Work Text
Spring, 1940
The biggest threat to a time traveler, Ollie was beginning to realize, wasn’t photographs. No, it was nosey, no good, idiotic punk roommates who were absolutely in love with their other roommate. It was also the fact that Mr. Nicolia had given Steve his camera when he passed. Steve had been saving the film for a ‘rainy day’ but when Bucky and Ollie had managed to get him into college and he had taken the photography course, the camera had been dragged out from under Steve’s bed and put to good use.
And of course, Bucky wasn’t going to let some poor girl model for Steve, not when there was an amazing specimen already living in the apartment.
And gods knew, she wasn’t talking about herself.
Instead, Steve and Bucky had been fooling around with the camera and Ollie had been doing her best to stay out of the way. Part of it was because she didn’t want to be documented, her Opa would kill her, but it was largely because the snogging that followed was enough for her to throw herself out the window and hit the fire-escape running.
For two boys who didn’t want to get caught being as straight as a circle, they certainly seemed to forget she was there often enough.
Which lead to her current predicament.
In any other situation, she would be laughing her ass off, but as it was, she was frozen under her threadbare blanket. Bucky and Steve were supposed to be at church. Ollie was supposed to have the apartment to herself. This was the one time. The one time, Ollie could unbind her chest and breathe.
For five minutes, she could simply be Olivia.
Not Ollie.
Not Bakker.
Not the New York Ghost.
Just, Olivia.
Yet, unless Bethany had burst into the apartment screaming about her boys again, Ollie was positive those feet were Steve’s.
And that gasp was definitely Bucky.
She’d bet her weekly wages Steve had stuck his hand up Bucky’s shirt again. Which, fair, Bucky was a very handsome man, but for the love of the gods, why did they have to do it with the door open?
And that small shriek was Steve realizing the door was open and him slamming it shut hastily.
At least he was learning.
But she was still stuck under the blanket, with her back exposed, and she wasn’t sure if the blanket was thick enough to hide her chest completely. And if she sat up? She’d be dead.
Church.
They were supposed to be in church.
Apparently, Bucky was trying to get lucky.
That was definitely not the church she had expected them to be at.
“Hey Steve, want to get your camera?” Bucky stage-whispered.
The sound of scampering feet told Ollie that Steve wholeheartedly agreed with that suggestion and Ollie was still trying to figure out how to get out of the apartment without anyone noticing. She didn’t want to dwell on why Steve would need his camera, but gods knew she needed to get that image out of her brain.
Well, there was only one thing to do.
Ollie sat up.
The camera clicked.
Ollie shrieked. Ducking, she pulled the blanket over head and hid. Steve was not supposed to be that fast. Desperately, Ollie shoved a hand in her mouth to keep herself from screaming bloody murder. She was dead. Oh gods, she was dead. How the hell had he gotten across the apartment without her noticing? She usually heard every floorboard. How did…?
“Oh my god!” Steve squeaked, his voice reaching a higher pitch then it ever had during puberty.
“That was a girl.” Bucky sounded baffled, and if Ollie didn’t know better, he had both hands in his hair as he stared at Steve in panic. For a moment there was silence, and for a moment Ollie could see the Diocletian sword hanging over her head. It would only take Bucky putting the puzzle pieces together. It would only take...
“Ollie got laid!”
Seriously?
Of all the dumb responses, it was the fact that she had found a fling that was more shocking?
Was that an insult?
Shaking her head under the blanket, Ollie could only thank the gods both her boys were extremely oblivious. Cautiously, Ollie pulled the blanket up enough for her to poke one eye out. “Hello?” She did her best to make her voice sickly sweet. Maybe she could work with this…
Bucky hit Steve’s arm with a hiss. “Put away the camera.”
Licking her lips, Ollie pulled the blanket around to cover her chest and lower face, leaving her to look up through her hair. “Where’s Ollie?”
Bucky stiffened and exchanged a look with Steve, his face becoming frozen when he spied the open window. “Ollie probably went to get you some breakfast sweetheart, you know how he is…” he crooned, his voice similar to the one he had used when Rebecca’s nightmares had gotten bad.
Ollie’s hands shook at the thunderous expression that passed over Bucky’s face. “I think I’m going to go home.”
Neither boy got the hint to turn around so she could put on a shirt and the moment became a staring contest between them. Slowly, Ollie stood up, her back to the window, the blanket held to her chest and she glared.
