More Drabble, drabble, drabble
“Can I ask you something?”
She turns away from her computer terminal, surprised. They’d been working in independent silence for the past two hours and, frankly, she kind of forgot he was even there.
“Sure,” she answers, furrowing her brows curiously.
At her agreement, Oliver abandons the piles of papers his sifting through and pushes himself away from the desk, watching her anxiously. He opens his mouth to say something, but then stops and reconsiders. He tries again, but gets the same result.
She frowns at the out-of-character fumbling. “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
He heaves a frustrated sigh at her teasing, but he’s no closer to finding his voice.
“Seriously,” she prompts, “this only works if you say something.”
He eyes her critically and she just stares back expectantly, mutual irritation brewing between them.
“Lois and Clark,” he finally blurts out. “Thoughts?”
Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “You want to know what I think about Lois and Clark? Like, as a couple?”
He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
She scoffs, loudly. “Shouldn’t I be braiding your hair for this heart to heart?”
The second the snarky little jab is out there, she regrets it; seeing the way it makes his dark eyes shutter.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, going back to the papers in front of him.
She winces at her own callousness and remembers a time when she used to be better at these kinds of talks. “Sorry.”
His attention stays firmly on the documents he’s madly shuffling and she knows her apology’s been denied. Sighing warily, she trudges across the space that separates them and grabs a second chair, circling the desk to take a seat next to him.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, staring at him as he continues to ignore her. “I just don’t know why you want to do this to yourself.”
His hands stop moving and he straightens at her words, his head turning just enough to eye her.
“Do what?” He asks, feigning obliviousness. “I just want your opinion.”
She purses her lips and hopes for both their sakes that he doesn’t really believe she could ever be suckered by such a pathetic lie. Thing is though, she’s already got one strike against her in this conversation, so she clamps down on the urge to call bullshit.
“It’s not like I have much to say,” she hedges. “Lois and I may live together, but we barely get to see each other and as for Clark…”
She lets her best friend’s name hang in the air, reluctant to put their fractured relationship into actual words.
“You don’t have to put a disclaimer on it,” he notes dryly, finally turning to face her fully. “Just tell me what you think.”
She worries her bottom lip before deciding that telling him the truth is her only option.
“When Clark was with Lana, he used to talk about her all the time,” she begins slowly, her gaze drifting away from him. “He was always worried about her, or mad at her, or confused, insecure, blah, blah, blah.”
Oliver says nothing, but she can feel the so what? rolling off him.
She makes her eyes slide back to his. “He doesn’t talk about Lois - not like that. He doesn’t need advice or reassurance or a sounding board. He’s sure of her and of them.”
She watches as Oliver nods slowly, taking in what she’s saying carefully.
“What about Lois?” He murmurs quietly.
She smirks gently. “Ever since we were little, Lois has always been all get outta my way or get run over. Guys were no exception to that.”
He smiles softly, if only a little sadly.
“With Clark though,” she continues, shifting in her seat, “she… slows down and stops to look both ways.”
“She doesn’t want to mess things up,” Oliver finishes lowly.
“Yeah,” she breathes.
He’s nodding absently to himself again, so she just waits; letting him absorb the information on his own.
“I guess I already knew that,” he eventually admits.
“Why’d you ask then?” She questions, her tone not un-kind, just genuinely curious.
His answering smile is deprecating and all too aware. “What can I say? I’m a masochist.”
She doesn’t try to correct him.
Allied
Grimacing, she tries - and fails - to lift her arm to the keyboard perched on the terminal, weirdly fascinated by her inability to do so. Clearly, flesh wounds weren’t fatal, but as far as pain in the ass went, they were seriously underrated.
Steeling herself for the burning sensation the effort keeps causing, she bites her lip and tries again, wondering absently how long she’s going to be basically down an arm, and what kind of impact that’s going to have on her productivity.
She’s so preoccupied that she doesn’t hear him enter and ends up spinning around in surprise when he clears his throat in the quiet Watchtower.
“Sorry,” he offers uncomfortably, “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she assures him, careful not to mention that her jumpiness is due to the unscheduled visit his former mentor paid her. “Just wasn’t paying attention, that’s all.”
His eyes travel her frame from head to toe, searching anxiously.
“He nicked my shoulder,” she reveals, waving her good hand at the injury, knowing that’s what he’s looking for. “Apparently I have awesome reflexes. Who knew?”
He stares at her shoulder intently, as if he can see the gash separating her skin despite its hiding place under both a bandage and her shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes lowly, each word ashamed.
