Sheep's Clothing
Summary: With Oliver's messed-up life, danger comes in all shapes and sizes… Late Season 9.
Pardon the delay. Sunday afternoon naps are required by law.
Chapter Seven
"Are you sure you're all right?" Oliver asked.
"I'm fine," Chloe said, her tone letting him know just how impatient she was getting. "As I've told you the last thousand times you asked."
Oliver completely ignored her grumpy reply. Chloe was back at Watchtower after another two days in the hospital followed by two days at her apartment, where she had been clawing the walls and begging him to let her come back to work. Lois had been on the other end, calling, leaving messages, then showing up in person to threaten him if he so much as thought about letting Chloe go back to work, not to mention the threat of castration if Chloe ever got so much as another hang nail working for Oliver. Thankfully, he'd negotiated that the occasional paper cut wouldn't threaten his manhood. Chloe really did work with too much paper to make that safe.
Unaware of his inner musings, Chloe was already logging in and staring at her bank of screens, going over what she'd missed the last few days, especially what the Kandorians had been up to. Oliver knew she'd been cheating and working from the hospital and home when they weren't watching, but now that she was back in her element, it was full steam ahead.
"If you get tired, you'll tell me." It was a statement, not a question and Oliver gave Chloe a warning glare for good measure. The experimental drug may have accelerated her healing process, but she wasn't 100 percent and they both knew it. Nevertheless, Oliver was willing to ease her back into things at Watchtower as long as he was around to make sure she didn't do too much too soon.
Chloe gave him a longsuffering smile, as she had been doing for most of her forced convalescence. "If you find me passed out at my keyboard, just set up a coffee IV and I'll be good to go."
Oliver frowned. He lightly grasped her arm and turned her so they were face to face. "Not funny," he said quietly. "I thought we were going to quit making jokes about your near death experience."
Her mouth quirked up on one side. "And by 'we', you mean me."
"Is there anyone else here making jokes?"
"Well, I'd feel better if you'd lighten up a bit." She batted her lashes, still amused, albeit resigned to his seriousness. "Playing comic relief all the time is starting to wear me out."
"She says she's worn out," Oliver grumbled.
"Don't get all high and mighty with me," Chloe warned. "Don't think I don't know you're going out on patrol tonight."
Oliver frowned down at her. "So?"
She settled her hand against his side over his restitched ribs. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one who was shot."
"Trying to distract me?" He set his hand over hers, intertwining their fingers. He pulled her hand away from his side and up to his lips. He pressed a warm kiss to her palm, pleased at the tiny frisson of pleasure that raced across Chloe's skin. "It's not going to work, Nurse Sullivan," he said, smiling. "Deflecting my attention never works. That's why my aim is dead on. We were talking about you."
"Nurse Sullivan?" Chloe raised an eyebrow and pulled her hand out of his, sliding it around to his back. She pulled him flush against her and all Oliver could think was how much he'd missed her while she was ill. "Is that a suggestion for later?"
Oliver's small smile broadened into a full grin. "Come to think of it, I am feeling a little warm. Maybe you should take my temperature."
"Hmm…" She pressed the back of her free hand to his forehead. "You are a little warm. I may need to see you in my office."
"Luckily," Oliver said with a smirk, "we are in your office." His brow furrowed in mock-anxiety. "This could be serious. It might require a full physical."
Chloe wrapped her arms around his neck pulling him down so that their lips were only a breath apart. "Yeah, Ollie," she whispered huskily, "you're really hard to distract." Chloe winked before giving him a gentle push back and returning to her keyboard.
Oliver let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Some nurse you are. The medical system in this country needs a serious overhaul."
Chloe turned around and glared at him. "You know, instead of guarding me from the dangers of typing, why don't you go make yourself useful? I'm out of coffee."
"Can't have that," he replied in all seriousness. "And I'm physically incapable of denying a damsel in distress."
"Oh, you're distressing me all right."
Oliver laughed. "Anything special?"
"I want the house blend from Marco's."
"Now I know you're trying to get rid of me. Marco's is on the other side of town."
She shrugged, although there was definitely a mischievous glint in her eye. "Can I help what my taste buds are begging for?"
"Fine, fine," he said, giving in easily. Chloe knew he was willing to fly to Columbia and pick the beans himself if it would make her happy. In this case, it appeared she wanted him out of her hair for a little while, and that too he could grant easily enough. He would be back in plenty of time to ensure she didn't overtire herself.
Oliver stepped close, purposely invading her space. She turned back to him and set her hand against his chest, her fingers like a warm brand over his heart. It was on the tip of his tongue, the need to tell her how he felt. Too many close calls in too short a time had crystallized his feelings into as clear a picture as it was possible to form. This woman had become his world. She was it. The one. With every fiber of his being he wished his parents were still alive so that he could finally bring someone home to meet them, someone he could be proud to introduce to them.
