Subtraction Time (Chapter Two)

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Flashbacks to Chloe’s side of Shield and I suppose also to the time glanced over in the 45-52 minute mark of Batman Begins. 

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Chapter 2

November, 2011

She could barely keep her eyes open by the time she shot her email off to Grell. She hoped he’d run it as mutants in Gotham weren’t given much attention. Most of the focus that wasn’t on the Batman was on the shady side of politics and law enforcement, though Gotham’s press was just corrupt enough to keep that to innuendo. 

She supposed she’d get an email back by early morning about just why she wasn’t writing up The Batman. Oliver wondered about that, too. Her pat answer was that she focused on mutant rights and, despite some wild tales, there was no evidence The Batman had mutant powers. Of course, she knew that for a fact, but no one else needed to know that. Best to keep him mysterious. She was sure he preferred it that way. 

Still, it made people curious. Oliver liked to pretend he didn’t care either way about The Batman. “He’s Gotham’s problem,” he’d grumble. “Probably rotten to the core like his stupid city.” She suspected that a lot of his resentment stemmed from all the very unsuccessful attempts to recruit him, each met with a softly growled “I work alone” before he disappeared. Still, Oliver and Clark had decided he was “not a team player and couldn’t be trusted.”

She had a private chuckle at that as Oliver and Clark weren’t always such a team players. Still, she hoped Bruce might relent, might learn, like Clark and Oliver eventually did, that having a team didn’t make you weak. That you didn’t have to do just everything by yourself or it was abject failure. But these superheroes were just men underneath it all – horribly stubborn, territorial men. 

Either way, they weren't in Gotham for Bruce. He'd made it clear he worked alone and she would respect that. They were here for Rachel -- and the other kids by the time they all met up in the ridiculously named Happy Harbor. Victor had mailed them coordinates and instructions to bring their recruits. Rachel was obviously her pet recruit as Mia, who was flying in from Star City, was Oliver’s. Clark would be flying Zan and Jayna there. Victor seemed very excited about a kid named Garfield Logan, but kept telling everyone to remember it’s rude to stare. He seemed to reiterate this mostly to Bart, who didn’t have a recruit, though he’d be there.

It was only five kids, but it was a start as far as helping the younger set develop their skills and abilities in ways that helped them work within the law rather than outside it. And they would all be there to help the kids see what they were be training to be – pure, unadulterated heroes. As for her, whatever Oliver and Clark said, she wasn’t exactly a hero. But she was definitely a hero advocate. 

She yawned loudly before she opened the door on a dark room and a sleeping husband. She stared at her suitcase for just a second before she decided she was too tired to change for bed, and especially not into the sleepwear Oliver had so sweetly picked up for her. When she’d said to grab her some pajamas, she’d meant flannel and fleece. It was November and all she had was flimsy nighties, some with garter belts and thigh-highs. Oliver refused to see a problem with that.

Luckily, the room was warm enough. She didn’t do more than shuck off her jeans and socks before she tried to slide some of the blankets her way without waking him. 

“You said half an hour,” she heard.

“It took a little longer,” she said, tugging at the quilt. “Share, please.”

“I don’t share with liars.” He turned over, grinning and holding on tight.

“Oliver, stop fooling around,” she groaned, crawling in and pushing at him. “I’m tired.”

He relented and slid over, pulling the blankets over her. “No fooling around, Hmm?” He pressed against her back. “Is this a ‘not tonight, Honey, I have a headache’ kind of thing?”

Chloe shivered as his lips lightly glanced over the back of her neck. “I’m not that tired,” she breathed, rolling over to meet his lips. 

August, 2010

Chloe rolled over with a grunt, trying to sit up, trying to open her eyes. These weren’t usually monumental tasks, but they sure felt like it when everything either ached, stung, or burned. She wasn’t in the hospital. That was about the only thing she was sure of. Her hospital stays, numbering in the twenties if not the thirties, were enough to tell her that whatever she was lying on was too soft to be a hospital bed. The light, from the brief and painful moment when she did open her eyes, was too soft for harsh fluorescents. The noise was too soft – not a beep to be heard, just hushed voices. 

