a serious note, "I could not help my son and I can't do much for anyone else in my age. But I can do this, and you can do the rest. Deal?"
Laurel felt her heart melt. You have no idea the things I can do now, Mrs. Martinez. It hit her now more than it had when the idea had first been born between her and Thea. She could do good. And it mattered. And not just to herself. "Deal," she promised. It was an oath she intended to uphold.
They chatted for a few minutes longer and by the end of it Laurel had completed the first step in her and Thea's vigilantism affair setup. Acquire a location. Check. Done.
As she put the phone down, unbidden came thought of a different mother – not the motherly, warm Mrs. Martinez, but her own. Laurel had been dodging her calls for nearly two weeks now. A spiteful part of her felt that tit-for-tat would require her to last out some more years. But she dropped the thought as soon as she had it.
She wasn't her mother. I should answer. She didn't want to.
But Laurel was very experienced in doing things she didn't want to do. In pushing through. The right thing was to call her mother back. It had already been too long. Taking a deep breath she picked up the phone and hit callback on her mother's contact.
Realization number… whatever. Some things have to be done. And it's okay to not want to do them. Still have to do them, though.
"Hi, mom, it's me," Laurel faltered when she heard the beeping stop.
IKYWT
Laurel stood mainly on one leg with the other tapping away at a song on the radio as she chopped spring onions for garnish. The oven next to her was lit with a warm light as it roasted a selection of vegetables and a gentle steam rose from the pan on the stove as the sauce slowly bubbled.
She let the knife drop on the chopping board as she finished with the spring onions and as she reached for her glass of wine - the elevator pinged letting her know that she was about to have company. She was so used to feeling safe in the penthouse, that she didn't even look up as she took a small sip of the wine, lifted the cover of the pan – and added a fair bit of her white wine to the small chicken pieces stewing in the cream and cheese sauce.
It was an entirely domestic scene that greeted Slade as he got past the entrance hallway.
"My, my, you are indeed a woman of your word," he drawled, taking off his suit jacket and dropping it on the couch. "A dragon slayer gracing my kitchen."
Laurel chuckled sparing a glance over her shoulder before she put the cover back on the pan and shut off the heat beneath it. "We lawyers do like to stick to the fine print," she quipped back and moved a bit more sideways to open the oven to check on the veggies.
"Anything I can do to help?" Slade stepped behind the counter, near to her. He started rolling up his shirt sleeves.
Laurel paused for a second, half crouched next to the oven. An unexpected thrill ran across her back. She shook her head, "No, I'm just about done," must be the heat from the oven, she thought as she leaned away and opened it. A wall of steam rolled out, she swayed a bit and while she was nowhere near losing balance… For a second there she wished there had been hands to steady her.
Maybe pull her close.
She shook her head to shake away the thoughts and stuck her fork in the nearest potato. "Seems ready," she declared, clearing her throat. "All done," she straightened swiftly and turned around to come face to face with Slade. Must be the wine.
Because there was heat in her face. And a sudden awareness of the physicality of his presence. Because he was not an unattractive man. In fact,… He had a towering build – wide shoulders, strong arms along which his rolled up white shirt seemed to just strain within its stitches… As her gaze moved along his chest and downward, she caught herself and snapped her eyes up.
There was no salvation when looking in his face. There was warmth in his eye – it looked like he knew she was looking and was happy to allow it. The beard gave his face softness, the grey along his temples gave him character. Fuck.
Laurel grabbed her near empty glass and clutched it like a lifesaver. "Why don't you set the table…" she mumbled and escaped past him.
He chuckled and set about trying to find plates and trivet for the pan while Laurel hid in the armchair.
Fuck, she thought again. And at the same time, she couldn't deny that it had been utterly pleasant to feel attraction again. It had been so long. Past weeks she'd just been happy to feel… Not even 'not sad' or 'happy', but just more human. Living human. Because before that, before the bridge, it… Now it all seemed a haze to her, but she remembered the prevailing feeling of barely holding herself together. And before that… There had been Oliver and Tommy and even before that - five years of suppressed anger and grief.
She knew without examining it closer that there were things that she had yet to come to terms with. Things she had to give herself time and space to digest – about what happened, about her own choices and the reasons for the things she'd done, but now… Couldn't she just enjoy the teasing warmth that settled in her belly as she watched her attractive roommate set the dinner table? What could be the harm in that?
