Many Hats to Wear

Chapter 7: Biochemist

The seventh time visits him, he thinks he might be in over his head.

It's another late night at the office, and he's heard she's jumping the Vertigo thing pretty hard.  Actually, it seems that the only thing on the news is Vertigo these days; when the Vigilante isn't getting press about beating on dealers, it's all about Tommy Merlyn doing Vertigo and jumping in his car after he and Laurel Lance broke up, and subsequently wrecking his car the same way he wrecked his relationship.

Needless to say, he's expecting her to show up any night with a sample of Vertigo for him to analyze, and he's not sure if he can do it this time.  Computer problems?  No big deal.  But Vertigo?  He doesn't want anything  to do with that, thank you.

When she walks in the door that night, he can already tell that something is off about her.  Her perfect posture is damaged by slouching, and she's wobbling lightly on her feet.  She holds onto the door frame tightly as she walks in, and it is clear that something is very much not right.

"You look like something the cat dragged in," he says to her lightly, and is even more concerned when she doesn't respond.  "Are you all right?"

She simply moves to the high-powered desk lamp he has on the work table behind his desk and shuts it off, moving slowly and wincing as she gets close to it.  By way of explanation, she says, "Sorry, I've got a bit of a hangover."

He moves from his seat, pulling the chair over so she can sit down, and is surprised when she thanks him.  "Sounds like you need a Bloody Mary and a pretzel, not the IT department," he says to her, trying to be as cheerful as always.

She sighs, her speech slowed somewhat.  "Actually," she says after a moment, her mouth turning up at the corners just enough to be noticeable, "my buddy Kevin is starting an energy drink company.  He says this stuff of his is fantastic for curing hangovers."  She frowns again, but this time it's for show.  "But I'm very particular about what I put in my body."

His brain-to-mouth filter has been on the fritz all day, so his thought just somehow manages to slip out as, "So I've noticed," as his eyes roam over her figure again.  He mentally slaps himself, before correcting, "I said 'not noticed,' right?"

She actually chuckles at that, and he's glad his slip-up put her in better spirits.  But like always, she continues on as if he hasn't spoken at all.  "I'm trying to find the secret recipe.  Could you please to a... spectral analysis"—she seems uncertain of the phrase—"to figure out exactly where in the city it's made?"  She holds up a syringe, of all things, filled with blue liquid.

"If it's an energy drink," he asks, calling her bluff, "why is it in a syringe?"

"I ran out of sports bottles," she replies in that mock sincere tone he's come to appreciate.  It's the only answer she offers.

"You do realize your BS stories are getting worse, right?" he asks, earning him another chuckle.  He hesitates before picking up the syringe.  "I'm not sure I'm your guy on this one," he admits after a long moment.  "I'm going to have to go up to Applied Sciences and run it through a mass spec and God knows what else, and I only made a C in organic chemistry."

She crosses her arms.  "Is that a requirement for all computer science majors, or just you?" she asks, smiling slightly.

"I was pre-med as an undergrad once," he admits, only halfway joking as he continues, "but then I came to my senses.  I don't want you to see what a screw-up I am in the lab, so just wait here, okay?  It shouldn't take me too long—Smoak Consolidated has the sweetest machinery on the market."

"I'll be here," she assures him.

***

When he arrives back at the office a few hours later with tons of printed results to run through his computer, he's surprised to find her asleep in the chair.  She actually looks peaceful sitting there, even in the getup and with the bow and arrow that has killed many a bad guy.  Unsure how to wake her—but knowing full well he should most definitely not touch her—he says quietly, "Uh, hey."

She's upright in an instant, but then her mouth turns down in a grimace a second later as though the sudden motion causes her pain.  "Sorry," he says, wincing, "didn't mean to startle you."  He holds up the printouts.  "If you can come back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty, I should have those results for you."  He worries that he might be too forward for a moment, because her expression turns absolutely unreadable, but then she smiles.

A few minutes of computer analysis later, he's able to tell her, "The solvent used in the sample—of what I now know to be Vertigo, by the way—is runoff water originating within a ten-block radius of where East Glades meets the bay."  She puts a hand on his shoulder as she leans closer to the monitor and the map he's pulled up on the screen.  "Your best bet is a juvenile detention center abandoned about three years ago.  Cutbacks and all that."

"Thanks again, Oliver," she says as she moves to pick up the sample and her bow, wincing when the motion probably gives her a headrush.  "I appreciate it."

Oliver hesitates a moment before finally saying to her, "Look, I don't know what happened to you to make you all..."  He mimics her wobbly gait, and she is not amused in the least by it.  He continues quickly, "But, at the risk of being impaled on an arrow, maybe sit this out until you're back up to speed, alright?  I mean, no offense, but you look as though you couldn't hit the side of this building with an arrow right now."

She gives him a half-smile, one corner of her mouth rising above the other.  "I don't have that sort of time table," she informs him.  "And there's something you've forgotten—something that you should never forget."

"What's that?" he asks, not sure he wants to know.

Her smile is the Mona Lisa's, secretive and knowing.  "I don't need the bow."  It's a threat of sorts, but it's not aimed at him.  Her expression is torn for a moment before she makes her way back to him.  Quickly, and before he can realize what's happened, she places a kiss on his cheek.  "And thank you, Oliver," she adds with a pat to his shoulder, "for your concern."

Before his brain is back to coherent thought, she's through the doorway, headed to God knows where.  Did the Starling City Vigilante just kiss him?  He's pretty sure he's imagining things, but then he catches sight of his reflection in the glass server case next to him, and he can see something that looks like a green lip print on his cheek.  She did kiss him, he realizes as he wipes the evidence away with his shirt sleeve.  Holy crap, she kissed him—him, of all people.  Lowly, invisible Oliver Queen is the one she chooses, not only to trust with her secrets, but also enough to be herself around him.

Not that he's making a thing of it or anything, but she might actually like him.  He's just saying.