He knew, however, that Chloe wasn't ready yet. No matter how close a call this one was, she still wasn't able to admit her feelings. While her eyes told him that she knew, that she felt the same way he did, he would have to be patient until she came to accept what he had, that something deeper than friendship had snuck up on them.
Oliver leaned down and kissed her, a chaste kiss by their standards. "I'll be back. Anything else you need while I'm on a supply run?" Chloe shook her head, bemused by the look he was giving her, which was fine by him. He would keep giving her plenty to think about until they were both on the same page. "Type fast. Lois will have my hide if I let you stay here too long."
Chloe rolled her eyes. "I better get to work then."
"And I'd better produce the fuel that fires Watchtower's engines."
"I don't run on coffee."
Oliver smiled, stepping back and heading for the door. "Pretty sure you're a new coffee-based life form, Chloe. Decaf's your kryptonite."
Chloe huffed and waved him off. "Fine. As long as the lesser life forms continue to bring sustenance to their master."
"Your wish is my command." Oliver chuckled, already halfway out the door.
Oliver juggled the two coffee cups so he could pull his ringing phone out of his pocket. He checked the screen and smiled as he answered. "Higher life form or not, you don't get to complain that your coffee is taking too long when you send me to the back of beyond for it."
"Are you making excuses to your better?" Chloe asked, amusement coloring her tone.
"Actually I was whining to my better." Oliver paused as an eerily familiar feeling began to creep along his spine. He was being watched.
Oliver ducked into the closest doorway, his eyes searching the surrounding buildings. "It's déjà vu all over again," he muttered.
"What was that?"
"Sorry," Oliver said, trying to concentrate on Chloe and locate the source of his discomfort at the same time. "I was looking at something and got distracted."
"Thought you didn't get distracted." Oliver could actually hear the smirk in her voice.
"As you so ably demonstrated, it happens."
"That distraction better not be female," Chloe said pointedly and Oliver could have jumped for joy. In this case, jealousy was a beautiful thing to behold. It meant Chloe thought of him as hers.
"I am currently living in an alternate universe where females do not exist with the exception of one pert, overly intrepid, computer-hacking coffee fiend."
"Uh huh," she said, her disbelief plain.
Oliver couldn't see anything that would set his instincts off, but he knew just how well that had worked out the last time he'd come to that conclusion. "It's true," he said, feigning hurt. "You think I'd set up a multi-million dollar think tank for just any pretty pair of legs that walked in off the street?"
"Yes," she deadpanned.
"Ouch! See if I wander far and wide for your coffee now."
"Yeah, yeah. Where are you?"
Oliver smiled at her impatience. "I'm a block away. I'll be there in a second." Giving up on his useless efforts at figuring out the source of his continued paranoia, Oliver stepped back onto the sidewalk and began moving toward Watchtower.
"Do you need directions? I know how turned around you can get on a mission."
"Very funny," he said, although it was true he spent an inordinate amount of time following her directions in and out of places. "For your information I'm in front of your usual coffee stand which would have produced your coffee much, much faster, but in any case, I think I can find my way from here. As a matter of f-"
Oliver was walking past the alley and suddenly an arm came around him, wrapping around his throat. He dropped the coffees and grasped the arm to pry it away, but lost his grip when he felt a burning pain in his side. He felt the sharp drag as a knife was pulled out of his side and once again jammed right back in near his kidneys, then one more time for good measure, all while he was being dragged into the alley out of sight of any passersby.
Oliver dropped his cell phone from nerveless fingers as he was hauled backward by his neck. He tried to twist out of the man's grasp, but that seemed to infuriate his attacker who flipped his hold on the knife and brought it down viciously, stabbing it into Oliver's chest.
Abruptly, the thug dumped him on the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Oliver struggled to draw a breath and felt utterly helpless when his body refused to respond. He ordered himself to stay calm and focus on the person trying to kill him, knowing he just needed a second and he'd get his breath back.
"Sneak attack. Not fun, is it, Mr. Queen?"
Oliver still couldn't see his assailant, but this wasn't just a mugging if the guy knew his name. Oliver silently went through every single swear word he knew, in every language he knew, all the while declaring that if he didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.
Oliver managed to drag in a painful, burning gasp of air as his lungs fought to refill. "Who…" His attempt to speak resulted in a fit of coughing that doubled him over with pain and he realized the knife was still sticking out of his chest. Every instinct he had told him to pull the foreign object out, but his more rational brain reminded him that it was the only thing keeping the hole it had made plugged.
