Author: BlueSuede
Title: An Origin Story
Rating: R/M
Genre: Friendship/Romance
Pairings: Chloe/Oliver
Summary: AU in which Oliver's parents never died
Warnings: minor spoilers for most early seasons
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Prologue Previous (Chapter 11) Next (Chapter 13) Chapter 12:
Will Scarlet and A Wounded Robin
January - One Month Later
Clad in Green Arrow gear, Oliver stood on the roof of a skyscraper, staring down at the city beneath him, staring at her building, wondering whether she were asleep.
He shook himself. Every detail was still streaming through his mind. He couldn't erase it, not one second of it. First, Christmas, when she'd looked at him with such loathing, such resentment. She'd compared him to a man she despised - he despised.
And then...God, then.
Night after night it happened. And day after day the scenes replayed themselves in his mind.
He hated himself for dreaming about her that way. It felt like a violation in more ways than he could explain. Every dream had a pattern, though. They never spoke; she never gave him an opportunity to speak. It was always desperate, even violent, like he was trying to possess her, own her. And she always looked at him like she loved him, like she was actually deeply, deeply in love with him.
And of course, a minor detail, she was always wearing emerald green lingerie.
He more or less had it figured out. After a month of these dreams, he'd had more than enough time to analyze his own warped mind.
They never spoke because he didn't have the slightest idea what could be said, how he could begin to apologize and try to convince her that he hadn't been using her. They had sex because, as he was sure some pompous shrink would phrase it, he "longed for intimacy with her." Not necessarily the kind in his dreams, but the kind where he was able to tell her everything, the whole damn story: about his parents' escape from death, about the Veritas group, the Traveler, about the fact that he was the Green Arrow - which led him to the green lingerie. He figured it was a kind of symbolism of her acceptance of his alter-ego.
As for the...possessive nature he seemed to take on, he chalked that up to jealousy, plain and simple. He'd spoken with Hal Jordan again, and his friend hadn't been in the room five minutes before he had Oliver spilling the whole story. It was when he gave Hal Chloe's name that he looked shocked.
"Wait, wait, say that again."
"Chloe Sullivan."
"She's a reporter?"
"Yeah, I've mentioned that before," Oliver frowned.
To which Hal started laughing.
"What?"
"Dude, remember that chick I saved from a mugger last summer?"
Oliver frowned before the memory slowly came back to him. His eyes widened.
"Miss Find-Me-When-You-Need-Me?" Hal had mocked. "Yeah, that's her."
Oliver shook his head. It made sense, considering her best friend was theoretically the greatest hero the world would ever know.
So now he found himself immensely envious of Clark Kent, who apparently exactly the kind of relationship with Chloe that he'd always wanted. Based on what Chloe had once told the Green Lantern, he took that to mean that Chloe had long known Kent's secret, that he had powers Oliver could never dream of.
God, he wanted that. He wanted Chloe's undying faith and friendship and loyalty, and in return he wanted to be able to give all that back to her in full force. Ever since he had first heard his parents speaking of the Traveler, Oliver had felt a certain envy toward him. Chloe was just one more reason to support that envy.
Gazing down at her window, he wondered whether she missed him half as much as he did her. He'd made a habit long before their fight of keeping a special eye on her, just to make sure she stayed out of trouble - that she was safe.
He didn't ask himself why she looked like she was in love with him in the dreams, or why he felt like he loved her back in them. It was asking too much of him to address that problem. Right now, all he could do was wonder what it would take to convince her to trust him again, to even look at him again, as it were.
Chloe walked into the Daily Planet the next morning and instantly Annette and several other women, who had been clustered around something, spun around to face Chloe, guilty expressions on their faces. Chloe's brow lifted slightly. She would have assumed it was because they had once again without her permission opened the note attached to the daily bouquets of flowers Oliver had been sending, but they'd done that almost every day. This was different.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. Did you hear about the string of art robberies in Europe?" Annette asked, stepping forward and guiding her away from the girls.
Before Chloe could respond, Jeremy appeared, a cup of Chloe's favorite coffee in his hand. "Hi, Miss Chloe!" he stammered nervously. "How are you this morning? Hear about the coach of the Rockets? He's talking about retiring after this season."
Chloe looked at Annette and then Jeremy, eyes narrowed suspiciously at their eagerness to distract her. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, Chloe turned away from them and stalked back toward the other women, who were now attempting to stash something out of sight. Before they could do anything to stop her, she pulled a magazine from one of their hands, recognizing it to be the source of the trouble.
