Part 1: White Picket Fences that can't be fixed

Sitting on the floor in her dark apartment, Chloe Sullivan stared morosely at the thick document in front of her. Having been unable to stomach the first dozen sheets of legalese, she'd flipped directly to the final page and found the short, blank line at the bottom. The one with her name typed neatly beneath it.

When the crisp manila envelope had arrived that morning, stamped with a Metropolis law firm's return address, she'd known instinctively what was inside. Smacked with a sudden paralysis, she watched the fingers on her shaking hands curl too tightly into the package; her white-knuckled grip leaving the once pristine edges crumpled.

She'd spent several horrible seconds trapped in that shell shock before she'd been able to snap herself loose and drop the thing like it was on fire. Unwilling to chance a second panic attack, she'd turned away from the package and for the rest of the day, pointedly pretended it didn't exist while she tackled every tedious chore her apartment had to offer.

Now – eight solid hours of cleaning later – she had a washer and dryer in dire need of a week's recuperation, enough Lysol in the air to knock a horse on its ass, and divorce papers lying on her coffee table.

The little, mocking line went blurry on the page as the tears she'd been fighting off all day started gaining ground. Swiping angrily at her eyes, she bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and knew this was one band-aid that had to be ripped off fast. Snatching up a pen she'd long ago swiped from the Planet's supply room, she pulled the plastic cap off with her teeth and jerkily scratched out her signature.

The deed done, she choked out a sigh that could have easily passed for a sob and spit the pen cap out of her mouth, watching it skitter across her thoroughly scrubbed hardwood.

"And there you have it," she whispered hoarsely. "I'm a 23 year-old divorcee."

Slumping against the table in defeat, she slowly slid the offending pages as far away as her short arm could manage and let her forehead fall onto the worn surface. After a mere five months – most of which had been spent separated – her marriage was over and Chloe Olsen was no more.

She could feel a migraine building between her eyes so she pressed her forehead harder into the table, as if the action could somehow squelch the pain and erase the fact that this was actually happening. Right now, she was supposed to be skipping off to a nice, normal happily ever after. There was supposed to be 2.5 kids, or whatever it was nowadays, and a white picket fence neither of them would be any good at fixing, and they were going to be Martha and Jonathan Kent, the Sequel, because he was Jimmy and she was Chloe, and it was supposed to work.

"Chloe?"

The surprising call of her name, accompanied by the feeling of a large hand gripping her shoulder, shocked Chloe right out of her mourning and straight into a full-blown shriek. Adrenalin pumping, she bolted upright and barely noticed the sting of her knees smashing into the coffee table, sending it and everything on it toppling over. Flying to the opposite side of the room, she grabbed the first weapon she could get her hands on and turned to face her attacker, wielding a lamp that was still plugged into the wall.

"Chloe! It's just me, it's alright!"

Straightening out of her fighter's stance at the sound of her intruder's familiarly distorted voice, Chloe squinted through the darkness at the man who had suddenly materialized in her apartment and immediately recognized his green leather fashion statement.

"Oliver!" She screamed as she flipped on the lamp she had planned on clubbing him with and slammed it back on top of the bookshelf she'd snatched it from. "What the hell is the matter with you? I'm having a heart attack over here!"

"I'm sorry!" He sputtered, the words twisted through his voice distorter.

"Turn that stupid thing off!" She snapped, bracing her hands against her knees as she tried to convince her racing heart that she was not, in fact, about to be murdered.

"Sorry," Oliver offered again, reaching up to the electronic device at his throat and cutting the tiny unit's power, "but the lights were all off. I thought you weren't home."

At his own words, his head tilted inquisitively. "Why are you sitting around in the dark?"

"Seriously?" She scoffed as she jerked upright and slammed her hands on her hips, arching a threatening brow. "You think you're entitled to questions right now?"

"Sorry," Oliver apologized yet again, but Chloe swore she saw his eyes roll behind his shades.

"Glasses off too," she barked as her fear dissipated and aggravation assumed its place. "I won't have you shooting me patronizing looks."

Visibly relaxing at her snark, Oliver removed the shades with a deliberate flourish and lowered himself smoothly to the arm of her couch, barely able to restrain the smirk creeping across his lips.

"So," she began mildly, "you intended on snooping around my apartment because…?"

"You think I'm spying on you?" He chuckled incredulously.

"Hey," Chloe sniped back, arms folding defiantly across her chest, "you're the one who said you only came in because you thought it was empty."

"Ease up on the drama Sidekick," he chastised good naturedly. "I came in to wait for you cause we need to talk."

First she was blinking and then she was shouting. "You scared the crap outta me cause you need to chat? It's called a phone!"

"I did call!" Oliver protested, holding up two fingers, "twice!"

Chloe had an index finger wagging at him and a rant all set, only to suddenly remember that she'd shut off her phone at some point between her fifth load of laundry and her massive closet re-org.

Her open mouth snapped closed and Oliver had the good grace to simply smile.

"Whatever," Chloe said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Skip to the point."

"Sure," he agreed, "but before we do, are you okay? You're not burnt are you?"

By way of reply, Chloe stared at him in strangely.

"You're wearing your coffee," he explained, his finger circling in the direction of her chest.

Looking down to find a new Rorschach pattern on her shirt, Chloe let out a sigh and started trudging towards her bedroom, ready to bid adieu to yet another perfectly good piece of clothing. "I'm gonna go change."

