She isn't usually one for bars.
Mostly because image, she has learned, is damn near everything in her life. Before— everything (Robert, Oliver, oh god), she was the charming, elegant wife of the CEO of a large company. Certainly she loved Robert, but in order to keep her true life isolated from the hounds of the media she was required to play perfect. The marital issues (reciprocated, though Robert never knew) were all packed away in a box at the bottom of her heart, and there it stayed until the next time Robert confessed and begged for her forgiveness.
(Forgiveness that became a bit more hypocritical of her to give after… well.)
The vodka isn't half bad, at least. Moira has had many years of almost exclusively drinking wine or champagne, but she hasn't quite yet lost the appreciation for hard liquor that she held in her youth.
She has a secluded table, though not secluded enough that she is able to evade the curious looks from other patrons. Even with her more casual dress, it's more than obvious who she is. Most of them are wondering why Moira Queen is sitting in a bar, drinking vodka shots with a stony face. Not that she's about to tell them her reasons any time soon.
Moira's half-staring at the reflections in her glass, splitting her own face into several fragments. It represents her current frame of mind better than a real mirror, in her opinion. The alcohol has done little to dull her senses; she's barely had more than a shot or two, but for some reason she still feels cheated. That feeling isn't enough to erase the guilt that she'd be an awful businessman (and an even worse mother) if she did give in to the urge to drink more.
It's for that reason that she pushes the glass away.
There are days — days like two weeks ago, when she first told China White that she wanted Malcolm Merlyn dead, or days when she made plans to anonymously sap the Merlyn Global Group's funding — in which it seems that she is in control, for once in her life. Each and every time it turns out to be an illusion, and it is revealed that she is only moving through quicksand: the more she struggles, the further she sinks. Last night she watched an old friend of Robert's (and hers) be shot through with an arrow in the blink of an eye. Most of the past twenty-four hours have featured her in a veiled state of shock, but six hours ago that shock gave way to a lump in her throat.
She vaguely remembers making her excuses — not feeling well, perhaps she'd eaten something odd — before hurrying home and doing everything she could to compose herself. The bar is her last resort. In public, there's the added incentive of people watching her to force her to save face.
(Her son used to keep a stash of alcohol that he didn't think she knew about around the house, but it's all but vanished now and she knows he would instantly see through her façade. It's a gift that he's mysteriously acquired in his five years away, and it's one that Moira both loves and hates.)
"This isn't really your 'scene', is it?"
It takes all of her resolve not to throw the shot glass at his head. He can't even let her have a silent breakdown in peace, can he?
"What do you want, Malcolm?" she asks, deciding that it's a good idea to down the rest of the vodka after all.
He slides into the seat across from her, exuding a surprisingly low amount of smugness, and fixes her with a serious gaze. It offsets her mental image of him; he's supposed to be the cruel despot who gloats when he asserts his control over her. He's dressed more casually than his normal business attire, though out of circumstance or an attempt to put her off guard, she doesn't know.
Malcolm orders a glass of scotch, flashing a grim smile at the waitress. It makes Moira feel triumphant, because there's the Malcolm she's been expecting to see.
But then he turns his gaze back to her, and she's at a loss once more.
"I suppose you're having me watched," she remarks.
He shrugs. "Keep your friends close."
"And your enemies closer?"
"You'd be surprised how often the two are synonymous with each other."
Her blood runs cold. Moira's been wondering how much the archer heard of her conversation with Frank, and it looks like she's just found her answer.
Malcolm doesn't say anything about that, though. He never does. He prefers to drive her to the edge, questioning her every move until she can no longer take it. Then, because he still needs her, he will be blunt and honest with her about what he wants from her, and whether or not she's failed him. But right now is too soon. For now, he will let her stew.
"I came here to make sure you don't do anything rash," he explains. "This isn't like you. I was worried."
Worried about what I might say? Worried about how I might damage your plan? Maybe she should have drunk more. Maybe then, she would have spilled everything about the Undertaking in an inebriated mess of words that she could use her drunkenness to excuse. Moira lets that go, though, because she has enough regret in her life without adding deliberate stupidity to her list.
"Moira," he sighs. "In spite of what you might believe, and in spite of my actions, I do care about you. I consider you a close friend."
Moira keeps her face blank. "I know that I'm not someone to drink often, but believe it or not I don't need a babysitter."
"Forgive me for not believing that, in light of the Queen family reputation."
"Robert — "
"Didn't exactly treat you the way you deserved."
"And you have?"
"I'm honest with you," he says. "That's more than he could say."
There are so many things that Moira could say to that, but they are trapped in her throat because, in the end, he's right. He's manipulated her, threatened her, intimidated her— but Robert's done exactly the same to her, in addition to lying to her.
"I think I'm going to leave," she says stiffly. "Would that satisfy you?"
"More than seeing you in a bar," he admits. He stands, offering her a hand. "Let me give you a ride."
It's an order, not a suggestion, so she complies without a word. Her driver is still outside, so she sends him a quick text to tell him to go home as Malcolm leads her out into the crisp air. Ordinarily it would feel liberating, but Malcolm's hand on her back is less so. She can feel the heat of his palm even through her coat.
The drive back to the manor is tense and most silent. A few blocks from her home, however, Malcolm has the driver stop the car and turns to look at her. The serious look is back again, the one that she cannot reconcile, no matter how much she tries to. Several thoughts flash in her mind, fleeting warnings and prayers. This is where she is going to die.
"My agent told me that you watched a man die right in front of you," he says. "An old friend of yours."
Moira isn't affected by that. She isn't.
"Yes, I did."
She is trapped in a maze of her own building, one in which every corner only opens up more complications. This is just another of those, only this time she doesn't get to make the decision of where to go next in her quest to get out. Consigning herself to wait for the next move in this game of cat and mouse, she closes her eyes and just sits.
When she feels his hand grasping hers, curling his fingers around hers slowly, her eyes fly open. He's not allowed to do this; this is one line that neither of them are allowed to cross. It evokes visions of the past and long-buried feelings that she's tried to deny ever existed. When it should make her shudder and pull away, it instead makes her feel like there's fire on her skin. Looking at Malcolm, she can see that he knows it, too.
She knows what he's offering her. It's his way of giving something back to her, for all the pain he's caused her. It's a way of letting her see through a window into the past, when things seemed simpler. For once, he's letting her make the choice to take something back from him.
Moira tightens her grip on his hand, leaning forward until her breath all but ghosts over his. She waits there, letting time pass in almost complete silence, until she sees his pupils dilate, and she has him.
"Oh, Malcolm," she whispers. "If only you had anything to give."
She knows, by the stunned look on his face, that her words were worth it. She opens the door and steps out of the car.
"I think I'll walk the rest of the way," she announces, already moving away (she doesn't bother to shut the door). "It's a beautiful night."