“It’s okay,” she promises, taking a few tentative steps forward.
“It’s not okay,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You, Lois, Mia, you could’ve been - “
“How’s Mia?” She interrupts.
Her question catches him off-guard and he surfaces from his guilt to stare at her with lowered brows.
“What did she have to say about your alter ego?” She prompts again, silently willing him to take this little step away from the proverbial ledge she knows he wants to go hang out on.
He just watches her curiously, so she gives him an encouraging nod. When he finally reaches up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, letting out a slow breath, she exhales too.
“She was mad,” he finally answers with a shrug, “but, of course, she was more upset that I kept a secret from her than she was about nearly dying.”
She can’t help but grin. “Girl after my own heart.”
He lets out a hollow chuckle and nods in ready agreement.
“So, she’s gonna stick around?” She checks as she leans back to the terminal and uses her one hand to initiate a couple of routine monitoring programs.
“Seems that way,” he replies, but his attention is suddenly focused on her limited typing. “Do you need some help?”
Of course not is the automatic answer she hears in her head.
“You don’t have to,” she says instead.
He crosses the space between them in a few strides and when her hand falls away from the keyboard, he settles his own in its place.
“Least I can do,” he tells her, staring guiltily at her shoulder.
She waits until his gaze moves from her injury to her eyes and then offers him a smirk.
“My own little secretary,” she muses.
“Uh, executive assistant, thank you very much,” he mutters, finally cracking a small smile of his own.
Take a left at Memory Lane
“So, Stuart Campbell checked himself outta here?”
She climbs out of Oliver’s car and slams the door behind her, taking a moment to sweep her eyes over Lakecrest Rehabilitation Centre’s manicured property before looking at him over the vehicle’s roof.
“Apparently,” she answers.
His expression turns sceptical, “and he was able to do that despite the big hole in the back of his head?”
She nods sombrely. “You can see why I’m intrigued by this.”
“Hmm,” he grunts in agreement, hitting the car’s automatic locks.
After Stuart’s brutal dismissal from Tess Mercer’s employ, she’d taken it upon herself to make sure the young man landed into suitable long term care. She’d researched appropriate facilities and Lakecrest had emerged as the clear frontrunner, not only because of its stellar reputation, but also because of its remote location outside of Metropolis. Thanks to some creative hacking, she’d secured the necessary referrals and within days, a still comatose Stuart had been transferred safely to the centre, where she’d assumed he’d remain out of sight and out of any more danger. Obviously, she’d assumed wrong.
“So, what’s the plan?” Oliver asks casually as they trek across the facility’s parking lot, making their way towards the main entrance.
Reaching into the bag bouncing at her hip, she pulls out a thick file. “We’re conducting a study on traumatic brain injuries. Mr. Campbell has recently volunteered to be one of our subjects and we’re here to collect his files.”
Oliver’s head swivels towards her, looking down at her doubtfully. “We are?”
“Yes,” she nods, pulling forged documents out of her folder along with two particularly authentic looking ID badges. “We’ve got a grant with Met U and Dr. Emil Hamilton is our primary consultant.”
“Naturally,” Oliver deadpans, accepting the badge she shoves towards him and staring at his picture next to the name Ryan Edwards.
“Given that I’m the one who’s been reading up on this, I’ll do the talking,” she continues sternly, clipping her badge onto her jacket.
He’s staring at her again.
“You want to field any questions they may have about our program?” She drawls pointedly.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “How much time did you spend on this?”
She pauses, surprised by the question. “Why?”
“Just seems overly complicated, that’s all,” he notes with a shrug before he takes the steps two at a time and reaches forward to pull the door open for her.
She bristles at the comment, her chin jutting as she passes by him and into the centre’s foyer. “What’s your bright idea? Tell them the truth? Somehow that doesn’t seem easier. Or effective.”
He follows after her, ready to volley back when his eyes catch on something up ahead and instead of retorting, he breaks into a wide grin.
“What?” She hisses curiously, her gaze automatically following his to find a young woman working at the reception desk. Her confusion immediately morphs to disgust and her head snaps back to level him with an icy glare.
“Uh-uh, no way,” she states darkly, her finger wagging at him threateningly. “We’re not gonna to be able to use the cover if you’re Casanova routine crashes and burns!”
He scoffs, waltzing away from her before she can stop him. “Crash and burn? Please.”
She’s powerless to do anything but screech under her breath and hang back as he approaches the desk with a notable swagger. Right away, the receptionist notices him and freezes, her cheeks colouring as he leans casually into the counter.
