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[There's always a wrench in the machinery. There's always something to go wrong. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, like tonight, everything goes as well as Oliver could possibly hope. There's no body count - minor injuries, sure, but nothing the victims won't recover from.

And there's several large caches of weapons that will find their way into the hands of the cops within the hour, thanks to a phone call placed by one one of the thugs held at arrow-point.

It's going swimmingly, which is exactly what has Oliver on edge as he makes the roof of the warehouse, half-way to an exit -

And there's the wrench. Upwards of a dozen more armed men waiting, pouring out of the shadows like he didn't feel the air on the rooftop change when they started to move.

The first two are down before they have a chance to raise their weapons.

Lower the body count. Diggle keeps getting after him to lower the body count.

Oliver grits his teeth and ducks out of the line of fire, using the same shadows to get behind two others, stupidly close together. He looses an arrow between them, killing a third man and getting the two armed idiots to turn on each other and open fire.

He didn't kill them. They did it themselves.

Wrench half-way extracted.]

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[Cissie is a little thrown off by the looks and the warnings and the entire situation. She doesn't like or trust Merlyn, and getting looked at like that by him is... surreal. Even more surreal is what waits for them inside the house. An aunt that probably doesn't exist, and a grandmother she never got the chance to meet. A grandmother who is probably going to hate her just for being here, near her children.

It takes her a moment to realize she's somehow both jealous and homesick, but as soon as she does, she shoves those thoughts away and clears her throat, dropping her gaze to the pavement.]

...I guess telling her the truth isn't an option.

I'm sorry. [He means it, even if he's essentially saying 'no'. Ollie takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, managing ten whole steps inside with Cissie in tow. The grand stairways flank the entrance, and the interior is all dark woods, brown marble, and red cloth.

And one very thunderous-looking blonde woman bearing down on Oliver and Cissie, wrapped in a silk bathrobe over what looks like a pair of Walter's pajamas. At the very least they're too big for her.

Oliver stops, bracing himself with stillness, and Moira makes the opening volley:] Thank God. You can't keep doing this, Oliver, you aren't an irresponsible child any more. Where have you been?

Out. [The word is soothing. Oliver takes his mother's arms by the elbows, feeling the tension in every part of her like a bowstring with the arrow drawn back against it.] Ma. Relax. Is Thea all right?

[Moira exhales hard through her nostrils, locking on to Cissie over Oliver's shoulder and narrowing her eyes in an expression Oliver recognizes as suspicion about to be unleashed. He heads her off before she can say anything, voice still calm. He sounds a little like he's talking to a riled animal.] This is Cissie. Ran into her downtown. We knew each other, before the wreck. She's in town, airport lost her bags, the Claremont messed up her reservation, so I thought she could stay with us for a night or two.

[Oliver's mother looks at least slightly mollified.] Miss - Cissie what?

King. King-Jones, actually. [Better to go with the truth there, at least. Keep this mess as simple as possible. Oliver steps to one side, so the two women can get a better look at each other.] Mom. Thea?

[Moira pauses, then curls her hand gently around Oliver's wrist.] She'll be all right. Taking after her brother, unfortunately. And she's grounded again.

[A small smile lights Oliver's face at the last part, smothered just as quickly. Thea will pretend not to be happy about the restriction, but any attention from Moira is good, and that his mother is getting better at discipline is even better.]

[Moira nods to Cissie, very slowly.] Miss King. Or do you prefer King-Jones?

[Cissie decides her best bet for surviving this encounter in one piece is to stay quiet and try to seem as physically small as possible. She's listening carefully and paying attention to what is said and what isn't--the body language, the looks. She doesn't know what Ollie--Oliver--means by 'the wreck,' or why he smiles at his sister's grounding, but she can make some guesses. And it's clear his mother still thinks he's out being irresponsible instead of heroing.

Interesting.

And then her attention is on Cissie, and she is on the spot, and trying not to squirm.] Uh... Cissie's fine. [Wait. Maybe it isn't. Maybe she should let her not-grandmother call her whatever the hell she wants.] I mean, but King-Jones is--also good. Fine. [Oh god, she's a moron.] Thank you for letting me stay here, m-a'am, [she says, covering and managing not to call her Mrs. Queen. Not that she knew what to call her instead, but at least she didn't make that faux-pas.

