The Exception to the Rules
Part 4: Cat Suits for Catwalks
Seated on one end of the sofa in Oliver’s penthouse, Chloe sifted through the papers in her hands as her eyes darted back and forth between the various documents, assessing them carefully. Dropping the stack in her left hand to the floor, she leaned towards her laptop and began evaluating the information displayed on the screen, comparing it to the data on the top page of the pile in her right hand.
It was well past midnight and far, far later than she had intended to stay when she had first arrived that afternoon. Though she had made some breakthroughs during her hours of researching, every insight she had unearthed was followed by a brand new batch of perplexing questions, and as determined as she was to crack the nut that was the decidedly mysterious Wynlie Group, the fact that she was fading fast had officially become unavoidable. Her eyes were starting to cross, her injured ribs hadn’t stopped throbbing all day, and everything else about her was practically begging for some sleep.
“I’m really starting to see why this place pisses you off!” She shouted suddenly, giving up as she threw the remaining papers in her hand at her computer and sunk irritably into the ridiculously inviting couch she sat upon.
“I know, right!” Oliver exclaimed from the other end of the sofa, surrounded by his own piles of invoices, spreadsheets and files.
“I mean, what do they even do?” He continued, his frustration as palpable as hers. “They bring in mismatched inventory, send random orders out and as far as I can see, none of the supplies have anything to do with each other!”
He began yanking on the green silk tie around his neck, roughly pulling apart the once perfect knot at his throat. Taking in his fit with arched brows, Chloe worried absently that he was going to end up strangling himself if he didn’t ease up a bit.
“I even considered the possibility that they’re fencing stolen goods,” he elaborated once he was free of the offending tie, “but all of the records keep coming up legit. What the hell are they doing out there?”
“Who knows?” Chloe grumbled as her head lolled back despondently. “I can’t figure out who’s running the place, let alone what they do. I’m nauseous from going around and around with all these stupid parent companies."
The two descended into a sullen silence, each seething over the fact that this simple, run-down, out of the way warehouse was stonewalling them at every turn.
“When’s Victor gonna get here?” Chloe asked in a small, exhausted voice, her head rolling along her cushion to face Oliver.
“Hopefully, in a couple of days,” he replied tiredly. “He and the guys have to finish up in South America, then they’ll come straight to Metropolis.”
“Good,” she sighed. “Maybe this stuff will make more sense after a little robo-voodoo.”
“Somehow I doubt it,” Oliver grumbled, earning a curious look from Chloe.
“I’m not saying Vic’s not good,” he amended, “but you and I are far from idiots and if we can’t make it add up, then there has to be more going on.”
“Hmm, maybe,” she considered, unconvinced. In all honesty, she was feeling pretty idiotic at the moment, but was consoling herself by laying the blame for that on her sleep depravation.
“We could take another trip out to the warehouse,” he proposed, his eyes slanting in her direction. “See if we can find the missing piece.”
“Oh, please no,” Chloe whimpered. “My ribs don’t want to go, not tonight.”
“Are they still bothering you?” Oliver enquired as he lowered his head against his own cushion and unconsciously mimicked her posture.
“Little,” she shrugged, trying to backtrack over the whiny complaint she’d let slip. “I’m fine, really, just not accustomed to getting beat up like you are.”
“Hey!” Oliver objected, “I don’t get beat up!”
“You do so!” Chloe countered, a list of some of his particularly spectacular scrapes springing easily to mind.
“Well, yeah, but not often!” He defended pathetically.
“Oh, calm down,” she chastised. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just that you’re a guy and you’re all tough and man-ish and stuff.”
“Man-ish?” Oliver questioned haughtily. “Your vocabulary could use a little work.”
“I’ll send it to the gym with the rest of me,” she answered glibly, easily garnering a chuckle out of him.
“So, have you been to a see a Doctor about these tender ribs of yours?” he pressed, reverting to his original line of questioning.
“I’m fine,” Chloe droned.