She can’t hear what either is saying, but she has eyes and can tell from the young woman’s smiles and giggles that the Queen charm is not only in effect, but working overtime. Suddenly, the receptionist takes an appraising look over her shoulder and then leans down to the file cabinet running under the desk, straightening moments later with a manila folder clutched in her hands. There’s a moment where she seems to hesitate, but Oliver sends her a blinding smile and she’s handing him the file without any further prompting.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Chloe mutters in disbelief, her head shaking as Oliver and the woman exchange a few final pleasantries before he pushes away from the desk and saunters back, wearing a smirk that really just says it all.
Eyes rolling, she pivots on her heel and heads for the door, shouldering it roughly out of her way. Once outside, he catches up to her easily and presents the file to her with a flourish.
“Un-freakin-believable,” she sneers, snatching the folder away from him and shoving it into her bag with the now useless pile of phony paperwork.
“Thanks,” he grins as they make for the parking lot.
“Not a compliment,” she corrects acidly.
“Why not?” He questions innocently. “It worked. What’s your problem?”
“I’m lamenting my wasted time,” she fires back. “Could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d known the staff here would be so accommodating.”
He simply laughs and her eyes widen.
“It’s not funny,” she barks. “That woman just handed over confidential medical records cause you gave her a wink and a smile!”
“You’re complaining that we got what we wanted?” He checks mildly.
She lets out an aggravated sigh. “What I am is appalled. Being impressed with you is no reason to chuck professionalism out the window.”
“Hypocrite,” he mutters with a sigh of his own.
She immediately jerks to a halt. “Excuse-me?”
His head tilts at the challenge in her voice and he takes a step towards her that makes their height difference way too obvious and has her feeling just a little too crowded.
“Wow,” he says lightly, the words a little high and breathy, “in person, he is really… wow.”
She recoils at the familiar words, sputtering. “Clark told you??”
“He didn’t have to,” he smirks. “You’re not as subtle as you like to think.”
Her mouth drops open and her mind races back to that day in the Kent barn. He’d been out of ear-shot, she was sure of it. There was no way he could have heard her.
“Don’t look so devastated,” he teases, backing away in the direction of the car. “I was flattered.”
She’s blushing and she hates it.
Let me help you with your baggage
Given all the time she spent outfitting the Watchtower with state of the art equipment, it really pisses her off that it’s standing in ruins. How their latest fight managed to end up on her turf is beyond her, but Icicle needed to go down and, apparently, that had to happen at great expense to her setup.
The sound of the double doors swinging open interrupts her grim survey of the destruction and she looks up to see Oliver strolling in; brandishing a broom.
“Are you kidding me?” She smiles, the words spilling out with her disbelief.
He gives the broom a little twirl and smiles right back at her. “You spent all last night at dinner whining about the mess you were gonna have to clean, so I figured you could use the help.”
She narrows her eyes and smirks. “Do you even know how to use one of those?”
Eyebrow cocked, he swings the broom out and the bristled end catches her behind in a reprimanding spank. “Bossy thing that you are I’m sure you’ll have me learned in no time.”
She takes a step forward, ready to explain that the strategic direction she so graciously bestows is not bossiness, when a loud crunch sounds at her feet and she looks down to find Jimmy’s smiling face staring up at her from under her boot.
She lifts her foot gingerly, trying not to disturb anymore of the splintered glass that’s marring her husband’s bright grin and it strikes her how much this moment sums up everything that happened between her and Jimmy; how her secrets - her life - left him broken.
“Here.”
Aching, she looks up with blurry eyes to find Oliver standing right in front of her, pushing the broom into her shaking hands. Too confused to question, she grasps the long handle tightly and watches as he bends down to carefully pick up Jimmy’s ruined portrait.
Balancing the banged up frame between his large hands, he flips the whole thing over and lets the shards sprinkle to the floor; their soft crashes echoing through the still tower. Righting the picture, he delicately dislodges the last two stubborn pieces and when he’s finally satisfied, he holds the frame out to her.
She trades him back the broom and takes the salvaged photograph into her arms.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Eyes studying her, he shrugs. “No problem.”
There’s a warmth creeping into her chest and it’s dissolving the ache just enough that she can breathe normally again. Meeting his gaze, she smiles a little and nods at the broom.
“You’re not really going to clean, are you?” She asks lightly.
“God no,” he admits with a hearty chuckle. “I know some people. They’ll be here in an hour.”