Now if the floor would open up and swallow her, that would be excellent.]

[Moira's eyebrows twitch upward, and she glances at Oliver, a question in her look. Not your usual, Oliver reads, and is pleased he can still catch that much from his mother in a look.

She does, at least, offer Cissie a small smile.] Cissie. It's just as well, really. The Claremont is hideously crowded this time of year.

[Oliver relaxes a fraction. Cissie's accidental unpretentiousness worked in their favor.] She means you're welcome.

[Moira pushes Oliver's shoulder slightly, her smile coming a little more naturally.] You may call me Mrs. Steele. I would introduce you to my husband, but unfortunately Walter is out of the country on business.

[Oliver watches his mother carefully, noticing those little twitches in her face and stance that indicate there's more to Walter's absence than she's saying - but she's getting better at hiding them.]

Mother, if it's all right, I'm going to take Cissie up to the guest suites and help her get settled.

[Moira studies Oliver and then Cissie in careful silence, her face impressively unreadable at first. Then she nods.] I'm going to go check on your sister. Come speak to me once our guest is comfortable.

[Our guest. That could either be a very good or very bad thing, depending on the level of scrutiny his mother decides to level Cissie's way. He touches the latter's elbow gently, an indication to follow, and moves upstairs. The whole place, even with half the lights out and the staff asleep, breathes a history of wealth. Portraits and urns and mahogany. The clichéd trappings of status.

Sometimes Oliver feels like an insect in the nest of some other, bigger monster, unnoticed by his family's own legacy.] This way.

[Cissie is in trouble; she can feel it. She's already way more fascinated with Mrs. Steele than is probably safe or even rational, and she knows a large part of it is just that she hasn't had any grandparents since she was about three or four. But there's also just something about her that tells Cissie this woman is formidable and to be taken seriously. Cissie finds herself somehow simultaneously intimidated and fascinated by her.

And by the way she and Oliver interact with each other.

All Cissie can do is observe, and offer polite smiles and trail after Oliver when they finally escape and head upstairs. She looks around them as they go, taking in everything, and feeling... incredibly out of place.]

So. How badly did I screw that up?

What? [Genuinely surprised by the question is he. Oliver stops, half-turning, holding himself in that stiff way he unconsciously adopts, a posture that says he's not quite sure how to behave while standing upright and in the open as opposed to crouched in the dark.] You were fine. I know she can be a little... intimidating, but she's just guarded. It's.

[He pauses.] It runs in the family.

[A gesture toward the end of the hall, to one of the last doors, which he opens. The 'guest room' looks like a penthouse suite at a pacific-northwestern hotel.] Is this all right? I'll... We'll... Clothing won't be an issue.

Edited 2013-01-05 01:54 (UTC)

[Intimidating. Guarded. Runs in the family. Cissie makes a little noise that's maybe an agreement, and maybe amused. The way he described his mother might actually explain quite a bit about him.

She follows him down the hall to the guest room and steps in; she's almost overwhelmed. She's never really seen a room like this in a real house before (though calling this place a house seems wrong anyway). She can't hide her staring, or how overwhelming she finds the place in that first moment. She recovers quickly, but then he mentions clothing and she realizes... she doesn't have any. She doesn't have anything, because this isn't her world and the people she would call to fix this might not even exist and--she is definitely not going to cry right now.

She takes a deep, steadying breath and a few steps away from him, to look out a window and give herself a chance to cover her near-breakdown.] Thank you. It's--incredible. Really.

[That reaction leaves him fumbling slightly, standing in the doorway, not wanting to leave her alone but not sure what else to do.] I'm. Down the hall.

[He points, indicating the right direction.] Third door on the left.

[Nope. Still standing here.] It's.

[...He's not sure where that sentence was going to go, if anywhere.]

Edited 2013-02-06 05:50 (UTC)

[Cissie nods, taking in the information and wondering exactly what she was going to do and how she was going to get home... And also wondering what would possibly drive her to go down the hall to his room. His unfinished sentence and the fact that he wasn't leaving made her turn and look at him, though.]

It's what?

It'll be all right.

[He doesn't know how he can even begin to make that the truth.]

[Cissie looks back at him and manages, somehow, not to laugh. It's nice of him to try though, so she gives him a small, grateful smile.] ...Yeah. Thanks.

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