DIAMONDS AND THE PRICE OF EMERALDS
Part 1

"I don't want there to be any confusion, Mr. Queen. My ability to keep you from harm will outweigh your comfort."
John Diggle, 1.01

Oliver came through for me.

I rode the elevator down from our penthouse suite with my borrowed bodyguard, making it to the lobby of the Aurelia Hotel, when my phone let out a chirp. I opened the text only because I saw who it was from.

We left him not five minutes ago. What? A name, that's what.

The first and last names of the man who was our driver the night before. Because I asked. He'd found it for me . . . because I asked . . .

I appreciated him for that.

What Oliver didn't know is that I already knew the man's name. I was partly kidding, mostly segueing into a reason to tell him where I was going – . . . to alibi my other errand - when I asked.

My husband's bodyguard escorted me to a rented car parked and waiting for us in front of the hotel.

The icy wind sweeping in off of the bay refreshing, invigorating, this early in the day. I caught myself turning my face into it.

The car was toasty warm inside.

Mr. Diggle drove us to the hospital.

Starling General was laid out with all the logic of an ant farm.

Reflecting that architectural philosophy, like so many medical centers of its kind, the buildings that covered its acreage were a hodgepodge of styles positioned wherever they found room enough to squeeze in a new wing . . .

. . . making it so that you could find a bit of everything here from Gothic stone to institutional steel and glass.

The only commonality being that everything was cramped.

We parked in a crowded lot by the fifteen-story main building.

I didn't have an established bodyguard but I'd had them before; I knew to wait for Mr. Diggle to come around and open my door for me.

I also knew to stay with him while he hit the lock on the key fob and then slid the keys into his jacket.

He noticed. He remarked on it.

"You've done this before."

I offered a sunny smile and a shrug.

We cut through the rows of parked cars, crossed the wide ambulance lane and entered the building through a set of automatic glass doors. The information desk wasn't hard to find, secured behind a Plexiglas window –

"Good morning," I said "I'm here to see a Henry Stohl."

The hundred-and twelve year old woman manning the station smiled up at me so warmly that I immediately felt like an ass for reducing her to her age. Her eyes were a clear, warm brown behind her glasses.

"Are you family?"

"His employer."

There was no guarantee that admission would get me anywhere past this desk but with my shadow standing a polite distance away, well within earshot, I couldn't risk a lie.

I held my breath –

"Let me find his room number for you."

– and released it.

As her thin fingers did a hunt-and-peck across the keyboard, I thought about how much faster my own sources were; and the cost of utilizing those resources. Not worth it. Never truly worth it, but sometimes necessary.

"He's in twelve forty-four."

I gave her a truly grateful smile. "Thank you."

She returned my smile in a warm way that made me think she might make really good Christmas cookies. "You are very welcome. Just go up on those elevators by the gift shop."

I nodded, waiting for Mr. Diggle to join me, and then walked together over to the elevators.

There were already a throng people waiting in a group. All of them tracking the little number displayed over the three doors. It seemed like a race between the one all the way on the right, and the one in the middle.

The centre elevator won and the group moved en-mass for that one.

Mr. Diggle touched my sleeve but I didn't need to be told to wait.

We stood together letting the first elevator fill, and close. Then the second to pick up the handful of people still milling around . . .

We took the third.

There was plenty of room – the elevator designed to fit a gurney and a team of medical personal. The ride was quiet. We picked up a nurse in Minnie Mouse scrubs on the fifth floor. Polite smiles were exchanged. She left us on ninth.

We got off on twelve and I didn't say anything to anyone at the nurses' station. It had been easy getting this far and I wasn't volunteering for any bottlenecks.

The wide corridors were cleanly lit and surprisingly quiet. A stainless steel trolley stacked with towels tucked close to the wall on one side, an unplugged portable ultrasound on the other.

Patient rooms set at semi-regular intervals.

With what I knew of this city I wouldn't have been surprised to find security outside of room 1244 . . . but there was none. No family or friends milling around, either. His was just another door with a buff-colored number plate on its jamb.

Studying the deserted hallway, Mr. Diggle deftly unbuttoned the front of his coat. Not particularly alarmed. Maybe a touch bored –

"Can you give us a minute, please?"

He nodded. "Leave the door open."

Of course.