The giggle that bursts out of her is short, but cathartic.
She turns away from her computer terminal, surprised. They’d been working in independent silence for the past two hours and, frankly, she kind of forgot he was even there.
“Sure,” she answers, furrowing her brows curiously.
At her agreement, Oliver abandons the piles of papers his sifting through and pushes himself away from the desk, watching her anxiously. He opens his mouth to say something, but then stops and reconsiders. He tries again, but gets the same result.
She frowns at the out-of-character fumbling. “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
He heaves a frustrated sigh at her teasing, but he’s no closer to finding his voice.
“Seriously,” she prompts, “this only works if you say something.”
He eyes her critically and she just stares back expectantly, mutual irritation brewing between them.
“Lois and Clark,” he finally blurts out. “Thoughts?”
Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “You want to know what I think about Lois and Clark? Like, as a couple?”
He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
She scoffs, loudly. “Shouldn’t I be braiding your hair for this heart to heart?”
The second the snarky little jab is out there, she regrets it; seeing the way it makes his dark eyes shutter.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, going back to the papers in front of him.
She winces at her own callousness and remembers a time when she used to be better at these kinds of talks. “Sorry.”
His attention stays firmly on the documents he’s madly shuffling and she knows her apology’s been denied. Sighing warily, she trudges across the space that separates them and grabs a second chair, circling the desk to take a seat next to him.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, staring at him as he continues to ignore her. “I just don’t know why you want to do this to yourself.”
His hands stop moving and he straightens at her words, his head turning just enough to eye her.
“Do what?” He asks, feigning obliviousness. “I just want your opinion.”
She purses her lips and hopes for both their sakes that he doesn’t really believe she could ever be suckered by such a pathetic lie. Thing is though, she’s already got one strike against her in this conversation, so she clamps down on the urge to call bullshit.
“It’s not like I have much to say,” she hedges. “Lois and I may live together, but we barely get to see each other and as for Clark…”
She lets her best friend’s name hang in the air, reluctant to put their fractured relationship into actual words.
“You don’t have to put a disclaimer on it,” he notes dryly, finally turning to face her fully. “Just tell me what you think.”
She worries her bottom lip before deciding that telling him the truth is her only option.
“When Clark was with Lana, he used to talk about her all the time,” she begins slowly, her gaze drifting away from him. “He was always worried about her, or mad at her, or confused, insecure, blah, blah, blah.”
Oliver says nothing, but she can feel the so what? rolling off him.
She makes her eyes slide back to his. “He doesn’t talk about Lois - not like that. He doesn’t need advice or reassurance or a sounding board. He’s sure of her and of them.”
She watches as Oliver nods slowly, taking in what she’s saying carefully.
“What about Lois?” He murmurs quietly.
She smirks gently. “Ever since we were little, Lois has always been all get outta my way or get run over. Guys were no exception to that.”
He smiles softly, if only a little sadly.
“With Clark though,” she continues, shifting in her seat, “she… slows down and stops to look both ways.”
“She doesn’t want to mess things up,” Oliver finishes lowly.
“Yeah,” she breathes.
He’s nodding absently to himself again, so she just waits; letting him absorb the information on his own.
“I guess I already knew that,” he eventually admits.
“Why’d you ask then?” She questions, her tone not un-kind, just genuinely curious.
His answering smile is deprecating and all too aware. “What can I say? I’m a masochist.”
She doesn’t try to correct him.
Allied
Grimacing, she tries - and fails - to lift her arm to the keyboard perched on the terminal, weirdly fascinated by her inability to do so. Clearly, flesh wounds weren’t fatal, but as far as pain in the ass went, they were seriously underrated.
Steeling herself for the burning sensation the effort keeps causing, she bites her lip and tries again, wondering absently how long she’s going to be basically down an arm, and what kind of impact that’s going to have on her productivity.
She’s so preoccupied that she doesn’t hear him enter and ends up spinning around in surprise when he clears his throat in the quiet Watchtower.
“Sorry,” he offers uncomfortably, “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she assures him, careful not to mention that her jumpiness is due to the unscheduled visit his former mentor paid her. “Just wasn’t paying attention, that’s all.”
His eyes travel her frame from head to toe, searching anxiously.
“He nicked my shoulder,” she reveals, waving her good hand at the injury, knowing that’s what he’s looking for. “Apparently I have awesome reflexes. Who knew?”
He stares at her shoulder intently, as if he can see the gash separating her skin despite its hiding place under both a bandage and her shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes lowly, each word ashamed.
