The nightmare came, unbidden and unwelcomed.
It's dark, darker than it should be. The noise is deafening, mangled beams crashing while the whole structure threatens to collapse. The scent clogs the senses, horrid, foul and searing. Something is hollering death and destruction, a crushing pressure in the lungs. Oxygen being sucked up, sucked away, by the fire behind the door. There is a face behind the window. Go, run, survive. The scream inflates, refuses to go out…
Oliver shot up in his bed, gulping in air. He hadn't had that particular nightmare—the twisted version of his memories from the shipwreck— in years. The pinch between his shoulder blades increased to remind him he'd crashed into a glass display in an antique jewelry store a few hours ago. He ripped out his damped tee-shirt and used it to wipe the cold sweat running down his face. The sheets beneath him were equally wet, so he crawled out of bed. In a minute, he would have the energy to find a new pair of linens and remake his bed, but for now he was content to lean against the dresser and breathe.
"Oliver?"
Her voice soothed his heartbeat and increased it at the same time. Hers was the face he saw through that hatch as he ran and the ship sank. It'd been his mother's face before. Always his mother. He'd never seen another woman's features blurred in the traitorous waters of his nightmares, until now. But no women drowned that night. Not his mother, not Chloe. The only people who died on that ship were the pirates who high jacked it. He knew that and still guilt surged, hot enough to sear.
"I'm fine. What are you doing up? It's…"
The alarm clock he spotted in the mirror pretended it was close to 7 a.m. His body and mind refused to think he'd been asleep for almost five hours. Oliver returned his gaze to Chloe.
Barefoot with sleep shorts on, her legs seemed to be a mile long. The sleeves of her hoody were rolled up, and there was some white dust near the zipper. He was pretty sure there was some on her cheek, too. She looked good enough to eat.
Oliver shook his head, covered the rush of desire with a smile and a quip. "Did you get attack by a bag of flour?"
She returned the smile, but her eyes stayed on his, as if she could decipher the answer he was resolute not to give in his stare. "I like to bake. It relaxes me. I hope you're hungry, I made waffles."
"I have a grill?"
"You would know if you spent more time in the kitchen…"
Oliver made a face as she danced out of reach. He was not entirely sure when he made a move to grab her. The nightmare clung to him like a second skin. He felt both feverish and cold. "I'll be here in a minute. Shower."
Chloe looked unconvinced but she nodded and left him alone.
Oliver padded to the bathroom. The eyes staring back at him in the mirror betrayed a hard night, fatigue, maybe some stress. He'd walked through it before, he could do it again. Of course, normally he would take the edge off with a half a bottle of scotch. Today, apparently, it'd be waffles and a dose of Chloe Sullivan. He could work with that too.
The shower washed down the cold sweat, then some of the tension. Oliver finally allowed himself to relax under the spray. He prayed she'd used waterproof bandages, because he was not sure he could go through another session of her hands on him without consequences. Emotions ran too close to the surface. Chloe deserved to be romanced, dined and wined and then seduced slowly, not tumbled onto a bed because of he couldn't control himself. And until he found a way to do that safely, she was off limit.
Oliver turned his face to the water and emptied his head.
When he walked into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, his best intentions almost flew out the window. Chloe was swaying while she cleaned up the counter by the sink, moved by whatever music played in her head. Her golden hair danced around her shoulders each time she balanced her head left or right. She'd abandoned her hoodie on the back of a chair, so the only barrier between him and miles of delectable skin were a satin camisole, and those skimpy shorts she apparently wore especially to torture him. Oliver cleared his throat.
"You've got some moves here, Sidekick."
She spun, her cheeks burning, the wash cloth clutched to her chest. "Really, I wish you'd stop sneaking up on me like that…"
Oliver leaned against the doorframe. "And miss the show? That would be a real shame."
"I am a terrible dancer."
"Not from where I'm standing."
She shook his head in denial as he moved further into the room to seat. Golden, fluffy waffles mingled with a pot of his favorite tea, her unavoidable mug of coffee, fresh fruits and powdered sugar. "This looks good."
Almost as mouthwatering as she did. Fortunately for his sanity, she put her hoodie back on and zipped it halfway up before joining him at the table.
"Thanks." Her cheeks were still flushed, though this time he couldn't say if the color came from her earlier start or the compliment. "That's when I was sure, you know. About the Green Arrow. When we danced…"
"At the Masquerade?"
That explained why she was so tense that night. And why she'd avoided him since then, though he was not going to point that out. She'd apparently forgotten she was angry with him for deceiving her. And terrifying her. And wanting to molest her, first chance he got. Oliver concentrated on his tea.
"Yes. When you joined us, your hat was hiding half your face, and you did that thing…" She waved her hand to mimic a hand kiss. Oliver couldn't help but note the softened hue in her green eyes. Concentrating on what she was saying cost him.
"And you said exactly the same thing than you said to me as the Green Arrow. Welcome to the Emerald City. I just knew."
He washed a bite of waffle with tea. Details about their interaction at the ball came rushing back, cryptic or out-of-turn replies, speculating gazes, other little things she'd let slip. As many clues he would have picked up, if he hadn't been so hell bent on sweeping her off her feet. Oliver watched as Chloe chased a blueberry all over her plate with her fork. The blue ball escaped once again when she stabbed and she looked so frustrated that he laughed.
Chloe pulled a face at him but it was nothing compared to her growl when he reached over, and speared the reluctant piece of fruit in one before he presented it to her.
"It's a hard-acquired skill. You should have seen me trying to catch fishes the first days…"
He stopped himself short as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Chloe ate the berry. She impaled a piece of strawberry for him in return. Oliver obliged, though he had a hard time to swallow the food down.
"Do you have to be in the office soon?"
He grabbed on the change of subject like a lifeline. "Not really, no. Why?"
"I kind of made a list?"
He had a sudden vision of a six-year old Chloe with blonde pigtails writing to Santa. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If I make a naughty or nice joke, are you going to hit me?"
Outrage pinked her cheeks again. Jesus. He had it bad.
"It's for Watchtower!"
The fork came a little too close to his nose as she gestured. Oliver pried her weapon from her fingers, before he stood to clear the table. "Let's have it while I clean this up."
"I can—"
"You cooked, I clean. We agreed on that the first time around. Tell me what you have in mind."
It was easier to listen while he moved, rather than seat so close to her and watch her eyes lit up and her whole being exploded with life as she rattled on GPS, VPN and motherboards.
"Okay."
"Okay? Just like that? Oliver, we're talking about several thousand dollars… Don't you want to think about—"
"I don't need to think about anything. I gave you Watchtower for a reason. Order what we need, whatever you think we might need. I'm fine with it."
"But… But… I…" He watched her mouth open and close a few times. Oliver put the last plate in the dishwasher.
"Since we have some time, why don't we go downstairs so you can show me what exactly you have in mind?"