I knocked softly and eased into the room. I saw the feet of beds, first. A window and a TV mounted up by the ceiling. Pink hypoallergenic curtains were tugged open, allowing for morning sunlight to spill inside.

I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

No response.

Henry Stohl had been given a four-bed patient room and there was an elderly man tucked into the bed nearest the door. IVs snaking out of his hand. A chair dragged to the bedside with a thick winter jacket thrown over the back of it.

He had a visitor.

One who was very likely already on their way back.

I moved further into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Past the bathroom, the shelving. I paused by his curtain. Hesitating.

I don't know why I expected him to be awake.

Henry Stohl was a man of medium height, medium build. Brown hair, dark eyes – closed, now. In a wrinkled blue gown, hands laid down by his sides. He was breathing without the help of machines.

Always a good sign.

I licked my lips and ventured, "Mr. Stohl?"

The man in the bed closest to the door coughed and muttered.

Not a muscle moved on Stohl's face. He could have been sleeping. Might have been sedated . . . though I had no idea if they would sedate a patient who'd seized only hours ago.

Logic said no.

But I didn't know.

I plucked his charts up from their slot, and paged through a lot of empty space for relevant information.

The window rattled in a strong wind. My ears were ringing in the sickroom silence, cut with the ambient beeping of machines. Diphenhydramine poisoning. I committed the word to memory and set his charts back in their slot.

Stohl hadn't moved.

His face lax, his body boneless on the mattress.

I sidled up next to his bed and lay my hand over his. Careful not to touch his IV. Reassured by the warmth of his skin. The deep, steady rise and fall of his chest.

And then left.

After my guilt-motivated visit, my husband's bodyguard spent the rest of the morning escorting me from one high end boutique to another.

I bought very little. Some clothes and a bottle of Bvlgari Rose Goldea perfume – to replace the scent that broke in the crash the night before.

Mr. Diggle endured all this with a stoic patience. Quiet as my own shadow, but willing enough to engage. So when he asked me where I would like to stop for lunch . . .

I said, "Surprise me."

And surprise me he, well . . . he tried.

We had a Big Belly Burger in Central City.

The difference, here, being that Starling City's franchise was located squarely in its infamous Glades. Rough neighborhood – poorer end of town. My clothes were designer but I was glad that I'd opted for jeans and a sweater.

I left my bags in the car and swept past a smirking Diggle. Like he thought my delicate self was too precious to eat here.

Please.

As far as dives went, Big Belly Burger was straight out of central casting. Naugahyde booths, checkered curtains. On the table were a pair of menus, two sets of stainless steel silverware on paper napkins and a pair of white ceramic coffee cups.

I slid into the booth and Mr. Diggle eased in on the other side.

I pulled out my phone, holding it down below the lip of the table and checked for messages. Nothing. From anyone. Chiefly, nothing from Oliver. I thought about calling him but he was very likely still sleeping.

Slid the phone back into my jeans.

Let him rest.

"Coffee?" Diggle asked.

"Tea," I said.

He nodded and lifted his hand. A waitress came over.

"Coffee for me and um . . . a tea."

Our waitress asked, "What kind?"

I answered. "Peppermint, please." Generic but a safe bet they carried it.

Our waitress didn't bother writing that down before sweeping off to the kitchen. We each grabbed a laminated menu and I scanned the selection.

Every item would have been appropriate at a Fourth of July picnic.

This was the kind of place where the word salad came with a modifier like chicken, potato, egg or macaroni and lettuce was only ever for the sandwiches. Dessert was served by the slice; cut straight from the pie, kept under a clear plastic dome.

Pie of the Day was lemon meringue.

Soup of the Day was beef barley.

Both sounded good.

The waitress came back and set a teabag on a small plate down on the table. Poured black coffee for Mr. Diggle, and hot water in a cup for me.

"What'll you have?" she asked, yanking a paper pad and a tiny pencil out of her apron.

"Beef burger, on a pretzel bun," Diggle said, setting his menu back in its little stand. "No ketchup."

"Fries?"

"Wedges."

She nodded. Turned to me.

I tossed a smirk at my borrowed bodyguard and said, "Chicken clubhouse, on brown. Coleslaw on the side, please."

Diggle ticked a brow.

"Yes?" I crooned as soon as our waitress left us.