“It’s okay,” she promises, taking a few tentative steps forward.
“It’s not okay,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You, Lois, Mia, you could’ve been - “
“How’s Mia?” She interrupts.
Her question catches him off-guard and he surfaces from his guilt to stare at her with lowered brows.
“What did she have to say about your alter ego?” She prompts again, silently willing him to take this little step away from the proverbial ledge she knows he wants to go hang out on.
He just watches her curiously, so she gives him an encouraging nod. When he finally reaches up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, letting out a slow breath, she exhales too.
“She was mad,” he finally answers with a shrug, “but, of course, she was more upset that I kept a secret from her than she was about nearly dying.”
She can’t help but grin. “Girl after my own heart.”
He lets out a hollow chuckle and nods in ready agreement.
“So, she’s gonna stick around?” She checks as she leans back to the terminal and uses her one hand to initiate a couple of routine monitoring programs.
“Seems that way,” he replies, but his attention is suddenly focused on her limited typing. “Do you need some help?”
Of course not is the automatic answer she hears in her head.
“You don’t have to,” she says instead.
He crosses the space between them in a few strides and when her hand falls away from the keyboard, he settles his own in its place.
“Least I can do,” he tells her, staring guiltily at her shoulder.
She waits until his gaze moves from her injury to her eyes and then offers him a smirk.
“My own little secretary,” she muses.
“Uh, executive assistant, thank you very much,” he mutters, finally cracking a small smile of his own.
Take a left at Memory Lane
“So, Stuart Campbell checked himself outta here?”
She climbs out of Oliver’s car and slams the door behind her, taking a moment to sweep her eyes over Lakecrest Rehabilitation Centre’s manicured property before looking at him over the vehicle’s roof.
“Apparently,” she answers.
His expression turns sceptical, “and he was able to do that despite the big hole in the back of his head?”
She nods sombrely. “You can see why I’m intrigued by this.”
“Hmm,” he grunts in agreement, hitting the car’s automatic locks.
After Stuart’s brutal dismissal from Tess Mercer’s employ, she’d taken it upon herself to make sure the young man landed into suitable long term care. She’d researched appropriate facilities and Lakecrest had emerged as the clear frontrunner, not only because of its stellar reputation, but also because of its remote location outside of Metropolis. Thanks to some creative hacking, she’d secured the necessary referrals and within days, a still comatose Stuart had been transferred safely to the centre, where she’d assumed he’d remain out of sight and out of any more danger. Obviously, she’d assumed wrong.
“So, what’s the plan?” Oliver asks casually as they trek across the facility’s parking lot, making their way towards the main entrance.
Reaching into the bag bouncing at her hip, she pulls out a thick file. “We’re conducting a study on traumatic brain injuries. Mr. Campbell has recently volunteered to be one of our subjects and we’re here to collect his files.”
Oliver’s head swivels towards her, looking down at her doubtfully. “We are?”
“Yes,” she nods, pulling forged documents out of her folder along with two particularly authentic looking ID badges. “We’ve got a grant with Met U and Dr. Emil Hamilton is our primary consultant.”
“Naturally,” Oliver deadpans, accepting the badge she shoves towards him and staring at his picture next to the name Ryan Edwards.
“Given that I’m the one who’s been reading up on this, I’ll do the talking,” she continues sternly, clipping her badge onto her jacket.
He’s staring at her again.
“You want to field any questions they may have about our program?” She drawls pointedly.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “How much time did you spend on this?”
She pauses, surprised by the question. “Why?”
“Just seems overly complicated, that’s all,” he notes with a shrug before he takes the steps two at a time and reaches forward to pull the door open for her.
She bristles at the comment, her chin jutting as she passes by him and into the centre’s foyer. “What’s your bright idea? Tell them the truth? Somehow that doesn’t seem easier. Or effective.”
He follows after her, ready to volley back when his eyes catch on something up ahead and instead of retorting, he breaks into a wide grin.
“What?” She hisses curiously, her gaze automatically following his to find a young woman working at the reception desk. Her confusion immediately morphs to disgust and her head snaps back to level him with an icy glare.
“Uh-uh, no way,” she states darkly, her finger wagging at him threateningly. “We’re not gonna to be able to use the cover if you’re Casanova routine crashes and burns!”
He scoffs, waltzing away from her before she can stop him. “Crash and burn? Please.”
She’s powerless to do anything but screech under her breath and hang back as he approaches the desk with a notable swagger. Right away, the receptionist notices him and freezes, her cheeks colouring as he leans casually into the counter.