Sarah had raised the boys better then this. Hell, Ollie had taught them better then this!
Surprisingly, it was Steve who realized the problem. Blushing, he placed the camera on the couch before he yanked Bucky to the side, giving Ollie clear access to the door. “You had better go then.” He stammered, his eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he cuffed Bucky upside the back of the head.
Rolling her eyes, Ollie dropped the blanket, causing Bucky to sputter. Tossing him a snarl, Ollie grabbed her shirt off the ground and began to throw it over her shoulders. Only, Bucky caught her by the arm and frog marched her to the door.
Surprised, Ollie could do nothing more then shriek indignantly as he all but booted her out the door. “Sorry, but Ollie’s probably not the best person to hook up with.” Bucky offered in explanation before he slammed the door shut.
It took her a moment, but it slowly began to dawn on her that James “Bucky” Buchann Barnes had just kicked her out of her own apartment and told her that she was terrible influence and not a good date. That was certainly an insult. She was a perfectly good date, if she had ever bothered to date.
Hurt, Ollie opened her mouth to yell at the boys through the door, when movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to pause. There, in the middle of the hall, sat George Collins, or maybe it was Ryan Collins, but either way, there was a little boy catching an eyeful of her still unbuttoned shirt.
Blushing, Ollie pulled her shirt shut with shaking fingers and pointed to Bethany’s door. “Go to your room George Fredrick Collins, or so help me god…”
Thankfully, she seemed to have gotten the child’s name right, because he hit the door at a dead run, his pudgy little feet making hardly any sound on the worn floor of Richard Chase’s apartment building.
Her eye twitching, Ollie stared down the deserted hallway with a mild frown. She couldn’t exactly walk back in through the front door. Bucky and Steve had just kicked her out after all, but she still had to deal with the fact her chest was unbound.
Her extra bandages were under the floorboard and it wasn’t like she could sneak in through the window to grab them. Steve and Bucky were probably sitting on the couch with matching annoyed expressions. They were going to be livid that she had brought a ‘girl’ home without telling them. Although, how they hadn’t noticed there was only one body on the mattress when they had left in the morning spoke volumes to the fact they were slightly oblivious to everything around them.
Gods, at least they weren’t in her line of work. They would have both been dead by sun down.
Well, it was about time to raid the donation bins again anyway. Doing up her shirt, she skipped down the stairs and hiked down the block to the church bins, where Steve and Bucky were supposed to be. Glancing around to make sure no one was around, Ollie dodged around the back of the church and climbed over the fence with a practiced movement. Father Douglas was going to be pissed when he realized what had happened, but Ollie didn’t really care. She had bigger things to deal with, like the fact Bucky and Steve had a picture of her on film.
Grabbing the first shirt she found, Ollie ripped a hole into the linin and ripped it with a quick jerk.
Sarah had been the best at making makeshift bandages and wraps but Ollie had acquired the skill out of necessity. So, it was in the shadow of the church that Ollie stripped out of her shirt and wrapped her chest again. In all, the run took less then ten minutes, and Ollie was rather proud at the time frame she had managed.
Now she just had to sneak back into the apartment.
Lovely.
Ten minutes later, Ollie was opening the window of the apartment. “Sally? Sally?” she sang as she dropped down onto her mattress. “Sally, you gotta wake up so you can go home. You’re lucky I found you before anyone else did.”
On the couch, Steve and Bucky froze, their mouths open in a horrified realization. Acting surprised, Ollie turned to look around the apartment. “Hey, have you guys seen Sally? She got caught in a back alley last night, some asshole cut off her hair when she was drunk.”
“We, uh, well…” Bucky rubbed the back of his head as he stood up.
Steve fumbled with the camera. “Uh, she went home.”
Ollie raised an eyebrow, ready to call them on their bullshit when Steve raised the camera and snapped a quick photo. “Smile!”
“Steve!” Ollie screamed as she lunged forward, ready to rip apart the camera, no matter how badly the other boy needed it for his project. “Steve, you’re going to die tonight!”
All in all, it was a normal Sunday.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There were pencils scattered across the ground, and Ollie paused halfway in the window frame, both hands clinging onto the peeling wood. Slowly, Ollie bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at the mess. It was easy to filch pencils for Steve, but the man tended to hoard them like they were about to go out of production. So, finding them smashed across the ground tended to make Ollie a little jumpy.
