Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
(Oliver Q./OC)
Whisper felt the Hood's presence at her back, static as an encroaching storm. His shadow cut sharply into t he pale plaster wall with every turn of the emergency lighting. He watched but made no move to stop her as she slid a narrow skeleton key into the door lock.
A smooth twist of her wrist, done with the ease of someone who had done this before, one who had used this tool so many times that the key had become an extension of her will. No different from her hands, her fingers.
Whisper, he thought now, not without some pride, the shadow who moves through walls with hardly a whisper to show for her passing, and in the depths of his hood his lip quirked. If they only knew how uncomplicated her mechanics were.
Old-school but not careless; Whisper remained acutely aware of the mechanics of it – of how the smooth length of her precious skeleton key slid past the spring-loaded pins, bypassing the need to align with the shear line.
She trusted her tools, as she trusted herself. And with nary a wasted motion, a wasted breath, she was in. The room was dark, lit only by a low bank of lights from behind a desk. Whisper – Amelia Queen – held the door long enough to allow Starling City's notorious vigilante to slip inside before easing the door shut.
Her soft-soled shoes soundless on the floors, she moved to the desk. Did not pull out the chair. Did not sit down. From a hidden inner pocket of her thin black jacket, she withdrew a security fob and inserted it into the computer port.
Immediately, the preprogrammed virus coded into the fob moved from the computer to the building servers. Copying vital information into a secure folder, before replacing it with subtle alterations designed to confuse and protect.
This would take minutes.
For the first time since the man in the hood caught up with her, there was time enough to talk. To try and explain . . .
She asked, "How long have you known?"
Not a muscle moved on the vigilante. His identity carefully concealed under green leather and the shadows of a hood pulled low. She knew his name. His face. His stillness shamed even hers; he wrapped silence around himself like a shroud.
"Long enough," he said and her heart leapt at the soft timber of that familiar voice, absent the guttural edge criminals all through the city were learning to fear. "Long enough that I could have done anything I wanted with this information."
Amelia considered him. Calm. She wasn't afraid of him, of what he intended.
"Could have," she noted "should have. But didn't. You haven't told anyone."
It wasn't a question.
It didn't require an answer.
The computer beeped. A smoky blue light flashed in the unlit room, only once. Data copy complete. The virus started to move through the vulnerable servers. Erasing very little. Altering data. From the hall, voices.
Neither of them moved.
A fresh question surfaced.
"So why now?"
Blue eyes glinted.
Amy moved out from behind the desk, and the vigilante let her approach. No more afraid of her, than she was of him. A hard-won trust existed between them, and that wasn't so easily shaken.
Slowly, tentatively, as if testing to see if he would reject her touch she lay one black gloved hand on his chest. Could feel the strong, steady pulse beating there. His leathers warm against his skin. From this position, so close, Amelia could see past his hood to the face there. Handsome. Haunted.
She said, "Until now I didn't know I'd been compromised. You're right. You could have done anything you wanted with this information – people would kill for my identity but you didn't. You've been protecting me."
Yes. He held her stare, falling into clear, intelligent eyes and marveled at the depth of love he felt for this woman. Yes, he'd protected her. He hadn't known that she knew this – it explained why she'd allowed him to approach when he arrived.
"Why would you surrender your own identity to me? Oliver, that was never . . ." her thoughts scattered. Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, she recovered quickly, "It wasn't necessary. So why now? Why would you tell me?"
"Says the woman who's risking it all to protect me," he countered, but mildly. Through sheer force of will he dragged his gaze from her eyes, and leveled it on the quietly humming computer at her back. He told her, "My name's in there. Video, audio surveillance. They haven't put the pieces together yet but they will and when they do they have everything."
She came here tonight to protect him.
Maybe not Oliver Queen – she hadn't known his identity until minutes ago, when he revealed it, but she did it to protect the man in the hood. The military-level encryption in the fob, looking as benign as a pencil left on a pad of paper, flashed again. Complete.
His identity secured. Amy's attention slid. Her hand fell away and she returned to the computer, carefully retrieving the valuable device.
"All that explains what you're doing here," she said and he understood. He could have helped her, guarded her, without ever having to reveal his identity but in the moment it had seemed vitally important that she know.
That he equalize their dynamic.
He loved her. He did trust her. She needed to know.
"I don't want to keep secrets," - this secret - "just to keep you."
Amelia Queen slid the clever piece of Syndicate gear into the hidden pocket of her jacket, secured it there, and offered her husband a look of such gentle warmth, "You're not going to lose me, Oliver."
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A/N - I don't often talk on my fic chapters, but I feel that my readers deserve both an apology and an explanation for the delay in updating. AA is my darling, the story where I've chosen to focus the bulk of my efforts.
A few weeks back, someone broke into my apartment and stole a handful of things but namely my laptop. On which all - all - my writing was located. I'd backed up my files on a usb stick which was, unfortunately, still plugged into my laptop when they took it . . .
. . . so in one fell swoop I lost my writing and it's backup.
I've wasted some time; discouraged, and angry, and hurt. But I couldn't lay on the carpet staring at the ceiling forever lol gonna admit, trying to rebuild a chapter totally from memory is maddening! Especially those parts where I know what I said, I just can't quite remember how I said it :P
Hope you all don't mind; a friend sent me this prompt and I wanted to share it. As a gift, for hanging in there with me.
Chapter 2 is coming up. I've been working on it every day since dragging myself out of my funk, and re-motivating to get this done. 'Anthem of the Angels' is an ongoing fanfiction and one day, you all will be right there with me when I tack the 'complete' status on here. ^_^