Oliver’s brow rose with unconcealed doubt and she sighed in the face of his disbelief.
“I thought I’d managed to steer you off this topic with the getting beat up banter,” she muttered.
“I’m not Bart,” he joked. “I don’t see something sparkly and lose my train of thought.”
“You’re mean,” she criticized.
“You’re just sticking up for him cause he’s all kinds of ga-ga over you.”
“He’s a flirt, that’s all.”
“You love it,” he grinned teasingly. “No wonder he’s got it so bad, you encourage it.”
Eyes rolling, Chloe grabbed the nearest throw pillow and lobbed it in Oliver’s direction.
“He tells me I’m beautiful, so I smile and say thank you. That’s not encouragement. It’s called good manners.”
Oliver snickered.
“It’s not like I’m inviting him over to my place for drinks!” She argued. “He’s a nice guy and I’m not going to tell him off for being nice to me!”
Oliver’s grin widened.
“Oh shut up,” she groused. “You’re baiting me.”
Looking for another pillow, she laughed out loud when he handed her the one she had already thrown at him.
“Thanks,” she grinned, accepting his offering and tossing it right back, watching it bounce off his face.
“So,” Oliver began mildly, “back to your ribs.”
Making some sort of inelegant growling snort, Chloe let her body drop theatrically to the couch and hid her face away in the cushions.
“Now you’re just being a brat,” he mused as he grabbed the pillow she’d beaned him with and popped her softly on the head.
Emerging from the cushions she’d burrowed into, she glared at him reproachfully.
“If you’d quit nagging me, I wouldn’t have to be bratty.”
Unaffected by her irritation, he leaned even further into the couch and raised his arms to settle his head comfortably into his interlaced fingers.
“Well,” he began languidly, “if you took proper care of yourself after a mission, I wouldn’t have to keep you on the sidelines so much.”
Intrigued, Chloe tucked an arm under her head to get a better view of him and narrowed her eyes inquisitively.
“I thought last night was the exception to the anti field work clause you imposed on my job.”
“I guess it was,” Oliver replied casually, as if that was the end of the conversation.
“You’d let me go on missions?” She asked wide-eyed, rising now to rest her weight on her elbows and watching him closely for any signs of a bluff.
“Is that something you’d want?” He volleyed back.
Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Chloe mulled it over. She had never considered taking her membership with the league to that level, but she had to admit, the notion wasn’t without a certain thrill.
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “I mean, I get that I’d be of better use to the team if I were more asset, less liability, but still…”
Lowering his hands from behind his head, Oliver looked at her seriously.
“Chloe, you’re good at what you do and the team’s better for having you.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, hoping her blushing cheeks weren’t too red.
“Going out on missions,” he continued, “is not something you need to do to prove your worth. I’m asking you if it’s something you want to do.”
Her teeth went right back to chewing her bottom lip.
“You’re going bite that off if you keep it up,” he opined dryly.
She immediately released her lip with a soft smack and mirrored his serious expression.
“I’d have to think about it a bit,” she declared, the words tinged with an apology.
Oliver gave her a reassuring smile.
“The offer doesn’t have an expiration date Sidekick. Feel free to overanalyse to your heart’s content.”
Chloe’s eyes rolled comically and she knew full-well she would do just that.
“It does need to be said though,” Oliver pointed out, shifting to sit up straighter on the sofa. “If you decide to go for this, there will be no traipsing in right off the bench.”
“I don’t traipse,” Chloe scowled.
“There’d be training,” he elaborated, glossing over her objection. “Lots of it.”
She nodded impatiently, making it blatantly clear that she considered his rules ridiculously obvious.
“And a uniform would be a must,” he went on. “That’s non-negotiable.”
Her nose scrunched distastefully and he shook his head in annoyance.
“We’re not going to have a particularly covert operation if that blonde head of yours ends up on security feeds across the globe!”
“Fine,” she conceded as she mentally flipped through all of the various female disguises she had come across over the years and deemed each one of them wholly unacceptable. “What kind of uniform are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver retorted. “I’m not a designer.”
