AN: The irony of writing a story about overcoming drug use while high is not lost on me.
Anyway... I've got a few chapters of this written, I'm honestly not sure what it is at this point. It's going to be a darker story than my others for this fandom. Even NCHYH. But that's where I'm at in my life right now, and as always I use writing as an outlet.
As far as trigger warnings go, there will be substance abuse, and a couple of descriptions of sexual violence. Please be cautious.
Prologue.
If scars are for the living
Then I could be forgiven
She's a mess the first time Oliver sees her. Tangled blonde hair and too much skin are hardly a rare sight in his club, but she makes him look twice. Not in desire, for her beauty is something he only notices in passing. It's her sheer vulnerability that catches his attention.
She's sprawled over one of the couches in the back, eyes unfocused and face vacant. Probably barely over eighteen, definitely too young to be in his club, and definitely high. She's surrounded by people, but she looks like the loneliest person in the world. Her makeup is smudged and even from a distance he can see the tremor in her fingers as she takes the shot that's thrust into her hands. She downs it obediently and lets her head loll back against the cushions.
All of that might be passed off as nothing more than yet another Vegas girl who's hit the scene a little too hard. But she looks out of her depth and frightened, even as she willingly allows her companion to paw at the hem of her dress. It's a broken look that he recognizes too well. A look that haunts him every night as his mind evades sleep.
So he doesn't call a bouncer over to check her ID and kick her out as he originally intended. She no doubt has a fake one anyway, and if it was good enough to get her in the door, there's not much more they can do. Instead, he makes his way over to her, shoving his hands in his pockets to try and appear a little less like an authority figure, and a little more like somebody she might trust.
The closer he gets, the worse she looks. Her hair is unwashed and hangs dully around her face, brown roots fading into blonde. Her makeup looks like it was done days ago and has just been added to every night, and she clearly hasn't seen anything resembling a nutritious meal in a long time.
He crouches down in front of her, ignoring the questioning looks from the other patrons, and snaps his fingers until her drifting gaze finds his. Her eyes are a soft blue, and so, so sad.
"Are you alright?" He asks and hides his irritation when the man beside her huffs and tightens his grip on her thigh.
"She's fine, man."
Oliver grits his teeth and finally turns his attention to the other man. He vaguely recognizes him as a small time dealer who's known to hang around the clubs looking for business and sampling his own product.
"I'm sure you're aware of our no drug policy. I wonder what my friend would find if he checked your pockets?" He nods his head towards Diggle's imposing figure, leaning against the bar not too far away.
It doesn't take long for the group to melt back after that, leaving him alone with the blonde, who still hasn't said a word.
She's watching him though, has been throughout the whole exchange, her gaze a mixture of confusion from whatever drugs she's on, and uncertainty over his actions.
He gently grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet, holding her steady as she stumbles. He guides her upstairs and into his office, closing the door and shutting out the excessive noise of the club below. She looks like she's barely aware of what's happening, so he sits her down on the couch and grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge.
"Drink this."
He opens the cap for her, and she takes a few sips, shaky fingers picking at the label. Still she doesn't say a word.
"Is there someone I can call to come and get you?" He asks, and the question finally gets him a proper reaction.
She freezes and her eyes meet his, wide and dilated.
"No." She mumbles, eyeing him with a slightly baffled look on her face. Like she can't figure out why he wants to help her.
Honestly he's not entirely sure himself. Of course it's partially because he doesn't want underage narcotic use in his club, nor does he want said underage girls to be date raped in a bathroom by low life dealers… But all of that could have been dealt with by a bouncer. Once he spotted her, all he had to do was get one of his guys to call her cab and send her on her way. That's their policy. But instead he brought her up here, away from the chaos and noise of the floor, something in him desperately wanting to protect her from it all.
She looks away from him and blinks sluggishly, slouching into the back of the sofa. He sighs and runs a hand through his short hair. It's barely midnight, they won't be closing for hours.
"Okay, you can stay up here and sleep it off for a while." She's already pretty much out of it, but she seems to be hearing him. "No one will bother you here, alright?"
She gives him something resembling a nod, before curling up into a ball on the cushions and letting her eyes drift shut.
He watches her for a second, taking in her thin form, the dress that's cut away at the ribs to reveal the edge of a silvery white scar, the chipped nail polish on broken fingernails. She barely looks old enough to be out of school. She should be home with her parents, being yelled at for staying out too late, not here, letting herself be so vulnerable in a world that will do more to hurt her than it will to help.
With a heavy sigh he leaves her there, putting her out of his mind and pasting his charming host persona back across his face. And if his thoughts drift to another girl, a girl with darker hair and soulful eyes with that same broken vulnerability… Well he tries to put that out of his mind too.
As he always does.