Frowning, Ollie followed the trail of broken lead and splinters to the corner of the couch, where she could just barely see the top of Steve’s blond head. Dropping down onto her mattress, Ollie slowly shut the window behind her. If there was something else going on, there was no need to give anyone an easy and convenient escape route.
“Steve?” Ollie whispered softly as she crept her way over to the couch, her nerves fraying quickly. It hadn’t been a bad winter so far, but she had had nightmares for years, that Steve would have an asthma attack, and no one would be here to help him. Leaving Ollie to come home and find a body instead of a friend. It was an unlikely, but plausible, scenario.
On the couch, Steve’s head lifted slightly, but he didn’t say a word.
Well, at least he wasn’t dead.
“What happened?” Ollie asked as she picked up a pencil. Rolling it between her fingers, she realized the poor things had been snapped deliberately. Reassessing the situation, she raised an eyebrow.
Steve must have been pissed.
Heaving in a sigh, Ollie rubbed the bridge of her nose as she dropped onto the couch beside Steve. Tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling, Ollie had the sudden urge to scream. If she had to hazard a guess, Ollie would lay money on the stress of the war for both Steve’s rage and her own sudden fit of anger.
Everyone had been walking around on tip toes, the powder keg that made up Europe causing everyone to flinch and huddle around the radio and the newspaper stands. She had expected someone to snap soon, in fact, she had a small deposit of money on the bet with Roy, but she hadn’t expected it to be Steve.
On a side note, she wondered if this meant she had lost the bet.
The couch shifted and Ollie rolled her head to the side, her hands loose on the threadbare cushions. She had expected to see Steve’s cheeks flushed red from whatever self-righteousness rant he had gotten into this time, only…
Steve had a blackeye.
Hardly even blinking, Ollie kept her eyes on the furious blond, her voice low. “Steve, who do I have to beat?” Steve unfolded from his ball and glared, his eyes burning bright, and Ollie quickly backpedalled and retracted her statement, her hands raised. “Who do we have to beat?”
May the gods save her from wounded pride and male egos.
“It’s fine.” Steve snapped, his good eye narrowing as he closed his hands around her wrists, forcing her to stay on the couch.
“Steve.” Ollie growled in response, tugging her wrists against his wiry grip. “Don’t make me get Bucky.”
Immediately, Steve paled at the thought, and Ollie smirked in triumph. Then, Steve lunged forward, grabbing at her arm. “Don’t you dare.” He whispered, his eyes shut and his shoulders tense. “Old Man Mike called me a fairy.” Ollie’s jaw clenched, but before she could react, Steve shook his head. “No one heard him.” Steve soothed quickly before his shoulders hunched. “Then he broke my stuff.”
Ollie saw red and blood roared through her ears. A fairy. Old Man Mike had called Steve a fairy. Her shoulders tensed, Ollie shot a quick look towards the front door, grateful to see that it was locked, and thank the gods she had the foresight to shut the window. Talk like that could get a man killed, or worse. Talk like that made her miss her home, where you were more likely to be beat for daring to comment rather then for the person you held hands with. And besides, while Ollie was good, she didn’t think she was good enough to stage a jailbreak for both Steve and Bucky.
Steve’s hands closed tighter around her wrists, and Ollie bowed her head, her lip curled. It wouldn’t take much for her to break out of his hold and drop back out the window to go find Old Man Mike. She had left him alone for years out of respect for his service during the first war, but everyone knew Steve was off limits.
Licking her lips, Ollie looked off to the side, hoping Steve wouldn’t see the hatred burning under her skin. “What do you want to do?” The words dropped like stone in the quiet apartment.
“I don’t know.” Came the whispered reply, Steve hiccupping midway through the statement.
Slowly, Ollie nodded, even as she pulled herself away from Steve, suddenly becoming deaf to his cry of anger. “I’m going for a walk.”
In the face of her sudden calm, Steve paused. “You can’t kill him.” He hissed, one hand flicking up to touch at his eye. “It’s not worth it Ollie. You can’t kill him.”
In some ways, Ollie had to wonder what Steve saw that Bucky didn’t. She knew Steve didn’t know what she did on her off time, but he had always made it very clear to her that he knew Ollie was doing things that weren’t entirely legal. Bucky had always seemed to think she did odd jobs for various warehouses by the docks.