Chloe thought about possible options for a moment before announcing her choice.
“Ski mask,” she proclaimed.
“Wow, that’s glamorous,” Oliver chortled.
“What?” She demanded. “It’s practical, it’s cost-efficient, and I’d get to wear my own clothes.”
Laughing plainly now, he fixed her with a smirk.
“You want to go around dressed like a mugger?”
“People wouldn’t recognize me,” she noted pointedly.
“Sure,” he agreed, “but wouldn’t you want something a little less… generic?”
“I thought this was about anonymity,” she snarked. “I didn’t realize I was expected to take this uniform down the catwalk at Fashion Week.”
“A cat suit!” Oliver exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That could work.”
“Ah, no,” Chloe quickly dismissed. “Perhaps for the Lois’s of this world, but me, I’m not a cat suit kinda girl.”
“It’s a disguise Sidekick,” Oliver noted. “It’s supposed to keep people from knowing what kind of girl you are.”
“I can tell you right now,” Chloe promised, her index finger raised to help drive her point home. “Me in a cat suit would make me seriously ineffectual on missions. I’d be too busy worrying about the size of my ass.”
“Your ass would be fine!” Oliver laughed.
“See!” Chloe complained, pointing at him accusingly. “Fine doesn’t wear skin tight leather. Fine wears comfy jeans.”
She pouted when he simply continued snickering.
“Can’t I just wear a trench coat, fedora and dark glasses?”
“You know what?” Oliver proclaimed, rising stiffly from the couch and stretching out his long limbs. “We can argue about this more once you’ve made your decision.”
She pondered his words quietly while watching him roll his head around to work out the kinks in his neck.
“You say that like you already know my answer,” she observed.
Opening his eyes, he looked at her and shrugged vaguely.
Part of her was itching to press him further, but a curious glance at her watch alerted her to the fact that this enlightening topic would have to be saved for another day.
“Time flies,” she mused as she stood up slowly and shook her muscles back to life.
Looking to his own watch, Oliver let out a low whistle.
“Damn! No kidding.”
Reaching down to begin collecting her belongings, Chloe grimaced at the thought of the drive ahead of her. The commute from Metropolis to Smallville wasn’t that big of a deal - she did it often enough - but it did put her bed that much further away from her.
“Why don’t you stay here?” Oliver suggested, apparently reading her mind as he stooped down and began assembling some of the random sheets of paper that were scattered across his living room floor.
“No, no,” Chloe declined, her head shaking back and forth. “I’m good.”
“The guest room’s all stocked up,” he continued, depositing the papers in his hands on the coffee table and straightening up to face her. “Brand new, never used, toothbrushes. Pyjamas. Fresh sheets. I keep it ready for when the guys crash here.”
Glancing down the hallway that lead to the guest bedroom, Chloe weighed the tempting offer. Ten little steps to one bed or a 45-minute drive to another…
“Look,” Oliver said, interrupting her internal tug-of-war. “If you want to head home, be my guest.”
Pausing, he gestured towards the second room.
“Or… be my guest. It’s your choice.”
Another beat passed and then, all at once, Chloe made up her mind.
“These toothbrushes you speak of,” she began playfully, “they’ve really never been used?”
“Still sealed in their packages,” he confirmed with a grin.
“There you have it,” she announced, turning to head towards the room and tossing a look at Oliver over her shoulder. “Sleep tight, Mr Queen. Don’t let the beg bugs bite.”
“Chloe,” he called out, halting her exit.
“Yeah?”
He smirked.
“Whatever plans you have for tomorrow are cancelled. You and I are going to the hospital to get a legitimate diagnosis about those ribs.”
Chloe’s mouth dropped open, ready to protest, but Oliver’s head cocked automatically to the side and suddenly, everything about him just dared her to put up a fight.
“Forget what I said,” she snapped before turning and marching away. “I hope the bed bugs get you."