"I'll buy you a new one!" Oliver called after her as he bent down and began picking up the carnage the air born coffee table had caused. "Maybe a new table too… you really put a beating on this one."

"It's called second-hand Mr. Queen," Chloe yelled back as she entered her room and went to the dresser. "They come that way!"

Pulling out a fresh shirt and tossing it on her bed, Chloe began the uncomfortable process of wiggling out of her cold, wet top. When she was finally free, she realized her bra hadn't been spared and knowing she was in no mood to try and save it, she decided it was fated to meet the same untimely end as the shirt. Turning back to the dresser, she dug around for a new bra before reassembling herself as much as possible. When she was finally presentable again, she began making her way out of the room, but paused when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

Her heart sank a little more with the knowledge that she looked awful. She was divorced and she looked like complete crap. Lovely.

Pushing aside her horror over her decidedly wretched appearance, she gave the room's light switch a forceful smack and stomped back out, ready to take her bitterness out on a billionaire.

"Alright, I'm clean," she announced acidly. "Now it's time to tell me what…"

Her words died when she entered the living room to find Oliver rooted in place, her divorce papers in his hands.

His eyes shot up to meet hers and she could plainly see the pity they held. Sensing the shell shock creeping back up on her, she tried for some sort of quip, but there was an awful lump lodging itself in her throat that made words impossible. The agonizing moment was stretching gracelessly along and with each beat of her thudding heart, the hot embarrassment crashing from her hairline to her collar bone got redder and redder.

Clearing his throat, Oliver spoke softly. "I'm so sorry."

Her humiliation complete, she made quick work of the space between them and with one desperate grab, clawed the papers away from him.

"This," she explained, voice trembling as she held the crumpled document in her fist, "is not up for discussion. Why are you here?"

"Chloe," he began, a consoling hand moving towards her elbow.

"Tell me why you're here or leave," she interrupted, side-stepping out of his reach.

His dark eyes swept over her and, at first, she was able to hold her ground under the scrutiny, but the seconds were ticking by way too slowly and his assessment was making her skin itch. She was just about to declare him officially banned from her home, when his jaw set and he slid into business mode.

"There's a warehouse, about two hours from here," he began succinctly, seriously. "I've been keeping an eye on their inventory and lately, it's starting to rub me the wrong way. I could be off base, but I'm not leaving it alone 'till I'm sure."

Grateful for a topic that didn't make her heart ache, Chloe nodded and threw herself in head first.

"Who owns the warehouse?" She asked.

"Don't know," Oliver answered simply, "and believe me, I've looked. Just one of the many things that's bothering me about this place."

"You want me to take a crack at it?" She guessed.

"Yes and no," he stated vaguely. "I was looking over the security schematics and the place isn't even a little tight. Thought perhaps I could take you straight to the source and let you have at it."

Narrowing her eyes, she weighed his words suspiciously.

"Forgive me, but I'm confused," she began, her tone sardonic. "I seem to recall a conversation a few months back where you told me – in no uncertain terms – that my Watchtower duties should not, would not, and could never, involve field work. What's changed?"

Unhappy to have his own words thrown in his face, Oliver huffed in mild exasperation.

"Victor's on the other side of the world and the fact that I can't dig up anything on this place is pissing me off."

"Huh," Chloe replied inelegantly. "Good to know my job description mutants with your mood swings."

"Anyways," Oliver dismissed, turning away from her and heading towards the living room window.

Watching him curiously, Chloe suddenly realized he was about to leave via the way he entered.

"Where are you going?" She asked, trotting over to his side.

"I'm leaving," he answered blankly, his eyes asking her how that wasn't obvious.

"We're not going to the warehouse?" She questioned.

The confusion on his face deepened and his eyes went back to assessing her, surprised by what he found in her expression.

"We're going to the warehouse?" He asked disbelievingly.

"Well, I promised you that I was gonna take on the JL full-time," she shrugged. "Seems to me that this sort of stuff is my responsibility now."

"You don't have to, not today," he assured her quietly, his hand hovering uncertainly above her shoulder for just a second before he resolved himself and let it rest against her.

"Don't," Chloe ordered kindly, patting his hand rather than throwing it off. "We're going. Now, what did you drive here?"

His brow was raised doubtfully, but it seemed as though he had packed up any opposition for the time being and that was good enough for her.

"Bike," he finally answered.

"Please tell me you have two helmets," she whined. "Me with a concussion would just be the cherry on top of today's crappy sundae."

"And here I thought your banter was broken," he said smiling, his face falling a second later when it dawned on him that it was one thing for her to make light of the events of this day, another thing entirely for him to do it.

"I'm sorry," he proclaimed immediately.

"You know," she noted dryly, "you've very nearly said sorry half-a-dozen times tonight."

"Sorry," he offered with a smile.

"Ding, ding, ding!" She sang, though it was lacking her usual enthusiasm and patented mile wide grin. "Half-a-dozen it is."

"There may still be hope for you," he observed, the hand that had never left her shoulder squeezing gently.

"Yeah, yeah," she groused. "Go get the bike and I'll meet you out back in five. Gotta grab some supplies."

His nod was curt and before she could suggest that he try the door, he was ducking through the window and vanishing out of sight.

Sucking in a deep breath, she let her eyes wander down to the papers her fingers were still wrapped about.

"Well," she told her empty apartment as she picked up her steps and quickly set about gathering what she would need, "at least it beats cleaning."