"You have a world-class system at your disposal, and you want to watch that one? What about The Last Crusade. At least it has Sir Sean Connery."

"I like Harrisson Ford in a white tuxedo," Chloe pouted.

Oliver grumbled, "you would" under his breath. She favored dark, surly heroes whenever he relinquished the choice of their evening entertainment. Which was a daily occurrence.

Oliver stared as the opening scene of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom filled the screen. He cared less about the movie than the exhaustion that weighted her down. She hid it well, but like he said two days prior, he paid attention to details. And what he saw worried him. She always paused with one hand on the nearest flat surface after she got up too fast. Meals too rich invariably brought a dry cough. He suspected she had headaches as well, since she never stepped out in the sun without a hat and sunglasses, or dimmed the lights every so often. And she seemed permanently cold.

"Here."

He arranged the throw around her shoulders and arms. Chloe rewarded him with one of her brilliant smiles and he lost his train of thoughts.

Indie bowed to an old man, hands joined in prayer. He vaguely remembered how they got to that point, something about a nightclub, a plane crash and narrow escapes.

"When I was a kid, I dreamed about being a foreign correspondent like Perry White." She'd mentioned the name once, and almost flogged him for not knowing that he was the "archetypal image of journalistic integrity". Chloe fidgeted on the couch until she was settled against his arm. "I would go to Egypt, and India and South-America, and write articles worth of a Pulitzer."

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be Robin Hood."

And he was, sort of. Except his hood was stashed one floor below for the time being. He missed being out there. Doing his part, keeping the people safe. Hal was covering for him so no one wondered why the Green Arrow was nowhere to be seen while Oliver Queen was out of commission.

"A noble aim."

"In the historical version, he is a thief." That alone should satisfy her taste for bad boys.

"Huh huh." Chloe's shake of her head against his shoulder shot tremors down his spine. Oliver decided the discomfort was bearable. Just.

"Sorry."

She started to scout away, so he wrapped one arm around her.

"It's fine." Short Round and Willye eagerly waited for soup at the grotesque banquet offered by the young maharajah. Eye balls bobbed up to the ghoulish surface. He made a face.

"Why are we watching this again?"

"Harrisson Ford."

"Right. How about Star Wars? Return of the Jedi? You know, the one where Carrie Fisher tries to rescue her Han Solo and ends up being captured by the giant slug. You know, she'd about your height and—"

"I am not wearing a gold metal bikini at your Masquerade Ball, Oliver."

Chloe slapped his knee, not to gently. He grabbed her hand to avoid a second swat.

"That's too bad. I would totally rock Han Solo…"

"You would be the Wookie, Robin Hood. He's the one with a crossbow."

If only she knew…

"Very funny."

Her pulse jumped under his thumb. Oliver stopped drawing circles on her wrist and slowly untangled himself from her. "Do you want some tea?"

Engrossed in the subterranean adventures of Indy, Chloe muttered, "I'm good" while he stood.

"All right. Be right back."

He retreated to the kitchen. While the kettle filled, Oliver pulled his phone from his pocket. What he needed was a good reality check.

"Hey Hal."

"Tired of playing house?"

"Just taking a break from the epic adventures of Indiana Jones. What's up?"

"Nothing much. Some punk kids got high and went for a joyride half across the county yesterday. Stopped some nasty domestic dispute and a mugging tonight."

"As yourself?"

"Only for the carjacking. The rest was all you."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Any idea when you'll get back in the game?"

His bruised bone and ribs should take about two or three more weeks to heal. The pain was bearable as long as he didn't pull on his chest. The problem was blonde and cooked him diner every night. Damned it.

"I—"

The blood-curling scream pierced his heart like an icy blade.

"Chloe!"

Oliver rushed in the living room. Her body twitched and shook on the couch. Her hands looked for purchase finding nothing but air. Horrified, he watched as her eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth opened in a silent shriek.

"Chloe! Chloe! Hal, get Emil here, now!"

He dropped his phone to pull her off the couch by the waist. Her elbow punched him hard in the chest, missing his plexus by an inch. As gently as he could, Oliver rolled her onto her side on the carpet. His own breath froze in his chest as he felt how cold her skin was. Grabbing the throw he folded it under her head, careful not to impair her movements. His heart raced while he tried to count in his head. Seizures were supposed to be short. When did it start?

"Oliver."

"Emil, she's…"

"I see that. Give me some room."

He kicked the table away from the fragile woman. Hal's costume shimmered away. "Shit."

"I don't know what happened!"

"Man, that wail…"

He would hear that terrible sound in his nightmares until the end of times. "Emil?"

"She's coming around. Chloe, can you hear me?"

"Oliver?"