Chapter 5 can be found here novadelphine.livejournal.com/3203.html#cutid1
Seated on one end of the sofa in Oliver’s penthouse, Chloe sifted through the papers in her hands as her eyes darted back and forth between the various documents, assessing them carefully. Dropping the stack in her left hand to the floor, she leaned towards her laptop and began evaluating the information displayed on the screen, comparing it to the data on the top page of the pile in her right hand.
It was well past midnight and far, far later than she had intended to stay when she had first arrived that afternoon. Though she had made some breakthroughs during her hours of researching, every insight she had unearthed was followed by a brand new batch of perplexing questions, and as determined as she was to crack the nut that was the decidedly mysterious Wynlie Group, the fact that she was fading fast had officially become unavoidable. Her eyes were starting to cross, her injured ribs hadn’t stopped throbbing all day, and everything else about her was practically begging for some sleep.
“I’m really starting to see why this place pisses you off!” She shouted suddenly, giving up as she threw the remaining papers in her hand at her computer and sunk irritably into the ridiculously inviting couch she sat upon.
“I know, right!” Oliver exclaimed from the other end of the sofa, surrounded by his own piles of invoices, spreadsheets and files.
“I mean, what do they even do?” He continued, his frustration as palpable as hers. “They bring in mismatched inventory, send random orders out and as far as I can see, none of the supplies have anything to do with each other!”
He began yanking on the green silk tie around his neck, roughly pulling apart the once perfect knot at his throat. Taking in his fit with arched brows, Chloe worried absently that he was going to end up strangling himself if he didn’t ease up a bit.
“I even considered the possibility that they’re fencing stolen goods,” he elaborated once he was free of the offending tie, “but all of the records keep coming up legit. What the hell are they doing out there?”
“Who knows?” Chloe grumbled as her head lolled back despondently. “I can’t figure out who’s running the place, let alone what they do. I’m nauseous from going around and around with all these stupid parent companies."
The two descended into a sullen silence, each seething over the fact that this simple, run-down, out of the way warehouse was stonewalling them at every turn.
“When’s Victor gonna get here?” Chloe asked in a small, exhausted voice, her head rolling along her cushion to face Oliver.
“Hopefully, in a couple of days,” he replied tiredly. “He and the guys have to finish up in South America, then they’ll come straight to Metropolis.”
“Good,” she sighed. “Maybe this stuff will make more sense after a little robo-voodoo.”
“Somehow I doubt it,” Oliver grumbled, earning a curious look from Chloe.
“I’m not saying Vic’s not good,” he amended, “but you and I are far from idiots and if we can’t make it add up, then there has to be more going on.”
“Hmm, maybe,” she considered, unconvinced. In all honesty, she was feeling pretty idiotic at the moment, but was consoling herself by laying the blame for that on her sleep depravation.
“We could take another trip out to the warehouse,” he proposed, his eyes slanting in her direction. “See if we can find the missing piece.”
“Oh, please no,” Chloe whimpered. “My ribs don’t want to go, not tonight.”
“Are they still bothering you?” Oliver enquired as he lowered his head against his own cushion and unconsciously mimicked her posture.
“Little,” she shrugged, trying to backtrack over the whiny complaint she’d let slip. “I’m fine, really, just not accustomed to getting beat up like you are.”
“Hey!” Oliver objected, “I don’t get beat up!”
“You do so!” Chloe countered, a list of some of his particularly spectacular scrapes springing easily to mind.
“Well, yeah, but not often!” He defended pathetically.
“Oh, calm down,” she chastised. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just that you’re a guy and you’re all tough and man-ish and stuff.”
“Man-ish?” Oliver questioned haughtily. “Your vocabulary could use a little work.”
“I’ll send it to the gym with the rest of me,” she answered glibly, easily garnering a chuckle out of him.
“So, have you been to a see a Doctor about these tender ribs of yours?” he pressed, reverting to his original line of questioning.
“I’m fine,” Chloe droned.
Oliver’s brow rose with unconcealed doubt and she sighed in the face of his disbelief.
