I Don't Mind A Little Trouble
Title: I Don't Mind A Little Trouble
Author: FlyingHigh / latetothpartyhp
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama / Adventure
Pairings: Chloe/Oliver, back-ground Lollie
Spoilers: for Luthor
Warnings: For language, since all these characters have potty-mouths when I write them. Also, this is un-beta'd.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, and I am receiving no money for this story.
Summary: Sequel to Of All The Towns in All the Worlds in All the Parallel Universes, You Had to Walk Into Mine. After Lionel's disappearance, alt-universe Oliver is suspected of his murder. Fortunately someone pays a call to help clear his name.
Author's Note: I really, really, really need to be working on other things. However, I feel an odd need to get this out before the end of the hiatus and the show destroys all my little speculations.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7
----------------------------------------------------------------------
As it turned out, Dinah recorded her show, “And Justice For All”, in the WGBS building, only a few blocks away, and on occasion, as winter wore on, he would pass her in the sky-ways: crossing Fourth St., getting her shoes shined, in line at Caribou. Sometimes he found himself making excuses to take the elevator down and look for her. Not for the fun of it, certainly; most people who recognized him these days looked a little shocked or sickeningly excited. He had a feeling some of them ran back to their offices to announce the sighting: “Guess who I just saw! Oliver Queen! How long, you think, before they arrest him?” That was hard, but expected. He was used to less than universal approbation. For the first time, though, he felt as if there was at least one face in the crowd who supported him. She was the only member of the team based in town; they'd moved Victor to Queen Industries' Silicon Valley facilities, and Andrea he saw only on her infrequent trips in from San Diego or El Paso. That was ok. Dinah was there. He'd wander until he saw her.
For obvious reasons he wasn't able to do that often. More often the passings were arranged. He'd see a tweet on his feed from @LadiesWhoLunch mentioning a great deal at PotBelly or Falafel King and he would make his way down, strolling through the lunch crowd until he bumped into her. That day, though, he didn't see her among the bored, rushed data analysts and paralegals and project managers. Or rather, he didn't see her right away.
He saw someone else first.
Someone blonde, and green-eyed, and short but trying to make up for it by wearing three-inch heels. Someone who had walked out on him, without even telling him her name; someone who was walking very calmly now toward the Coronado Avenue walk-way to Lacey's. It was only after that, jerking his head around, that he saw Dinah sipping on a Jamba Juice, smartphone in hand, walking very calmly toward the Avenue of the Prairies crossing on the other side of the building.
Son of a bitch.
He turned, and, calmly as he could, walked toward Coronado.
The woman he tailed didn't bat an eyelash from what he could tell. Not that he could tell. That would require her to turn and look back, which of course she didn't do because that would require her to be aware of him, which she wasn't, because she kept marching straight over Coronado, into Lacey's and onto the nearest escalator. With effort he managed to amble along casually, avoiding eye-contact with dozens of strangers and one rather bribe-able alderman. If she wasn't practically running in those damn heels he would have given a nod and a smile to the alderman, who would not have appreciated the attention from an accused patricide, but she was and so he had to focus on the task at hand. He focused deeply, right until she suddenly stopped and he realized she'd led him into what Nanny Lizzie had called, with the full force of all her old-school Yankee scorn for pretension of any kind, “The Underpants”.
This, he thought, was where it could get sticky. Even if no one recognized him, he was still a man in the women's intimates department, which meant that, sooner or later -
“May I help you find something, sir?”
someone was going to try to wait on him.
He smiled his best disarming-yet-professional grin. “Thanks, but it's really more of I'll-know-it-when-I-see-it situation.”
“Alright. My name's Krista, and if you do have any questions be sure to let me know.” She smiled in what he was sure was her best understanding-but-remember-the-name-if-you-actually-buy-anything grin.
“Will do,” he said, and turned scan the racks. Nothing - nothing - nothing. Shit. He would not have put it past her to have thrown Krista his way while she made a break for it - and how ironic was it he knew the damn shop-girl's name but not hers?
He rotated once again, casually, while faking an interest in … maternity bras... Oh, God … when he spotted the back of her blonde head, bobbing right into the fitting rooms. Without looking around - God knew he didn't need any more “assistance” - he wandered straight past tables of something called “bed socks”, a wall of pastel flannel pajama pants and a middle-aged woman re-hanging what looked like giant sausage-casings at a little desk, and on into the fitting room.
Before he'd gotten three yards in he heard a middle-aged female voice behind him. “Sir! Sir, I'm sorry, you can't go in there - “
“It's ok!” whispered the voice of Krista, who may or may not have been following him. “That's Oliver Queen!” Well, it was good to know tabloid notoriety still counted for something in this town. He looked over his shoulder at Krista and the sausage-casing hanger and winked. Krista, bless her, winked back and Oliver made a note to call his assistant as soon as this was over and have her buy out the “bed socks”.
Now there was only the problem of finding the right stall. Despite the staff's willingness to send in any random billionaire who came along, Lacey's, it seemed, like to give their female customers privacy: the doors to each of the fitting rooms ran floor-to-ceiling. That ruled out sneaking peeks underneath to find the right shoes, and knocking wasn't really an option. Either the woman who answered would be happy to see the only man in Metropolis who'd made the covers of both People and Forbes or … she wouldn't. Which meant not only being kicked out of Lacey's but also possible police involvement -- which he really did not need in his life at the moment -- and a definite firing for Krista.
He clenched his fingers in his hair. Actually, he thought, this had been a pretty dumb idea. He should go. Walk out, give Krista a sheepish grin, and hang out behind some espresso makers in Housewares until his quarry -
“Hmmmph.”