One of them, she knew. She’d heard it in the alleyway. The man in the coat with the kevlar chest. “… didn’t know what else to do with her,” she heard.

“Master Wayne, I’d like to think I’ve been a real sport about everything.” A British accent or… Cockney. Is that what they called it? “Behind you a hundred percent, more if it were possible, but I have to draw the line at you abducting strange women.”

She shot up and opened her eyes at that, despite the pain. She’d been abducted. By the man in the alley. He was just outside the door with a British man who called him “master.” She wasn’t sure if she was relieved she wasn’t in the hospital or terrified. Then she looked at the door. The crazily ornate door, then the room around her. Her first thought was that she was in some kind of opulent Gotham hotel. But the window outside showed nothing but lush grounds. A really, really luxurious hotel?

“I didn't abduct her,” the alley man said. “I saved her. And she was terrified… and I think of more than a mugging. She's running from something.”

The doorknob turned and Chloe quickly laid back down. If she had to escape from this hotel or whatever the hell it was, she had to be stealthy about it. Of course, as the soft mattress molded to her tired and sore body, she nearly wished to be kept captive rather than go back to her squalid room at the Crown Pointe Motel with the lumpy mattress. 

“Regardless, Master Wayne, I am not the doctor your father was. I can patch up the odd scrape, but this girl needs a hospital. She’s been out all night and half the day. She might have some sort of serious head injury.”

She was tempted to sit up and tell them she did not. She should know what one felt like by now. A few aspirin and a little more rest and she’d be just fine. If she slept a little too long, it was only because… Well, who could sleep at The Crown Point Motel?

“She said no hospitals,” the alley man… or Master Wayne, she supposed, said, his voice closer now, right next to her. She was nearly grateful. “Alfred, there’s something about this one. She doesn’t add up.”

“In what way?”

“In any way, according to Lucius.”

Her hazy mind was busy clicking away at what she heard. Alfred. Master Wayne. She wasn’t exactly upper crust, but wasn’t “master” a servant’s term for the son of a rich man? And there was a Wayne Enterprises in Gotham. Maybe…

“Maybe you should ask her yourself as she’s obviously awake,” the other man – or Alfred – said.

Chloe squeezed her eyes tightly shut before opening them, deciding against pretending to be disoriented. It was just a waste of time. She sat up and stared at the two of them. She’d barely seen this “Master Wayne” before. He was young, but looked strangely… older. The other man was unmistakably older, gray haired and weathered and rather tired, as if this “Master Wayne” was not the easiest of employers. There was something about him she immediately understood, a look of resignation, maybe. Chloe suspected he, much like her, knew what it was to stand by men that crept around rescuing people in the bad parts of town. Weren’t they just the worst… and maybe the best?

She gave the older man a small smile before turning to the younger man. “Where am I?”

Master Wayne’s brows drew together. “I think we’ll be asking the questions. Who are you?”

“Marion Briggs,” she answered quickly.

“Don’t try to…”

“No, Master Wayne,” that Alfred man cut in. “I might look past you abducting the odd woman, but I do have my limits. Some standards must be upheld. And that would include feeding guests who’ve been here more than twenty hours, I think.” He moved closer to the bed. “Would you like something, my dear?”

Chloe was too flabbergasted to even answer.

“Some tea, at least?”

Chloe desperately wanted to say she preferred coffee, but wasn’t sure if it would be rude. She wasn’t sure about the proper etiquette in such a civil abduction. She just nodded dumbly.

“Tea, then.” Alfred nodded to himself, then turned to his master. ”Try not to interrogate the girl while I’m gone.”

She rather wished he wouldn’t go. That left her with the other man. “So… Master Wayne, you got a first name?”

He shrugged. “Do you?”