“I thought I’d managed to steer you off this topic with the getting beat up banter,” she muttered.
“I’m not Bart,” he joked. “I don’t see something sparkly and lose my train of thought.”
“You’re mean,” she criticized.
“You’re just sticking up for him cause he’s all kinds of ga-ga over you.”
“He’s a flirt, that’s all.”
“You love it,” he grinned teasingly. “No wonder he’s got it so bad, you encourage it.”
Eyes rolling, Chloe grabbed the nearest throw pillow and lobbed it in Oliver’s direction.
“He tells me I’m beautiful, so I smile and say thank you. That’s not encouragement. It’s called good manners.”
Oliver snickered.
“It’s not like I’m inviting him over to my place for drinks!” She argued. “He’s a nice guy and I’m not going to tell him off for being nice to me!”
Oliver’s grin widened.
“Oh shut up,” she groused. “You’re baiting me.”
Looking for another pillow, she laughed out loud when he handed her the one she had already thrown at him.
“Thanks,” she grinned, accepting his offering and tossing it right back, watching it bounce off his face.
“So,” Oliver began mildly, “back to your ribs.”
Making some sort of inelegant growling snort, Chloe let her body drop theatrically to the couch and hid her face away in the cushions.
“Now you’re just being a brat,” he mused as he grabbed the pillow she’d beaned him with and popped her softly on the head.
Emerging from the cushions she’d burrowed into, she glared at him reproachfully.
“If you’d quit nagging me, I wouldn’t have to be bratty.”
Unaffected by her irritation, he leaned even further into the couch and raised his arms to settle his head comfortably into his interlaced fingers.
“Well,” he began languidly, “if you took proper care of yourself after a mission, I wouldn’t have to keep you on the sidelines so much.”
Intrigued, Chloe tucked an arm under her head to get a better view of him and narrowed her eyes inquisitively.
“I thought last night was the exception to the anti field work clause you imposed on my job.”
“I guess it was,” Oliver replied casually, as if that was the end of the conversation.
“You’d let me go on missions?” She asked wide-eyed, rising now to rest her weight on her elbows and watching him closely for any signs of a bluff.
“Is that something you’d want?” He volleyed back.
Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Chloe mulled it over. She had never considered taking her membership with the league to that level, but she had to admit, the notion wasn’t without a certain thrill.
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “I mean, I get that I’d be of better use to the team if I were more asset, less liability, but still…”
Lowering his hands from behind his head, Oliver looked at her seriously.
“Chloe, you’re good at what you do and the team’s better for having you.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, hoping her blushing cheeks weren’t too red.
“Going out on missions,” he continued, “is not something you need to do to prove your worth. I’m asking you if it’s something you want to do.”
Her teeth went right back to chewing her bottom lip.
“You’re going bite that off if you keep it up,” he opined dryly.
She immediately released her lip with a soft smack and mirrored his serious expression.
“I’d have to think about it a bit,” she declared, the words tinged with an apology.
Oliver gave her a reassuring smile.
“The offer doesn’t have an expiration date Sidekick. Feel free to overanalyse to your heart’s content.”
Chloe’s eyes rolled comically and she knew full-well she would do just that.
“It does need to be said though,” Oliver pointed out, shifting to sit up straighter on the sofa. “If you decide to go for this, there will be no traipsing in right off the bench.”
“I don’t traipse,” Chloe scowled.
“There’d be training,” he elaborated, glossing over her objection. “Lots of it.”
She nodded impatiently, making it blatantly clear that she considered his rules ridiculously obvious.
“And a uniform would be a must,” he went on. “That’s non-negotiable.”
Her nose scrunched distastefully and he shook his head in annoyance.
“We’re not going to have a particularly covert operation if that blonde head of yours ends up on security feeds across the globe!”
“Fine,” she conceded as she mentally flipped through all of the various female disguises she had come across over the years and deemed each one of them wholly unacceptable. “What kind of uniform are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver retorted. “I’m not a designer.”