Ollie had never seen it fit to rectify that notion.
But, killing? Ollie had to shake her head the thought. Why would she kill someone? Death meant safety from retribution, and Ollie had a roiling anger that wouldn’t allow for Old Man Mike’s death. Old Man Mike was going to be alive and kicking when this was all over, and Ollie was going to make sure he remembered why Steve was off limits.
“Don’t tell Bucky what Old Man Mike said and make sure the floor gets cleaned up.” Ollie warned as she walked over to the window. Shoving it open, she looked over her shoulder. “I’ll deal with Mike, and don’t worry, the old man will still be alive when I’m done. I won’t even get in trouble.”
From the worried expression Steve shot her, Ollie knew Steve didn’t believe her. Dragging a hand down her face, Ollie let some of the tension bleed out of her shoulders. “Steve, it’ll be fine.” She soothed, already halfway out the window. “You know I won’t hurt Mike but think about what Bucky would do if he finds out.”
Steve’s curse followed her out onto the fire escape, and Ollie bolted down the stairs, dodging bits of pencils that Steve wildly flung at her. At least she knew Steve wasn’t cowed by the incident.
…***…
“We all know Old Man Mike is an asshole, but what the hell did he do to you?” Roy asked as he slung himself down onto the fire escape beside Ollie.
Ollie gave him a small salute with her bottle, one hand wrapped around the bar of the fire escape opposite to the building the old man resided. Word must have traveled fast that Ollie was out for blood. Then again, when Ollie signaled a target, even if it was only for a prank, other runners and various gangs, left her to her own devices. Taking another sip from her micky, Ollie nodded down to the truck nestled in the alleyway. “Where’d Mike get the rig?”
Roy wrinkled his nose as he snagged the bottle from Ollie, gagging at the aftertaste. “Christ, you’re still drinking bathtub gin?” Roy grumbled as he looked for a label on the bottle, his eyes narrowed. Catching Ollie’s glare, he took another swig, motioning down to the truck with the bottle. “The Lacie’s Farm was auctioned off.”
Ollie winced, the anger under her skin beginning to itch. That was a 1939, 91c Ford, V8, three speed, manual. If Ollie’s father were here, he would have been drooling. As it was, Ollie could barely see the stylized name of the farm on the side of the truck, and she had to wonder how Mike had walked away intact from the Lacie auction.
Even Ollie had heard that with the head of the Lacie family finally deceased, the eldest son had attempted to gather enough men to silence the other bidders, in a last-ditch attempt to keep the farm in the family. Ollie was almost positive Old Man Mike had bid just to undermine the Lacies. Even though it had been years since Ollie herself had lived on a farm, Ollie knew how much that truck would have been an investment in the farm itself.
She doubted the Lacies had enough money, even if they had gotten the farm back, to buy a new vehicle. Knowing that, Old Man Mike had just doomed at least three generations of Lacies, unless their heir jumped ship last minute and disappeared, the debt going back to the bank.
“Do I want to know what you’re going to do?” Roy croaked, passing back the micky with an air of disgust.
Reaching back, Ollie tapped the paper bag she had snagged from the grocery down the street. “I’m going to hurt him.”
“The boss wants me to remind you that he won’t keep the coppers off your back if a body appears in the harbour.” Roy was staring at the bag in concern.
What was it with people thinking she was going to make a body pop up?
Scowling, Ollie flipped him off and all but threw the bag into his lap. Roy grunted at the weight, his expression conveying that he had thought there would be a gun in the bag. Side-eyeing her, Roy quickly peeked inside, his brow furrowing. “Thought you didn’t run drugs.”
Reaching over, Ollie tipped the bottle over his head and grabbed the bag back with a scowl. She didn’t run drugs. Alcohol was one thing, drugs was another. “You patsy.” she snarled, as he sputtered and rolled away from her. He flung his shirt over his head and mopped up the worst of the alcohol, his jacket absolutely soaked.
Still annoyed, she took a small pinch of the powder and flung it at the man. Roy gave her a dirty look as he stuck his finger in the white powder and then stuck it in his mouth, his eyes opening wide. “It’s sweet!” he exclaimed in surprise, his mouth falling open.