"Right here. I'm right here… Hey…" He slipped one hand under her head, the other helping her straighten up. She fumbled around, weak as a kitten. "You're okay… You're okay, I've got you."

"Oliver…"

Her fingers clung to his sweater until she was plastered against him, and not a sliver of air could pass between them. She was shaking so hard he felt the whole floor trembling.

"I… I…" She started coughing. Short spasms of air first, then gasps and pants hissing out of her mouth. The desperate pitch scared him to death. "Shh… You have to breathe, Chloe. Breathe for me… Slowly… You're fine. You're safe. Just breathe… Here. With me. breathe with me. In… Out… Good. You're doing good…"

He stared at Emil over her head, looking for direction. The doctor pointed at the bedroom. "Let's go to your room, all right? You'll be more comfortable lying down. Come on."

He started to stand, bracing himself to support her full weight. The delicate blonde slid from his arms. To his horror, she started to cry. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

"Chloe?"

She rocked herself back and forth on the floor, her face buried between her knees. "So sorry… It's all my fault… Daddy, I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Tears streaked down her face, unstoppable. They wrenched his heart in two.

"I'll take it from here, Oliver," Emil declared.

He couldn't force his hand to leave her shoulders. Emil chastised him. "Oliver, let me do my job. I'm the doctor Emil Hamilton, Chloe, I'm going to help you up, all right?"

Somehow, Emil managed to coerce her to stay immobile long enough so that he could slip one arm around her waist and help her to her feet. Her legs wobbled. Oliver almost rushed forward but one glare from Hamilton stopped him cold in his tracks. "Chloe, I'm going to take you to your bedroom so you can get comfortable. Is that all right?"

She didn't answer. To Oliver, she looked almost catatonic. He watched helplessly as Emil guided her toward the sleeping quarters.

"Bloody hell. You're okay man?"

Oliver slumped on the couch. He rubbed one hand over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"You weren't lying about the panic attacks…"

"I… This was worse. I think she had a seizure of some sort."

"She did."

Both Oliver and Hal turned toward Emil Hamilton. The mid-aged man pulled his glasses off his nose to wipe them with the tail of his shirt. Oliver opened his mouth, but Emil cut him short. "I gave her a sedative so she relaxes and hopefully gets some sleep. I'd like to give her a full physical at a later date, but for now, she'll be fine." He put his glasses back on his nose. "Chloe—that's her name?— exhibits strong symptoms of post-traumatic disorder. Who is she?"

"I…" He hesitated. His dark eyes alternated between Hal and Emil. "Her name is Chloe Sullivan. She was in the protective witness program after she testified against Lionel Luthor. From what she told me, the FBI arranged a safe house for her and her father while they worked out the details of their relocation. She saw it explode. Her father was still inside. She'd been on the run ever since."

Emil deflated. "Poor thing…"

Hal frowned. "That's… not possible."

"What!" Oliver barked. "Hal! You-you know about Lex and—"

"Wow, calm down." Hal rose to his full height to meet Oliver's furious glare face to face. "All I'm saying is that people under the witness program don't venture outside safe houses until they are relocated. If they need something, the agents go. It's too dangerous otherwise."

"But—"

"Hold it."

Oliver started as Hal grabbed the remote and rewind. "Where were you when you called me?"

"I don't know… It was disgusting. Eyeballs floating in blood and brains in monkey's heads."

Hal let the movie to forward until he reached the scene. "How much time passed between that moment and the moment she screamed?"

"I…" He still didn't understand what Hal was getting at. "I don't know. A handful of minutes, ten, fifteen minutes maybe?"

Hal fast-forwarded and pressed play. The three men watched as the priest ripped his victim's heart off his chest, before his iron cage descended into molten lava. Hal switched the movie off.

"I think she was inside the house."

"What?!"

"She was inside the house. Someone set it on fire while Chloe and her dad were inside. He helped her out or told her to run, but the house exploded before he could get out."

Oliver swallowed thickly. Emil started cleaning his glasses again. "Oliver, how old was Chloe when that happened?"

"Sixteen or seventeen. Something like that."

"If what Hal says is right, it's possible she simply blocked it out. The fear and the guilt were too much, so her psyche just walled it all up. Suddenly, she wasn't seeing her father burn alive, she was seeing the explosion from afar."

His stomach revolted. Some pieces clinched into place, like how she never approached the barbecue if it smoked too much or her face when he'd mentioned lighting the fire pit the other night. Oliver fell back on the couch. "Jesus. But why now?"

"I would need to talk to her to know for sure, but maybe something changed that unblocked the memories."

It's my fault. He'd gone after a cute blonde, and forced her to walk through her worst nightmare.

"I need a drink."

Or three.