“I told you. It’s…”

“It’s not Marion Briggs. I found another that seems to match your prints, but most databases seem convinced Chloe Sullivan doesn’t exist.”

She looked around dejectedly. Of course. Someone with this kind of money could probably dig up anything.

“It’s actually very impressive. When most people want to disappear, they just digitally die. You went a few steps further, never being born and all.”

“I obviously didn’t take it far enough,” she croaked, rubbing at her throat.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” He moved to a side table and poured her a glass of water. “You’re good. I just happen to know someone better.”

"I thought I'd been erased. I didn't think anyone could find me."

He held out the glass. "I'm not just anyone."

"I'm starting to see that," she said, taking it warily. “So what do you know about me?”

“Not enough.”

She took a long sip, avoiding answers as long as she could. “I’d say the same, but I’d be lying.”

“Really? You know about me?” He took the chair next to the bed with a slight smirk.

“Well, not your first name or anything. But I know your type pretty well. You’re frustrated at the injustice all around you. You feel the need to fix it, alone if you have to. You lost your parents, either before you were born or very young. The isolation of that makes you feel no one understands you and, even if someone tries to, you barely let them in.” 

He looked surprised in a guarded sort of way, as if he refused to confirm her suspicions. “So you’ve got me pegged?”

“You think you’re the only one there is? I’ve been rescued in dark alleys and on rooftops before.”

He leaned forward. “So… what? Do you think there's always going to be someone to rescue you?”

She wheezed out a laugh. “Well… I could point out that the streak remains unbroken so far.”

“And what about your type? I mean, you can’t think you’re the only one like you there is.”

“I don’t,” she said easily. “Wherever there’s someone like you, there’s usually someone like me. Someone to clean up the messes or the scrapes, to keep the secrets.” Like that Alfred man, she supposed.

“Is that why you chose to disappear? Sick of the secrets?”

“I didn’t choose to,” she said, shaking her head. “Or… I don’t know. Maybe I did. But there didn’t seem to be another choice. I had to keep them safe.”

“And who keeps you safe?”

“I guess they do… or they did.” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling suddenly dizzy. She’d refused to really think about it, what her choice meant for her. What would she do now? She was floundering and lost and broke. She’d never spent a second of her life without a purpose. Whether it was reporting or side-kicking, there was always an end in sight. Now there was just this open stretch of time with no purpose and no safety net. She shook herself. “I’m fine, though. I can take care of myself.” Hell, she’d been doing it since she was eight.

“No, you can’t. Not yet.”

She glanced up sharply, irritated. “I just ended up in a bad part of town. It doesn’t make me your problem. Okay? It could happen to…”

“I said not yet. But I think you could – with some work,” he finished, his gaze sort of assessing her before he stood. “I’ll let you rest.”

November, 2011

They really should be resting. She’d only teleported a few times by now, but she knew the after-effects were worse than jet lag. She should warn Oliver about that, but he was freaked out enough at the idea of traveling without a vehicle already.

Besides, she couldn’t find it in her to protest by the time he flashed her a grin and disappeared under the covers. She was sure they’d both be plenty relaxed in no time at all.

She sighed at the feel of his lips, making soft circles on her inner thigh, then gasped as he bit her there, just enough to make sure she was paying attention, as if she could drift away now. He knew just how to touch her. He had from the start, as if he’d had years of practice. He followed her every breath, every minute movement, answered each with the right touch, flick, lick…

She could be coming off a two-day, coffee-fueled, sleep-deprived bender (and had sometimes), yet the minute he touched her, she was wide awake.

She breathed his name, her back arching off the bed as his lips stopped meandering and surrounded her clit. She didn’t have to say things like “right there” or “faster” or “more.” He knew by now.

Her hands flung outward, pushing the many pillows off the edge before blindly groping and grasping along the fancy sheets and quilts, trying to find him, trying to hold onto him as her body began to float away.