“It’s sugar.” Ollie bit out as she drew herself up to her feet. “It should screw up the engine for a while.”
“What the hell did Old Man Mike do to you?” Roy repeated, his eyes on the bag in her hands.
Ollie smiled and shook her head, whistling as she skipped down the stairs.
…***…
Screwing in the gas cap, Ollie dusted off her knees and stood up, smiling at the truck. She really was a beauty and it was a damn shame that Ollie was going to have to break her down to make Old Man Mike bleed. “Sorry love.” Ollie whispered, patting the truck apologetically. Her father would murder her if he knew.
…***…
Two days later, Ollie was back, leaning on the wall of the alleyway, watching as Old Man Mike flushed his lines. He must have done a lot of driving in the past forty-eight hours for him to have to flush his lines already. But on side note, it was interesting to know that sugar caramelized in gas engines. Gunking up in the lines and on the filters, exactly like dirty fuel instead of doing more damage.
“Am I going to have to report to the Coppers that you’ve got a bent car?” Ollie tossed out from the mouth of the alleyway, snickering softly when the man jumped from where he was leaning into the engine compartment.
“I ain’t stolen nothin’.” Mike snarled as hauled himself out of the truck, his hands covered in grease.
“Ya sure about that?” Ollie questioned, her fingers itching to wrap themselves around the man’s neck. “I heard that’s what caused your last bird to fly off in the middle of the night.”
The man snarled wordlessly and Ollie shook her head. He wasn’t even going to defend himself. It sorry state of affairs. “Aw, lady love don’t find you handsome enough anymore? You had to go filch a new hot rod?” Ollie cooed, smirking when the man’s eyes began to twitch.
Ollie had seen the customized bracing under the frame when she poured the sugar into the baby girl. Sure, it was for a better hitch but if she was going to buy a car for show, it certainly wouldn’t have been this baby girl, no matter how new she was. The Lacies had certainly bought this girl to last.
“Its all legal.” Mike bit out, tracking her as Ollie paced into the alleyway. “You can take it up with the bank if you’ve got a problem with it.”
“You’re a decent bloke, Mike.” Ollie drawled as she held up a jerrycan of diesel fuel.
For a moment Mike didn’t move, and Ollie had to applaud him for his suspicion. “A peace offering.” She explained at his confused look. “I thought you’d like to know, that whatever happens next, you’ve had coming for you for years.”
Mike took the jug with a wary look. “Is that a threat?”
Looking grim, Ollie nodded to the truck. “No, it’s a warning. From one runner to another, somethings’ coming for you.”
Suddenly, Mike looked twitchy and Ollie just about grinned. This was Brooklyn and it was the 1941, everyone had something coming for them, it was just a matter of knowing what. Besides, Ollie had smuggled bathtub gin from this building and Old Man Mike had been in residence for longer then Sarah had been in New York. And Old Man Mike owed her no favours.
Old Man Mike had poured the diesel into the truck before she even reached the end of the alleyway.
Revenge was sweet, and she hadn’t even finished yet.
…***…
“The Old Man’s cursing up a storm, threatening to throw someone in the big house over whatever you did to the truck.” Roy warned, his hands hovering over the trashcan fire.
“Does he know what happened?” Ollie purred, absently offering a cigarette to Roy.
Roy caught her wrist. “This is a lucky.” He sounded surprised when he tilted her hand to see the brand name.
“It’s the only kind I buy.” Ollie said, rolling her eyes as she tossed him another, “Now, is the Old Man making anyone bleed or sending a copper after anyone?”
Roy shook his head, absently lighting up. “Nah, everyone knows you said to leave him in the dark. So far, it’s the best laugh we’ve had all week. Old Man Mike is blaming everyone from the sidewalk spirits to yours truly.”
“Good.” Ollie stated with a cruel little smile, “Keep an eye on’em. Things are going to get fun soon.”
…***…
With a new truck and a dead engine, there was only one thing left to do. Chop shop it. The poor baby was going to be sold for parts and Ollie couldn’t be happier. if it weren’t for the fact Old Man Mike was going to get back some of his investment. That certainly wouldn’t do.
Old Man Mike needed to bleed.
Steve could have died if Old Man Mike had gone off on a rant and Ollie wasn’t in the mood to bury Steve before the war was over. She wasn’t going to let nearly a decade of work go down the drain because of a prejudice some old soldier had never learned to let go.