She looked at the picture, aware of everyone's eyes resting anxiously on her. Her eyes flitted over the cover, and to everyone's astonishment, a small smile graced her lips.
It was a picture of Oliver Queen with a woman on his arm, someone the inside article named as a Russian ballerina currently touring the country with her dance company. They'd attended some benefit together. She was pretty, Chloe thought, determinedly ignoring the slight hint of regret she felt.
She looked up at her coworkers, all of whom looked poised for flight. Annette looked prepared to whip a packet of tissues out of her desk drawer, apparently expecting Chloe to cry or something.
"Guys," she said slowly. "It's not big deal. Oliver and I - " she was about to say they 'were just friends' but the treacherous past tense got stuck in her throat, " - we were not and are not dating," she said instead. "He's welcome to go out with anyone he likes. At least she doesn't look like a total tart. That's nice." She tossed the rag to one of the women and headed for her desk, heaving a weary sigh at the sight of yet another vase of apology flowers sitting on top of her things.
A week later, Chloe was working late into the night, writing an article that couldn't wait, listening to the police scanner in case anything happened. All of a sudden a gust of wind knocked the papers off her desk. She blinked and they'd been neatly stacked again. "Sorry about that, mamacita," said a strangely familiar voice.
Chloe found herself looking at a wiry young man whose face exuded confidence and a good sense of humor.
"How are you?"
After several false starts, Chloe was saved by the ringing of her cell phone. She answered it, her eyes still resting on the young man.
"Hello?" she asked into her phone.
"Chloe? It's Clark."
"Hi, Clark."
"I thought I'd warn you. Bart Allen was in town this weekend, and he asked about you. I mentioned that you'd moved and he decided to pay you - "
"A visit?" Chloe finished, a smirk forming on her lips.
"Yeah, you remember him, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so," she laughed.
Clark paused. "He's - "
"Already here? Mmhmm. Later, Clark. Thanks for the warning."
She hung up her cell and grinned at Bart.
"Miss me?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
Chloe grinned. "Of course." She rose to hug Bart. "Gosh I haven't seen you in about a year, have I?" Ever since that first meeting in Smallville, back when Bart had stolen Jonathan Kent's wallet, Bart made a point of passing through around once a year. He had an enormous crush on Chloe, and flirted with her relentlessly. Chloe adored him, thinking of him as a sort of kid brother.
Bart eagerly returned the hug. "Year and half. Read your big article, by the way. I'm hurt I wasn't mentioned," he teased.
"You liked it?" she asked, sitting back down as Bart sat on her desk, legs swinging back and forth.
"Thought it was awesome, 'licious," he told her sincerely. "Nice to get a little bit of decent PR."
Chloe smiled properly, a real honest, genuine smile, and it struck her that she'd done that more in five seconds with Bart than she had in the entire month following Christmas.
"So I heard you haven't been doing too well," Bart said, eyeing her as though he thought she might have been suffering some physical ailment.
Chloe sighed. "I guess I've just got New Year blues." She was sure Clark had told Bart that she was depressed, but fortunately she hadn't really told Clark the reason for her falling out with Oliver. She hadn't had the nerve. She still didn't fully understand what Oliver had to do with Clark to begin with, but she needed to figure it out before she confronted either of them. Otherwise Clark would be sure to jump to conclusions.
He raised an eyebrow. "January's almost over. What's really up?"
Chloe shook her head. "What have you been up to?" she dodged. "Mexico again?"
"Nah, been hanging out in Europe. String of art robberies I've been tryin' to keep up with."
Chloe arched her brow.
"What?" he asked defensively. "It's not like they're too fast for me. I just never can figure out where they're going to strike next." He looked at her hopefully, and Chloe grinned broadly. It was his way of asking for her help.
"I'll see what I can come up with," she nodded to him, and Bart beamed. Chloe chuckled softly. One way or another, they all come to me.
"Thanks, Chloelicious. So, the upside of going to Europe is that I found out Spanish food is even better than Mexican. Wanna grab dinner?"
Chloe groaned. "Can't. I've got to finish this article," she gestured her computer.
Bart shrugged. "'s cool. I'll get some to go. What do you like? Never mind, I'll figure out what looks best."
"Bart," Chloe asked, spellchecking a word, "you know there's a restaurant-" a gust of wind hit her, "in town?" she finished lamely. He was probably going all the way to Spain, knowing him.