"Nothing," he said. "Just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

I freed my teabag from its paper packet. "What does that mean?"

"No trips to the bathroom. No detours." He cut me a smile. "No slipping away when you think I'm not looking."

"Ah. That."

"That," he agreed.

I set my fragrant peppermint tea in the hot water. "Maybe I'm biding my time."

"Maybe you are."

Cream and sugar were already on the table, dumped in a plastic basket behind the salt and pepper shakers. He picked through it, finding the white lids for milk. I hid a smile. My mother was the same. Milk with her coffee. Not cream. Milk.

"You know, now that you mention it," I said. "I think I do need to pee."

He snorted.

The door opened and in swept a brisk wind that smelled like rain and frozen sidewalks. I picked up my cup and blew softly. Savoring the sharp aroma, the warmth of the ceramic in my hands. What might have been drizzle, could have been snow, speckled the window beside us.

Diggle noted the direction of my attention.

"Bit different from Central City, isn't it?"

I tipped a small smile. "And that, Mr. Diggle, is precisely what makes it wonderful."

He liked that.

"Call me Diggle." His spoon clinked against the sides of his cup. "Or Dig, if you want."

"What does Oliver call you?"

"Both of those." He took a test sip from his coffee and sighed like it was perfect.

A bell dinged. Order Up! The cook set a couple baskets of chili fries in the window; immediately picked up by our waitress as she cruised by. I watched her deliver them to a couple of teenagers at a round table.

There was a family of four at another booth. Parents and two boys.

I sat with my back to the door, surrendering the better position to my bodyguard; as was expected.

The space between my shoulders itched. It took considerable restraint to keep myself from casting even a quick look back, behind me, towards the door. The bulk of the restaurant out of my immediate line of sight.

"Can I ask you a question?"

I already knew what he was going to say and so I didn't respond. Just watched him over the top of my cup as I took a careful sip from my tea. Blowing softly to cool the too-hot water.

He had my attention.

Whether he dared to ask or not was up to him.

He dared. "Why did no one from your side come to your wedding?"

Oh. Not what I was expecting.

Good on him.

"I have friends," I told him. Saying, "I suspect they don't approve of my decision."

Diggle hesitated before asking, "How many?"

My thumb tapped the rim of my cup. "How many disapproved enough to boycott my wedding?" I offered a tight smile. "Or how many hold enough influence over the rest to make that decision for them?"

"I'll take it as you already know the answer to that." Another slight, pointed hesitation. "What're you going to do?"

"I haven't decided."

Diggle eyed me thoughtfully. I smirked, inviting speculation. Not at all intimated by the weight in those dark eyes. The intelligence I saw there. I knew what he was thinking – how familiar, was too familiar?

Was it appropriate to tell me he thought my friends were assholes?

No.

But I would have enjoyed hearing him say it.

I took a deep swallow from my cup, feeling the tea warm its way down to my belly; soothing the hurt that stung at the memory of those unanswered invitations. The gradual realization as days turned to weeks . . .

Absently tracing the band of my wedding ring, I looked out through the drizzle-speckled window.

The weather turned so fast. The perfect blue, if cool, morning lending time to slate-colored clouds and an early evening.

"I've been here twice before, you know," I said, watching the crawl of traffic outside. The billowing heat rising as clouds of steam in the frosty air. "The first time was with my dad. I was twelve . . . I think. Thirteen?" It didn't matter – "Dad was here to meet with buyers."

"Your father brought you on a business trip?"

"Oh, no. I stayed in the hotel." I stuck my tongue out through my teeth, laughing a little. "Exactly two things I remember about that weekend. It rained the whole time," – it was raining now "and the trouble I was in, once my dad saw our bill on room service."

"How much trouble?"

How much did you spend?

What image of myself did I want to present; who was I to be, to these people? I was building a life, relationships that were meant to last.

It made the game a touch more challenging.

And exciting.

"Your lunch."

Our waitress was back, interrupting the start to something as Dig and I locked eyes across the table.

She set plates down in front of us with a quick efficiency, hair curling damp at the nap of her neck. She didn't look tired, just busy, with the family calling for their check and more people coming in.

Making it so that she didn't stay any longer than it took to drop off our food.

Dig cracked a smile – "And the second time?"