So, it was with great pleasure, Ollie popped open the door and slashed through the upholstery in the dead of the night. This wasn’t like the cars of her youth, where she could steal radios, break dashes, and screw with the interior for days. This was far similar.
The engine compartment was tomorrows problem, Ollie thought as she placed her switchblade back into her pocket. For now, this would have to do.
…***…
“Seriously,” Roy stated as he tossed her a wad of cash, a smile quirking onto his face. “What did the Old Man do to you?”
“The pay was late.” Ollie commented as she unrolled the stack and began to count. “I was about to go bother Greg myself.”
Roy rolled his eyes towards the sky, his smile gone. “I told you, this was going to pay off late. Greg wanted to check the goods first.”
“And I still say, payment upon delivery. I’ve got rent pay.” Ollie ground out as she shoved the bills into her pocket.
“Alright, alright. No more jobs from Greg.” Roy muttered his hands held up in submission. “I hear ya.”
…***…
“Hey, Bucky?” Ollie called out as she ducked out the window. “I’m borrowing your baseball bat. Billy’s got a game down by Hoverville that he needs players for.”
Bucky didn’t even bother to look up. “Yeah sure, just don’t break it.”
…***…
This was going to have to be quick, Ollie thought as she stared at the truck. In some ways, she was surprised Mike hadn’t put a hand through the windshield himself when the engine died, let alone when she slashed the upholstery or snipped all the lines in the engine compartment. Rising up the bat, Ollie brought it down on the window with a satisfying smash.
Three more windows to go, Ollie thought with a smile. Although, this would have been easier with a crowbar.
…***…
“At this point, all that’s left to do is burn the damn thing.” Roy commented as he passed her back her micky.
They were perched on the top of one of the dock warehouses, attempting to memorize the route the guards took. Two days into a stakeout and Ollie was about ready to ask if the crates were worth stealing. She missed prohibition, the money was easier then.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” Ollie mused, imagining the truck going up in flames.
Old Man Mike deserved it. Steve wasn’t the only person he had nearly gotten killed.
“You had better do it quick.” Roy commented as he stole the micky back, no longer wincing at the burn of the rot gut. “He’s getting paranoid.”
Taking back the bottle, Ollie rolled the neck between her fingers for a moment, half remembered memories of her brother Andy rising up to the surface. ”You gotta know what it is Olivia! It’s a molotov cocktail, the poor man’s grenade.”
“That’s not a bad idea at all.” Ollie commented slowly, her mind making a list of supplies she was going to need.
…***…
In the end, she didn’t get to Molotov the truck. Instead, she took gasoline and her stash of rotgut and poured it across the interior of the truck, let it sit for a day, and then came back, carved her name into the fender, and lit it on fire.
Dropping down onto the sidewalk, Ollie had to wonder how long it was going to take for someone to ring the coppers. There were at least ten people leaning out on the fire escapes, cheering, and in all honesty, Ollie had to wonder what it was like to be Old Man Mike’s neighbour.
Rising her cig up to her lips, Ollie allowed herself a small smile as she pushed her hat a little lower on her head. Beside her, Young Mike, Old Man Mike’s grandson, fiddled with the camera he had stung around his neck. “Thank you.” He whispered, his gaze stuck on the truck, his bruises mirroring Steve’s.
Ollie shrugged, turning her head to smile at the poor boy. “I should be thanking you for telling me when gramps would be out.”
Young Mike twitched, his gaze still pinned on the flames. “He won’t find out, will he?”
Ollie shook her head absently, her eyes catching the frantic gestures of another runner posted on the top of the adjacent building. Hauling herself to her feet, Ollie dropped the cig onto the pavement and ground it the dirt with her heel. “He shouldn’t, but if he does…”
The boy flinched and Ollie closed her eyes, wishing once again for Bakker connections. If this had been a few decades later and her name carried more weight then it did now, this conversation would be extremely different. “You find me.” She ordered, her hand falling onto the boy’s shoulder. “You find me, and I’ll deal with it.”
Young Mike hesitated. “You won't kill him, will you?”
Knowing there wasn’t much time before a copper came tearing around the corner, Ollie didn’t kneel to look him in the eye as she dearly wanted to. Instead, Ollie squeezed the boy’s shoulder before she began to walk away. “That all depends on how badly he hurts you.”