TBC...
Author: FlyingHigh / latetothpartyhp
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama / Adventure
Pairings: Chloe/Oliver, back-ground Lollie
Spoilers: for Luthor
Warnings: For language, since all these characters have potty-mouths when I write them. Also, this is un-beta'd.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, and I am receiving no money for this story.
Summary: Sequel to Of All The Towns in All the Worlds in All the Parallel Universes, You Had to Walk Into Mine. After Lionel's disappearance, alt-universe Oliver is suspected of his murder. Fortunately someone pays a call to help clear his name.
Author's Note: I really, really, really need to be working on other things. However, I feel an odd need to get this out before the end of the hiatus and the show destroys all my little speculations.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7
----------------------------------------------------------------------
As it turned out, Dinah recorded her show, “And Justice For All”, in the WGBS building, only a few blocks away, and on occasion, as winter wore on, he would pass her in the sky-ways: crossing Fourth St., getting her shoes shined, in line at Caribou. Sometimes he found himself making excuses to take the elevator down and look for her. Not for the fun of it, certainly; most people who recognized him these days looked a little shocked or sickeningly excited. He had a feeling some of them ran back to their offices to announce the sighting: “Guess who I just saw! Oliver Queen! How long, you think, before they arrest him?” That was hard, but expected. He was used to less than universal approbation. For the first time, though, he felt as if there was at least one face in the crowd who supported him. She was the only member of the team based in town; they'd moved Victor to Queen Industries' Silicon Valley facilities, and Andrea he saw only on her infrequent trips in from San Diego or El Paso. That was ok. Dinah was there. He'd wander until he saw her.
For obvious reasons he wasn't able to do that often. More often the passings were arranged. He'd see a tweet on his feed from @LadiesWhoLunch mentioning a great deal at PotBelly or Falafel King and he would make his way down, strolling through the lunch crowd until he bumped into her. That day, though, he didn't see her among the bored, rushed data analysts and paralegals and project managers. Or rather, he didn't see her right away.
He saw someone else first.
Someone blonde, and green-eyed, and short but trying to make up for it by wearing three-inch heels. Someone who had walked out on him, without even telling him her name; someone who was walking very calmly now toward the Coronado Avenue walk-way to Lacey's. It was only after that, jerking his head around, that he saw Dinah sipping on a Jamba Juice, smartphone in hand, walking very calmly toward the Avenue of the Prairies crossing on the other side of the building.
Son of a bitch.
He turned, and, calmly as he could, walked toward Coronado.
The woman he tailed didn't bat an eyelash from what he could tell. Not that he could tell. That would require her to turn and look back, which of course she didn't do because that would require her to be aware of him, which she wasn't, because she kept marching straight over Coronado, into Lacey's and onto the nearest escalator. With effort he managed to amble along casually, avoiding eye-contact with dozens of strangers and one rather bribe-able alderman. If she wasn't practically running in those damn heels he would have given a nod and a smile to the alderman, who would not have appreciated the attention from an accused patricide, but she was and so he had to focus on the task at hand. He focused deeply, right until she suddenly stopped and he realized she'd led him into what Nanny Lizzie had called, with the full force of all her old-school Yankee scorn for pretension of any kind, “The Underpants”.
This, he thought, was where it could get sticky. Even if no one recognized him, he was still a man in the women's intimates department, which meant that, sooner or later -
“May I help you find something, sir?”
someone was going to try to wait on him.
He smiled his best disarming-yet-professional grin. “Thanks, but it's really more of I'll-know-it-when-I-see-it situation.”
“Alright. My name's Krista, and if you do have any questions be sure to let me know.” She smiled in what he was sure was her best understanding-but-remember-the-name-if-you-actually-buy-anything grin.
“Will do,” he said, and turned scan the racks. Nothing - nothing - nothing. Shit. He would not have put it past her to have thrown Krista his way while she made a break for it - and how ironic was it he knew the damn shop-girl's name but not hers?
He rotated once again, casually, while faking an interest in … maternity bras... Oh, God … when he spotted the back of her blonde head, bobbing right into the fitting rooms. Without looking around - God knew he didn't need any more “assistance” - he wandered straight past tables of something called “bed socks”, a wall of pastel flannel pajama pants and a middle-aged woman re-hanging what looked like giant sausage-casings at a little desk, and on into the fitting room.
Before he'd gotten three yards in he heard a middle-aged female voice behind him. “Sir! Sir, I'm sorry, you can't go in there - “
“It's ok!” whispered the voice of Krista, who may or may not have been following him. “That's Oliver Queen!” Well, it was good to know tabloid notoriety still counted for something in this town. He looked over his shoulder at Krista and the sausage-casing hanger and winked. Krista, bless her, winked back and Oliver made a note to call his assistant as soon as this was over and have her buy out the “bed socks”.
Now there was only the problem of finding the right stall. Despite the staff's willingness to send in any random billionaire who came along, Lacey's, it seemed, like to give their female customers privacy: the doors to each of the fitting rooms ran floor-to-ceiling. That ruled out sneaking peeks underneath to find the right shoes, and knocking wasn't really an option. Either the woman who answered would be happy to see the only man in Metropolis who'd made the covers of both People and Forbes or … she wouldn't. Which meant not only being kicked out of Lacey's but also possible police involvement -- which he really did not need in his life at the moment -- and a definite firing for Krista.
He clenched his fingers in his hair. Actually, he thought, this had been a pretty dumb idea. He should go. Walk out, give Krista a sheepish grin, and hang out behind some espresso makers in Housewares until his quarry -
“Hmmmph.”
TBC...