"Done," Slade called as the last forks and knives were set and Laurel almost startled. Her eyes had been following him like a hunter watches prey, but she hadn't been registering his progress in his task.
"Ah, right," she nodded, quickly finished the last dredges of wine in her glass and traipsed softly towards the dinner table. The heated floors were heaven to her naked feet.
"It looks delicious," Slade said both in wonder and praise as she slid into a seat next to him.
She quirked a smile, "It's one of the simplest recipes I know. Picked it up from a friend at uni." There truly hadn't been much to do – wash and drop vegetables on a plate; she'd picked a selection of potatoes, sweet potatoes, and carrots. Wash, chop and drop small chicken pieces on a pan, fry until a bit brown and pour over cream and drop a few bits of blue cheese in it. Let it simmer. The wine was her own personal preference.
"Elegance is in simplicity, Laurel," he said as he picked up the wine bottle to add to her glass.
Him calling her by name made her shiver. And was it her imagination or had his voice dropped down a tone? I think the heating's turned on too high, she thought as she tugged on the collar of her sweater. "Is that blood on your shirt?" she suddenly frowned and pointed with her glass, almost tipping the wine over.
"Oh," Slade startled. "Yes, I must have cut myself shaving this morning," he continued smoothly. "Nothing to worry about."
Hmm. "Do be more careful," Laurel said as she reached for the bowl of roasted vegetables. "You're a rather useful dinner… assistant. Would hate to lose you to a household mishap."
He laughed, "You're in charge." His expression was open and smile wide even as Shado loomed in the corner of his vision. "I'd hate to disobey."
Laurel suppressed a laugh and rolled her eyes, "Eat, then," she ordered and passed the bowl to him. For the rest of the dinner, they stayed on the extremely volatile topics of the predicted success of the city's NFL team next season.
IKYWT
"So, what do you think?"
Thea pursed her lips, her hands on her hips. "I think it has potential," she nodded with her head and moved further into the garage.
Laurel grinned and flipped few more light switches to make the space easier to oversee. Mrs. Martinez's garage wasn't very large, but it would do for what Laurel had in mind. It was a nearly two store building, but that was mainly due to fact that there was a lift for raising cars up. There was space enough to accommodate four cars. There was also a pit – meant for going under a car if the lift wasn't available. Windows were on the high above ground, the entrance consisted of two garage doors and one smaller door that led straight into the small office that overlooked the main space.
"The building next door has no occupancy, and this is a nice walk distance from Verdant, route goes right by the hotdog stand."
"I like it," Thea said again. "I mean, I like it, but the hotdog stand really sells it," she teased. "We will have to have some renovations though."
Laurel nodded; her heels clicked echoing in the space. "Starting with soundproofing."
"Probably shouldn't do too much on the outside not to draw attention," Thea mused.
"Agree, though locks will have to be changed, and we probably have to set up some more hidden storage for any stuff we don't want just lying around," Laurel brainstormed along.
"Like masks?" Thea frowned. "Or guns?"
Laurel wrinkled her nose. "No guns," she said quickly. "Not for me at least, I…," she tried to figure out how to phrase the reasons for her visceral reaction. "Guns have never meant anything good in Glades. I don't want any guns. And I don't want any accidents that might come from guns. Whatever we do – we are not out to hurt people."
"Not the good ones, anyway," Thea mumbled.
Laurel winced, "No guns. And let's play the rest by ear."
"Fine," Thea was not enthused, but agreed. Then sighed. "To be honest I don't think I could shoot anybody either it's just… Standing here… It feels real," she paused for a second. "And that feels scary."
"And guns feel safe?" there was gentleness in the question that made it sound more serious than accusing.
"No," Thea admitted. "It's just what's supposed to make you feel safe, right?"
There was painful understanding on Laurel's face. She'd had a shotgun in her own home. It hadn't stopped the hitman who came into her apartment for the child she had tried to protect nor those that had kidnapped her in the past.
"We'll make us feel safe," Laurel said with conviction. "We'll learn how." And suddenly the realization felt right – both her decision to stop practicing law, and her acquiescence to this idea of vigilantism. It was time to stop trying to save the world with her words – making herself into a paper shield. It was time to do better. Be a stronger shield.
Thea's tremulous smile grew wider, "Speaking of which, I got us appointment at that gym I mentioned. It's Wednesday, right before our lunch."
"Perfect!" and as each piece of her life finally began to form a picture that she could feel connected to once again, Laurel's smiles held more and more light.