"Next time I came to meet the man I was marrying the next day." I said it with no particular inflection; let him try and work out what to make of that.

The only evidence of his discomfiture in the slight tilt to his head, in the way his body grew quiet.

Dig's attention fell to my hands – specifically, to the rock on my finger. "I was there, you know," he said "when he got you that," confirming what I already suspected. Oliver, not his family, chose my ring for me.

"I like it." I turned my hand over, admiring the stone. "It's not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?"

"A diamond." I pulled the spear from my clubhouse sandwich. "Traditional, and . . . appropriate." A diamond would have been the safe choice, and I liked that Oliver hadn't defaulted to safe. It made him interesting.

My emerald glinted.

It's core smoldering in the sweaty restaurant.

"I've got this, man."

Dig folded the top half of his pretzel bun onto his burger. "What?"

"At the penthouse. You said: 'I've got this, man.' That's awfully familiar." For an employee – "For a bodyguard."

"Mr. Queen and I have been working together for some time."

Nine months.

John Diggle was hired shortly after Oliver came home; ex-military, special ops. I knew about Oliver's abduction. Of course I knew about the abduction – . . . I'd needed to verify that the Syndicate had had nothing to do with that.

I picked up one half of my sandwich, holding it with both hands. "You were a groomsman at our wedding and you expect me to believe that you're just the bodyguard?"

"As opposed to what?"

"A friend." Doing him a solid by keeping me company today, so that he could sleep. "A better friend to him, then mine were to me."

Frowning a little, Dig took a pull from his coffee. That was twice now that I'd made him uncomfortable and neither time felt like a mistake –

I imagined what he saw, when he looked at me. Young, blonde, wealthy . . . sitting in a sweaty restaurant, in the poorest borough in the city. With my husband's bodyguard. A princess in a cloud-soft cashmere sweater.

I started to eat.

The chicken in my clubhouse was fresh. Very good. The house mayo a store brand, too sweet; the flavor sharpened with dried dill and a subtle heat.

Dig dug into his own food, dividing his attention equally between his burger and lightly seasoned wedges.

The food was good. The view surprisingly lovely with the drift of snow, weightless in the breeze. The chill seeping through the window glass, toasty warm inside the restaurant . . .

"Seems lonely," Dig remarked, again having noted the direction of my attention.

I tipped a rueful smile.

"Or, not lonely." He picked at the potato wedges on his plate. "I'm thinking maybe motivated."

"You think I'm an opportunist."

"Are you?"

Again, good on him. A lesser man would have fumbled, denied. Dig was quiet, assessing.

"I'm not complicated –"

"You know, Oliver said the same thing to me once."

"– and you don't need to protect Oliver Queen from me."

Dig offered a wry smile; so at odds with the hard light in his eyes.

Even without the background check, I would have pegged John Diggle as military. It was in the way he held himself, the way his eyes swept the room. The ease with which he carried the Glock17 tucked inside his jacket – . . . and I wondered if he saw any of that, when he looked at me.

Beneath the veneer of polish, the clothes. Did he suspect, even a little?

It surprised me to recognize in myself a hope that he did.

"You're not complicated, either," I said, wiping toast crumbs off the ends of my fingers. "I know what you want and I know that you're asking the wrong questions."

There.

A thread for him to tug on.

Diggle took his time. Another slurp of coffee. A bite of food . . . "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

"You don't know if you could have made the same decision," I said "and it's pissing you off. So you're here, talking to me."

"It's not my business."

"No. But you're conflicted, and you're curious, and you thought it'd be easier getting answers out of me than him." I clipped a thumbnail off the side of my plate. "A bit insulting, since we're being honest." He ticked a brow and I teased a smirk, adding, "You don't know me well enough to think I would give you anything."

"That's fair. So."

"So."

"Why'd you do it?"

Oh, I did like him. He didn't even pretend not to know what I meant.

"Because I couldn't think of any reason not to."

"That's not an answer."

"No, that's not validating," I said. "It is an answer."

Dig eased back in his booth seat. "I'm starting to think you and Mr. Queen might actually have quite a bit in common." He blew out a sight and chomped on another wedge. "Tell me something? Honestly."

"Honesty." I let my smile wink. "A tall order."

He wasn't laughing. "What's your plan for if this marriage falls through?"

"You don't think it's a bit early to decide this won't last?"

