Perhaps it was a kindness, Ray thought, that Oliver Queen had changed the subject so promptly and with such casual charm. And, as much as he wanted to just go with the flow, Ray was stuck, knee-deep in his own sheepishness. The news that Oliver was to be their new publisher wasn't exactly earth-shattering - his presence alone was cause enough for speculation - but nothing had yet been officially announced. Even on the surface, his remark about Ray ingratiating himself to the new boss had been off-the-cuff, and, up in his head, he knew there was nothing more to it. But in his heart, he ached for certainty, and recoiled at the thought that Oliver Queen himself might, on some level, suspect him to be a shameless opportunist. He had to clear things up, and, for a moment, his question went ignored.

"Well, congratulations on the new appointment, Mr. Queen," he said, a little short of breath. They were shaking hands again but he couldn't quite remember when they started, or who instigated it. Once done, he raised his hands in defence, "And, for the record... I like my job. I didn't mean anything when I said... what I said. It's good ambition. Wholesome ambition. American ambition - but not in the cutthroat Wolf of Wall Street kind of way! Okay..."

Opting for a tactical segue, away from the ridiculous, and back into the realms of relevancy, Ray's face brightened as he surveyed the room. He pointed to a curious-looking man who sat with his feet propped up on the desk. He was wearing the Converse, again. In one hand, there was a colourful mug, in the other, a sheet of paper, which he elected to hold aloft, to be scrutinised from below. Ray was already shaking his head.

"That stringy guy in the suit, over there. The one with the glasses and the sand shoes? Vic Sage. Never came across a conspiracy theory he didn't like, but I guarantee you won't meet a more enthusiastic journalist in your life." On cue, Vic sprung upright in his chair, slammed the paper on his desk and began typing furiously. Ray grinned despite himself, and glanced back to Oliver, "A word to the wise, Mr. Queen: if he mentions the alligators in the sewers, don't ask. And over there! See?"

This time he pointed out an older man, wearing a faded grey jacket and a check shirt, who had purpose in his stride as he vanished inside the editor-in-chief's office.

"That, right there, is Mr. Concrete Proof himself. Walt Johnson. Guy's a freelance force of nature. Keeps to himself, mostly, but what I wouldn't give for that man's sources. His stories are airtight, everyone of them. If you want information, Walt's your man. Unless, of course, you prefer a woman's touch?"

Ray allowed his eyebrow to climb a telling fraction, leaving the innuendo to hang there a delicious moment, while he swept the room for a familiar face. He frowned.

"Huh. Looks like she's not around, right now. Iris West-Allen. She's... well, you would know all about Iris after all, wouldn't you?" He smiled, recalling a certain TV interview bookmarked in his favourites folder, back home. When he met Oliver's gaze, he dropped the familiarity and adopted a professional indifference. He gave a shrug, "I mean, who doesn't, right?"