Chloe thought about possible options for a moment before announcing her choice.
“Ski mask,” she proclaimed.
“Wow, that’s glamorous,” Oliver chortled.
“What?” She demanded. “It’s practical, it’s cost-efficient, and I’d get to wear my own clothes.”
Laughing plainly now, he fixed her with a smirk.
“You want to go around dressed like a mugger?”
“People wouldn’t recognize me,” she noted pointedly.
“Sure,” he agreed, “but wouldn’t you want something a little less… generic?”
“I thought this was about anonymity,” she snarked. “I didn’t realize I was expected to take this uniform down the catwalk at Fashion Week.”
“A cat suit!” Oliver exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That could work.”
“Ah, no,” Chloe quickly dismissed. “Perhaps for the Lois’s of this world, but me, I’m not a cat suit kinda girl.”
“It’s a disguise Sidekick,” Oliver noted. “It’s supposed to keep people from knowing what kind of girl you are.”
“I can tell you right now,” Chloe promised, her index finger raised to help drive her point home. “Me in a cat suit would make me seriously ineffectual on missions. I’d be too busy worrying about the size of my ass.”
“Your ass would be fine!” Oliver laughed.
“See!” Chloe complained, pointing at him accusingly. “Fine doesn’t wear skin tight leather. Fine wears comfy jeans.”
She pouted when he simply continued snickering.
“Can’t I just wear a trench coat, fedora and dark glasses?”
“You know what?” Oliver proclaimed, rising stiffly from the couch and stretching out his long limbs. “We can argue about this more once you’ve made your decision.”
She pondered his words quietly while watching him roll his head around to work out the kinks in his neck.
“You say that like you already know my answer,” she observed.
Opening his eyes, he looked at her and shrugged vaguely.
Part of her was itching to press him further, but a curious glance at her watch alerted her to the fact that this enlightening topic would have to be saved for another day.
“Time flies,” she mused as she stood up slowly and shook her muscles back to life.
Looking to his own watch, Oliver let out a low whistle.
“Damn! No kidding.”
Reaching down to begin collecting her belongings, Chloe grimaced at the thought of the drive ahead of her. The commute from Metropolis to Smallville wasn’t that big of a deal - she did it often enough - but it did put her bed that much further away from her.
“Why don’t you stay here?” Oliver suggested, apparently reading her mind as he stooped down and began assembling some of the random sheets of paper that were scattered across his living room floor.
“No, no,” Chloe declined, her head shaking back and forth. “I’m good.”
“The guest room’s all stocked up,” he continued, depositing the papers in his hands on the coffee table and straightening up to face her. “Brand new, never used, toothbrushes. Pyjamas. Fresh sheets. I keep it ready for when the guys crash here.”
Glancing down the hallway that lead to the guest bedroom, Chloe weighed the tempting offer. Ten little steps to one bed or a 45-minute drive to another…
“Look,” Oliver said, interrupting her internal tug-of-war. “If you want to head home, be my guest.”
Pausing, he gestured towards the second room.
“Or… be my guest. It’s your choice.”
Another beat passed and then, all at once, Chloe made up her mind.
“These toothbrushes you speak of,” she began playfully, “they’ve really never been used?”
“Still sealed in their packages,” he confirmed with a grin.
“There you have it,” she announced, turning to head towards the room and tossing a look at Oliver over her shoulder. “Sleep tight, Mr Queen. Don’t let the beg bugs bite.”
“Chloe,” he called out, halting her exit.
“Yeah?”
He smirked.
“Whatever plans you have for tomorrow are cancelled. You and I are going to the hospital to get a legitimate diagnosis about those ribs.”
Chloe’s mouth dropped open, ready to protest, but Oliver’s head cocked automatically to the side and suddenly, everything about him just dared her to put up a fight.
“Forget what I said,” she snapped before turning and marching away. “I hope the bed bugs get you."
Chapter 5 can be found here novadelphine.livejournal.com/3203.html#cutid1