"You can't possibly love him." Dig kept his voice down. Dark eyes in a serious face.

"I don't have to love him, to want this to work."

I saw the shift in John Diggle's eyes – that hard reassess.

A lesser woman would have denied. Explained. Or tried to.

"We have an out," I admitted "written into our contract."

He blinked.

And I realized, "You haven't read it."

In truth, I just assumed that he had; it had started to seem as if everyone and their mother had taken a look at our marriage contract at some point.

Dig reached for his coffee, noticed that he'd already tossed back the last of it, and set his cup back down.

"Reading it," he said, slowly "is an option. I can."

"But you haven't. Let me guess . . . he didn't offer, and you didn't ask." I set my elbows on the table, crossing my arms in front of me. "Look, the point I'm trying to make is that as his bodyguard it's not your business who your employer dates, sleeps with, or weds . . . but if you're his friend first, well."

He ticked a brow. Well, what?

"That changes things." Our waitress cruised by with a pot of fresh coffee steaming in one hand. "Something you need to understand," I said, as soon as she'd passed "is that my family is independently wealthy, and so am I. You don't have to protect Oliver Queen from me."

"Why does it matter to you, what I think?"

Although the question was casual, the way he waited for an answer was anything but.

I paused, giving myself a moment to consider my answer. "You're his friend."

"He has a lot of friends."

"Yes, and I'm sure I'll be having this conversation again." I brushed my thumb over the lip of my cup. "It matters to me what you think of me because I don't like what people are thinking."

A hint of a smile, maybe a bit surprised – he hadn't expected me to be quite so candid; I studied the man sitting across from me, blithely unaware of the nerves that continued to prick at the space between my shoulders, the back of my head.

"I'm not the sort of woman who –"

Our waitress came up to the table. "More coffee? Or do you want the ch–"

"– screws around with other men."

I blinked. So did our waitress.

Shit. "I mean, I . . ." I glanced at the other woman, who now didn't seem to be in any sort of hurry at all.

Dig moved his mug from his right, to his left. "Actually, I could use a little more."

Our waitress topped slowly, looking back and forth between us like she was hoping to hear the rest of the story. Once Dig's mug was full, she got to work on mine.

"Would you like–" I was drinking tea, and she remembered that right as she started to offer. Cue another quick blink, and an even quicker pivot – "Can I get you anything else? Dessert?"

Dessert would have been splendid, but there wasn't time enough.

"I'm good. Thank you."

She fussed with her pad tucked into her apron, and then walked away with the same alacrity with which she'd worked the pot; molasses moved faster.

"I don't screw around," I reiterated. "And I didn't pursue him."

"Would you have? If things were different."

"Probably not."

Dig snorted. Not the answer he was expecting, but the truth he appreciated.

I asked, "Are you seeing anyone?"

He tore the top off a thimble of milk and got to work doctoring his fresh coffee. "Me? No."

"Not looking for a Ms. Right?"

"More that I'm not the sort of man for that sort of thing." The answer was a favor; truth for a truth. His eyes flashed up. "I used to move around a lot."

"Did you. You get bored easily?"

"Yeah. That's it."

There was a story, there. I finished the second half of my sandwich and polished off the dish of crisp coleslaw. Comfortable in his company, and the silence.

Our waitress trolled by with the pot of coffee and both ears open. I got her attention, "Can we have the check now, please?"

She put the pot down on the table and fished around in her apron for her pad. Ripping free a page, she put the thing facedown. "Take care, you two."

Diggle started to reach for the check.

"It's on me," I assured him.

"I've got it," he said.

I set my hand on his sleeve. "When was the last time someone bought you lunch? Consider it a thank you, for keeping me company today."

Now see, where most men would have either argued with me: no, really. They'll pay – or else eased back and accepted the offer for what it was – he frowned. Immediately suspicious. How much of a pain was Oliver to keep an eye on that his bodyguard's kneejerk response was doubt.

I stuck my tongue out through my teeth, laughing a little, and left my coat folded on the booth seat beside me. Set my phone down on the table between us. Proof that I intended to come back.

Good enough. He relaxed a little.

"Let me know when you decide if you could have done it," I said, leaving him with something to think about "or when you figure out why we did."

I went to the counter to pay with one of my cards, and then strolled right out the front door.