Dinner with Bart was nice. He actually did bring her Spanish food straight from Spain, claiming it was the best there was. It was the best she'd felt in weeks, talking to Bart, getting a proper meal other than Ramen or EasyMac. It was good for her to relax. Since her fight with Oliver, she'd been avoiding her problems with excess work and little sleep. Bart successfully cheered her up and sent her home in time to get a full eight hours. No that she was destined to get that eight hours.
Chloe shot up in bed and looked at the clock, her heart pounding. It was 1:17 in the morning, and a storm was raging outside. At first she thought it was the thunder that had woken her, until she heard the sound of a muffled voice calling her name and someone beating on her door.
Grabbing her hand gun and throwing a hoodie on over her tank top, she crept down the hall. Gun at the ready, she slowly peaked around the corner to look at the glass door of her balcony, the source of the noise. Chloe nearly screamed as a flash of lightning revealed a man standing out there in the pouring rain, calling out to her.
In the next instant she recognized him. "Oh my God." She dropped the gun and rushed to the door to unlatch the lock.
As soon as the door opened, he stumbled forward and nearly collapsed on her, and Chloe staggered beneath his weight.
"I'm sorry," he tried to stand up again. "You were closer," he gasped.
Chloe felt something hot and sticky on her hand. She lifted her hand from his side and another flash of lightning illuminated a dark red stain on her fingers. "Oh my God," she whispered again. "We need to get you a doctor."
Oliver, even in his state, noticed that she wasn't questioning the fact that he was currently dressed as the Green Arrow, that he'd just appeared on her balcony in the middle of the night, not even what had happened. She was just there, trying to help him. "No doctors," he shook his head, breath ragged as he spoke. "I'd never be able to explain what happened."
Chloe bit her lip. He was right. "Okay, just lie down and keep your eyes open. Breathe through your nose." She helped him down and took off the sweatshirt again, pillowing it under his head. Instantly she rose to hit the light switch and rushed to grab a towel from her bathroom. When she returned she tried to hide her horror, now able to see the deep gash that had cut through the leather of Oliver's tunic. She knelt beside him and started pressing down on the wound to stop the flow of blood. "Ollie, I think you need stitches."
He shook his head. "I'll be fine. Thanks," he muttered, grabbing the towel from her to apply the pressure himself.
Chloe slapped his hand away. She didn't need him using any excess strength. "Stop it. Ollie, what happened?"
"Mugger - didn't realize he had friends. Snuck up on me." He cringed in pain. "Took 'em out, of course," he managed to smirk, "but not before they got a good one in." He was honestly lucky the knife hadn't gone straight into his stomach.
"Okay," she hushed him. "Okay, it's okay. Stop talking."
She closed her eyes. One day, someday, I'm going to make friends with someone who doesn't risk his or her life on a daily basis, she internally promised herself.
All night long Chloe looked after him. Eventually he managed to persuade her to clean and bandage up the wound herself rather than calling for professional help, and against her better judgement, she gave in. She knew Oliver had personal doctors and would eventually have someone qualified take a look at it and stitch it up. It was just that they couldn't afford to take him to the emergency room. It would draw too much speculation.
She managed to move him to the couch after she was finished, and it was there she found herself at 4 in the morning. She'd been afraid to let him go to sleep immediately after all the blood he'd lost, so she had sat by him the last few hours talking to him, or, rather, listening to him talk.
"Chloe, have I mentioned the part where I'm sorry?"
She rolled her eyes, clutching a cup of hot coffee, the only thing really keeping her awake at that point. "Stop apologizing. I don't want to talk about it."
"You really don't believe me, do you?"
She wasn't looking at him.
"Chloe, I'm telling you, I wasn't using you. I'm not going to pretend I wasn't trying to find the Traveler, but it's not like I was pretending to be friends with you, either. I wouldn't do that to you. I'm not a seventh grader."
"You should rest," she said abruptly, rising. "I think you'll be okay to actually get some sleep now," she said, glancing at the clock. "We can talk later."
He thought she was about to abandon him when he really couldn't even get up to chase after her, but she stopped for a moment. Looking down at him, she leaned over and cupped his face in her hand. Softly she pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"I know you're sorry. Thanks for trusting me."
Because he had. In spite of everything else he'd screwed up, everything he'd done to hurt her, when he was in trouble, he'd trusted her enough to come to her, to let her find out that he was the Green Arrow. It was something few others had done willingly.
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