She can’t hear what either is saying, but she has eyes and can tell from the young woman’s smiles and giggles that the Queen charm is not only in effect, but working overtime. Suddenly, the receptionist takes an appraising look over her shoulder and then leans down to the file cabinet running under the desk, straightening moments later with a manila folder clutched in her hands. There’s a moment where she seems to hesitate, but Oliver sends her a blinding smile and she’s handing him the file without any further prompting.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Chloe mutters in disbelief, her head shaking as Oliver and the woman exchange a few final pleasantries before he pushes away from the desk and saunters back, wearing a smirk that really just says it all.
Eyes rolling, she pivots on her heel and heads for the door, shouldering it roughly out of her way. Once outside, he catches up to her easily and presents the file to her with a flourish.
“Un-freakin-believable,” she sneers, snatching the folder away from him and shoving it into her bag with the now useless pile of phony paperwork.
“Thanks,” he grins as they make for the parking lot.
“Not a compliment,” she corrects acidly.
“Why not?” He questions innocently. “It worked. What’s your problem?”
“I’m lamenting my wasted time,” she fires back. “Could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d known the staff here would be so accommodating.”
He simply laughs and her eyes widen.
“It’s not funny,” she barks. “That woman just handed over confidential medical records cause you gave her a wink and a smile!”
“You’re complaining that we got what we wanted?” He checks mildly.
She lets out an aggravated sigh. “What I am is appalled. Being impressed with you is no reason to chuck professionalism out the window.”
“Hypocrite,” he mutters with a sigh of his own.
She immediately jerks to a halt. “Excuse-me?”
His head tilts at the challenge in her voice and he takes a step towards her that makes their height difference way too obvious and has her feeling just a little too crowded.
“Wow,” he says lightly, the words a little high and breathy, “in person, he is really… wow.”
She recoils at the familiar words, sputtering. “Clark told you??”
“He didn’t have to,” he smirks. “You’re not as subtle as you like to think.”
Her mouth drops open and her mind races back to that day in the Kent barn. He’d been out of ear-shot, she was sure of it. There was no way he could have heard her.
“Don’t look so devastated,” he teases, backing away in the direction of the car. “I was flattered.”
She’s blushing and she hates it.
Let me help you with your baggage
Given all the time she spent outfitting the Watchtower with state of the art equipment, it really pisses her off that it’s standing in ruins. How their latest fight managed to end up on her turf is beyond her, but Icicle needed to go down and, apparently, that had to happen at great expense to her setup.
The sound of the double doors swinging open interrupts her grim survey of the destruction and she looks up to see Oliver strolling in; brandishing a broom.
“Are you kidding me?” She smiles, the words spilling out with her disbelief.
He gives the broom a little twirl and smiles right back at her. “You spent all last night at dinner whining about the mess you were gonna have to clean, so I figured you could use the help.”
She narrows her eyes and smirks. “Do you even know how to use one of those?”
Eyebrow cocked, he swings the broom out and the bristled end catches her behind in a reprimanding spank. “Bossy thing that you are I’m sure you’ll have me learned in no time.”
She takes a step forward, ready to explain that the strategic direction she so graciously bestows is not bossiness, when a loud crunch sounds at her feet and she looks down to find Jimmy’s smiling face staring up at her from under her boot.
She lifts her foot gingerly, trying not to disturb anymore of the splintered glass that’s marring her husband’s bright grin and it strikes her how much this moment sums up everything that happened between her and Jimmy; how her secrets - her life - left him broken.
“Here.”
Aching, she looks up with blurry eyes to find Oliver standing right in front of her, pushing the broom into her shaking hands. Too confused to question, she grasps the long handle tightly and watches as he bends down to carefully pick up Jimmy’s ruined portrait.
Balancing the banged up frame between his large hands, he flips the whole thing over and lets the shards sprinkle to the floor; their soft crashes echoing through the still tower. Righting the picture, he delicately dislodges the last two stubborn pieces and when he’s finally satisfied, he holds the frame out to her.
She trades him back the broom and takes the salvaged photograph into her arms.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Eyes studying her, he shrugs. “No problem.”
There’s a warmth creeping into her chest and it’s dissolving the ache just enough that she can breathe normally again. Meeting his gaze, she smiles a little and nods at the broom.
“You’re not really going to clean, are you?” She asks lightly.
“God no,” he admits with a hearty chuckle. “I know some people. They’ll be here in an hour.”
The giggle that bursts out of her is short, but cathartic.