She gripped him through the covers, heard his grunt, felt it against her. She suspected she’d given his hair a rather rough pull, but he hadn’t stopped. He knew well enough that this was not the time to stop, when she was so close…

It hit her in waves, radiating softly outward until the tension broke, leaving only the feel of him still working at her, softer now, making sure she didn’t come down just yet.

He wasn’t finished, after all.

Her eyes fluttered open as his fingers replaced his tongue, thumb making wet circles on her clit as he rose up over her, sweaty and mussed and somehow still absolutely beautiful. She let out choppy breaths through the aftershocks, almost wishing he’d let up, let her take care of him the way he always took care of her. Yet she moaned in selfish protest when his hand left her.

But it was only for a moment, only so he could grip her hips and lean down to whisper, “Turn over.”

She did so quickly, twisting under him until she felt him his harsh breaths on her back…

September, 2010

She landed on her back.

Again.

She’d kind of been hoping that she’d gained some sort of protective layer there by now, that she could hit the mat without every bit of wind being knocked out of her. But no such luck.

“Get up.”

“Can’t… breathe,” she choked out.

“You’re fine. Get up.”

She narrowed her eyes at the rocky ceiling, wanting to say she wasn’t and she wouldn’t and he couldn’t make her. But she got up.

“Finally,” Bruce said with a disgustingly annoying smirk as she struggled to her feet. “Thought I’d have to pick you up. Like your other pals probably do.” He lunged for her.

“Shut up about them,” she grunted, moving quickly to her right. He’d found out enough about her and her team. She wasn’t going to give him anything else, especially when he was such a jerk about them. Besides, all he had was speculation involving the Blur and Green Arrow and the occasional sightings of other known vigilantes in Metropolis. He had his theories about how she might fit in and, sometimes, they were pretty close. She didn’t confirm or deny. 

“Come on. I’m just wondering why no one bothered to teach you to fight,” he said, circling her.

“They did,” she said, increasingly annoyed at his constant needling about her pals. They had taught her… some. Then again, it was stop and go. The only consistent effort she’d got was from Oliver and most of Oliver's later attempts had ended in bed when they’d barely started. Sometimes she missed him so much, it physically hurt. 

Of course, she had to correct herself on that when Bruce took advantage of her momentary stroll down memory lane and swept her legs out from under her. She landed half off the mat the still-rocky floor digging into her skin. 

That physically hurt. 

He leaned over as she tried to get her wind back again. “They didn't do a very good job. Did they? Thought this was a real crack team.” He held out a hand.

She shoved his hand away and got to her feet, rolling her neck. “You’re awfully curious,” she panted, “about my team for someone who works alone," she rasped, mimicking the rather ridiculous growl he put on when he was out on the streets.

"I don't do teams.” He shrugged, circling her again.

“Of course you don’t. Alfred and Lucius are just employees.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s different. They’re not in danger. And Lucius doesn’t know.”

She laughed at that. Considering Lucius Fox might possess most brilliant mind she ever encountered, there was no way he didn’t know. She’d only met him once, trailing after Bruce as a “new assistant,” but she knew his work and she saw the rather bald suspicion in his eyes. Yet he still helped out, providing Bruce with all the high tech toys he needing for his “sporting” adventures. 

“That what it’s about, huh?” she tried. “No one else is allowed to put their neck out? Just you?” She kept her eyes on him, trying to see what he’d do next. One of these days, she’d get him on the floor.

“How did this get to me? I thought you wanted to stop being such a damsel in dis…”

“I have never been a damsel,” she grunted, trying to lunge at him and nearly falling on her face when he easily spun out of the way. And she hadn’t been a damsel, damn it! Even in the scariest situations, she fought or she ran. She didn’t sit there, biting her nails and waiting for rescue. And maybe she hadn’t been the best fighter, but that didn’t mean she didn’t try. She was trying now. 

