Chapter Six: Cracks Showing Through

"Detective, don't you think you're overreacting?" Oliver asked in the morning. Quentin had buttoned his long-sleeved shirt all the way to the very top and he was wearing sunglasses—indoors.

"We're not going to talk about what happened last night, ever."

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll let you see my ass and then we'll be even."

"See, that's talking about it. Shut up!" How the hell would that make him feel any better?

"But I can't see those pretty brown eyes if you keep them covered up."

Why the hell was his daughter's boyfriend flirting with him? Was it possible to have some kind of nervous tick that made you flirt with everyone? Quentin took the shades off, anyway, the better to watch the morning news. The reporter was discussing Helena Bertinelli's funeral. Lance turned his head from the television set to the younger man.

"So you and Bertinelli…"

"Didn't work out, but you knew that already," Queen sighed. "For a while there, I thought… I thought she understood me, that she was like me, that I wouldn't have to keep secrets from her—yes, alright, like I've been keeping from Laurel. I don't actually enjoy keeping secrets from Laurel, you know."

"No one's making you," Quentin said. He scratched a phantom itch on his arm before continuing. "She'll forgive you, you know. Telling her might even help in the long run. You know how gung-ho she is about the vigilante." When the billionaire didn't respond, he went back to talking about Helena.

"So I take it Bertinelli didn't agree that you were two peas in a pod."

"She did at first. But I couldn't convince her to stop killing and then she went after her father and…" Oliver shook his head. "And I don't know why I'm going off about a bad break-up when you went through that divorce."

"My ex never tried to kill me," Quentin pointed out, trying not to feel uncomfortable about the change in topic. "Nor did I have to watch her die in front of me and we've stayed sort of friends. Or at least we're friendly on the rare occasions we talk. The divorce...it was painful, but it wasn't ugly, you know? We didn't hate each other; we just couldn't pretend that we still had what we once had."

"Hey, as long as you've got those sunglasses handy, you want to go for a walk on the beach?" Oliver asked. "I mean, we're right here and aside from going to and from the hospital, you've been pretty cooped up for a few days."

~PB~

Friday evening saw Quentin lying in bed in the guestroom. (Underwear on, he'd learned his lesson after the other night.) As it was too early for him to sleep, he had his laptop in front of him as he perused the local news stories. Then his computer chimed and a window popped up—he had a message from someone not on his messenger list. It could be spam, but he had a pretty good idea who it was, so he opened it.

Ihateboats: Thought you might be online, detective.

Ihateboats: R u there? You ignoring me?

Protectnserve: I'm here.

Protectnserve: Why is your username Ihateboats instead of Ihateislands?

Ihateboats: Dude, I don't hate all islands. Part of Starling City is an island.* I just hate the creepy desert islands where it takes years to get rescued.

Ihateboats: And also Survivor. Why would that show appeal to anyone?

Protectnserve: No idea. Presumably the viewers have never been shipwrecked.

Ihateboats: Lucky them. Let me tell you, it sucks. You have no idea.

Quentin hesitated before replying.

Protectnserve: Do you want to talk about it?

There was a pause before the next message.

Ihateboats: I haven't talked about it with anyone—Laurel, Tommy, Diggle, my mom, & believe me, they've asked. I just can't.

Ihateboats: I get flashbacks.

Ihateboats: Don't suggest a shrink. No therapist is going to believe I was stuck on an island full of ninjas; they'd say I was nuts.

Protectnserve: …Ninjas?

Ihateboats: Don't ask. Just suffice it to say 'bad' doesn't begin to describe those years.

Ihateboats: So, yeah, if I don't seem too traumatized by my ex-girlfriend being killed right in front of me? It's because I've seen worse.

Ihateboats: Helena didn't get me, anyway. Never did. I think maybe you're the only one that does.

Protectnserve: Or maybe that's just an act and I'm trying to trick you into confessing everything.

Ihateboats: Let's talk about something else. How old were you when you met your wife?

Protectnserve: We were in high school and…you're just trying to figure out my age now, aren't you?

Ihateboats: …Maybe.

Ihateboats: If you don't tell me, I'll just look it up.

Protectnserve: …Forty-seven.** Is this the part where you tell me I'm ancient, Queen?

Ihateboats: No, this is where I tell you to call me Oliver. Mr. Queen was my father.

Ihateboats: And I thought that we'd be on a first name basis after I saw you naked. ;)

Protectnserve: That was an ACCIDENT, which you swore not to talk about…

Protectnserve: …Oliver.

Ihateboats: :) See, that wasn't so difficult.

Ihateboats: I'm hungry. R u?

Protectnserve: …Didn't we just eat a couple of hours ago?

Ihateboats: So? Are you hungry or not?

Protectnserve: Well…since you mention it, I could eat.

Ihateboats: Meet you in the kitchen in 5?

~PB~

Five minutes later, they did rendezvous in the kitchen (both wearing robes).

"So, what are you in the mood for?" Oliver asked, smiling. When Quentin hesitated, Oliver opened the refrigerator door to see what their options were. "Let's see: grilled cheese, tuna, leftover chicken, spaghetti, mashed potatoes, pancakes…"

"Pancakes," Quentin decided.

"You read my mind," Oliver grinned, as he started pulling out the necessary ingredients and got to work.

"Queen—"

"What did I say about calling me that?"

"Oliver, then, when you said that I get you…"

"Yes, Quentin, I meant it." Oliver didn't look up from beating the eggs. "Unlike my mother, I know you haven't just been driven by some vendetta against me. You've gotten as far as you have these past months by getting into my head.

"And that's as close to a confession as you're going to get, by the way."

"We shouldn't be striking up a friendship," Quentin shook his head, "with you being who you are and me being who I am. What happens when I go back to work?"

This time Oliver did turn away from the batter to meet Quentin's gaze. He didn't have an answer for that, so he didn't speak. A beat passed in silence, then two…

Then the front door opened and a cheerful voice called out.

"Dad? Ollie? Is anybody home?" Laurel strolled into the kitchen, bags in tow. "There you are!"

"Laurel, what are you doing here?" Oliver asked.

"I got this distraught voicemail from Dad the other night," she kissed her father on the cheek. "I went back to your apartment and did manage to dig up some flannel pajamas in your closet like you wanted," she gestured to the bags she'd set down on the counter, "though I think the weather's too hot for them now.

"I have the worst news: Mom is getting remarried! Can you believe that? Just, out of the blue, who knows what kind of loser the guy is, though she says she wants me to meet him soon. Figures that would be the only reason she'd make time to see me—

"Oh, you're making pancakes—at this hour, really?"

"Yes, really," Oliver replied.

"Uh, you know, on second thought, I'm just going to hit the sack now," Quentin said.

"You don't have to," Oliver protested.

"Am I interrupting something?" Laurel asked, trying to figure out what was going on around her. She looked between the two men, taking in their expressions and body language.

"No, you're not," Quentin assured her. "Goodnight, honey."

"Quentin, are you sure you don't want any pancakes?" Oliver asked, pouring layers of subtext into the question.

"No, I," he looked at his daughter before looking back at her boyfriend. "No, I don't."

As he left the room, Laurel's eyes widened.

Holy shit! Her father had fallen in love with Oliver.

*Okay, I don't know whether this has been established in the show, but it's plausible. Go with it.

**Some of you may know that in canon, Quentin was 50 years old in season one (significantly older than the actor that portrays him). I chose to knock three years off his age.

Author's Note: Chapter title from Queen's "Lost Opportunity."

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