Suddenly, he was kicked so that he was once again flat on his back and a face appeared, hovering above him. "Problem, Mr. Queen?"
"I don't-" Once again Oliver dissolved into a fit of coughing, a new taste of blood in his mouth this time.
"You don't what?" the man snarled. "You don't remember me? You don't understand?"
Oliver ordered himself to focus on the man leaning over him, and realized he did in fact recognize him. He'd thought maybe Portia had sent the hitman after him out of spite, or it was someone sent by any number of people he'd pissed off at some point, but the man who'd brought him down was, of all people, an accountant.
Bennington or Pennington… something with "ton", some long pretentious-sounding hyphenated name. He was the accountant who'd brought the financial records to show him that someone was defrauding Queen Industries, not knowing it was Oliver himself using the money to fund Watchtower and his own Green Arrow needs. "Greg," Oliver managed.
"Gregory," the man corrected through gritted teeth. "Gregory Willmington-Pruett. But I take it that means you do remember me."
"Promoted," Oliver gasped. "Promoted you." And he had. He'd made sure the accounts the man had flagged that fed into Watchtower were seemingly closed or sheltered in new dummy corporations, moving all of the business into new accounts, and this guy was given a promotion for being such an asset to Queen Industries and finding the apparent fraud that some unknown criminal had been perpetrating while the company wasn't looking.
"You think I'm stupid?" the man snapped. "You think I didn't check up on what had been done, that I didn't see the flurry of money being shifted? And it was all at your orders." He punctuated the words with a solid kick to Oliver's already injured side.
"It's my company!" Oliver shot back, anger fueling his remaining strength.
"You're all the same." Gregory reached down and abruptly jerked the knife out of Oliver's chest. It left a tearing, burning feeling in its wake, but then he was starting to feel a little distant from what was going on. Let that be a lesson to him, Oliver thought. Everyone knew to watch out for the gold-digging hussy, but it was the accountant you really had to keep an eye on. Apparently, this one really didn't like anyone messing with the books.
"You're all a bunch of lying criminals, just ripping the company and its workers off right and left. You couldn't care less about the little guy working in the trenches." He waved the knife back and forth as he spoke, periodically jabbing it toward Oliver's face for emphasis. "You're what's wrong with this country. All you care about is what you can get out of the company for yourself. You're just thieves. I brought you those financials so you would fix it. I didn't do it so you could bury the proof under even more layers of paperwork."
The man leaned down over Oliver, staring him in the face. "I've been following you. Do you ever do anything but take money from the company? You go to parties. You drive fancy cars. You eat out in hoity-toity restaurants. You fly around the world in your fancy jet. You go visit your girlfriend in her fancy apartment building. The only time you went to that cheap diner, you were with some girl no one knows. Were you too ashamed of her to take her to one of your highbrow places? The news said you took off for Europe as soon as she died. And why did she die? You, Mr. Queen. Because you're a useless, lying, thieving, Wall Street, big wig CEO and I'm just one in a long line of guys who thinks the world would be a better place without you."
Oliver was barely following the man's ranting. He coughed again and felt blood spatter his face. He sincerely hoped they cleaned him up in the morgue before anyone else saw him, not to mention that he had no doubt the morgue pictures would show up on the internet. It was just one of the perils of being obscenely rich. It would be his last opportunity for a photo op before the pictures of the casket and extremely dry-eyed mourners at the funeral.
Oliver had often wished that he was as fast as Bart or that he had Victor's internal sensor array to see who was trying to sneak up on him, or that he was invulnerable like Clark. This was probably the first time he'd ever thought A.C.'s ability to breathe underwater would be useful, because that was kind of what he felt like he was trying to do right then.
Beyond all that, however, at this moment, all he really wished was that Chloe hadn't been on the phone to hear him die. She hadn't needed another memory like that. Even now, she was probably frantic in her efforts to save him, useless though they were.
Oliver thought he felt a hand against his chest. Probably Greg going in for the kill, although it seemed a bit like overkill really.
"Sorry," he managed to say. He was sorry Chloe was going to be alone again. He was sorry he wouldn't see their children. He was sorry the team would be down a man, especially when they were facing such an impossible task with the Kandorians. He was sorry he hadn't always lived up to what his parents would have wanted for him. He was sorry he'd wasted huge chunks of his life on drinking and debauchery. He was sorry he'd hurt the people he cared about nearly as often as he'd helped them.
Oliver could feel a hand against his cheek now, and it sounded like someone, maybe a woman was talking to him, but it was useless.
Sorry. Yes, he was. It seemed fitting as last words go.
More soon…