She’d think he’d give her some credit by now! Here she was, in a damp cave, every crevice filled with bats, in hand-to-hand combat with an insane billionaire who seemed to like nothing more than to see her pissed off. She supposed staying in a mansion was kind of a perk, but not enough to offset the rest.

She turned it back to him again. “By the way, the ski mask is a great addition to the ensemble,” she said with a smile. “You don’t look anything like all the guys holding up convenience stores.”

“It’s temporary,” he grunted. “Now be quiet or you’ll wake them up.”

She shuddered, knowing who they were. They could be doing this in the mansion. Hell, he had a full gym with comparatively softer wooden floors for her to fall all over. But no. He just had to train her down here where she was constantly on-edge, with hands always poised to flap wildly about her head. “I hate your pets,” she grumbled.

He chuckled. “There are worse things than bats out there. Now, focus.”

“What do you call this, anyway? Is there a name for this craziness?”

“I don’t really follow any specific disciplines anymore,” he said.

But he had once. She could tell that he had been trained somehow with all his deep breath, confront your fears malarkey. “Come on. Can I get an Idiot’s Guide somewhere? Is it karate or krav maga or…”

“I call it not getting knocked on your ass,” he said, quickly dropping to the ground and sweeping a leg under her. Again! “Like that.”

She stared up at the rocky ceiling. “God, I hate you.”

November, 2011

“God, I want you,” she gasped, almost surprised at just how much. Oliver could joke all he wanted about spousal neglect and the seven-month itch, but he had to know by now. They hadn’t been apart for months. Even now, when there was barely an inch between them, as he made maddeningly shallow thrusts inside her, it wasn’t quite close enough.

He was too far gone for words now, but she could tell by the way he sped up that he wanted her to keep talking. “Feels so good,” she went on, supporting herself on one elbow as her other arm reached back to grasp his slick thigh. A tiny thrill went through her at feel of his muscles working, tight and tense. Sometimes, she wished he would just let go of that tension, fall boneless and spent over her instead of holding back, trying to give her more. “I want you to come,” she breathed, squeezing him with her hand and inside her. 

His hands moved from her hips to slide around her waist, pulling her up with him, a wordless refusal.

Her knees fell weakly to either side of his as he thrust upwards and she tried again. “I want to feel you lose it,” she moaned. 

“Not… yet… you…” He growled the words against her shoulder before he devolved into grunts, moving faster under her until she nearly gave him what he seemed to want.

Yet she tamped down her release, mentally kicking herself just a little. Yes. She wanted to come again. What woman wouldn’t? But, right now, she wanted him to let go more. It was wonderful and maddening, the way he took care of her. But sometimes it slid toward maddening. 

He was a giver. That had been established from the start. Hell, she kind of knew that before he even touched her, with the way women were always clamoring to be in his bed. It wasn’t every rich man who commanded that kind of demand and word of mouth. Oliver Queen was as generous in the bedroom as he was with his checkbook. 

It wasn’t even that she wanted him to be a selfish pig. It was just… Well, it was maddening, the control he had over her body. Sometimes she wished she could have him under the same thrall. 

Yet she could hardly complain when his hand slid downward, expertly zeroing in on her clit even as she tried not to come just yet. She was always damned near insensible by the time he let go. Couldn’t she just once be fully aware by the time his thrusts became choppy and disjointed? Couldn’t she just once guide him to incoherence without spiraling out of her own body?

Not tonight, apparently. She dug her nails into his hip, holding on tight as it was about the only thing she had a grip on. She was losing it with every thrust, with every rub, with every harsh breath in her ear. “Unnh, damn you,” she gasped as her body turned to liquid over him.

She barely felt his last, rough movements, boneless as she was, barely heard his last grunt of her name.

But she did hear his chuckle in her ear when she came down to find him pulling the covers over them. “Damn me for what?”

She was too tired to answer, too tired to even be annoyed. “Nothing. Shut up. I’m tired. ”

He only laughed against her shoulder. 

CHAPTER THREE