It only takes a second, seeing Sam with his hands around Connor's neck and reacting, instinctively, reflexively. It takes a few seconds more to see Connor looking up at him, concerned but ok, he's ok. It's a minute before Oliver, sunk against the wall, starts to feel things again. Starts to feel eyes on him, starts to feel the blood drying and itching on his hands and his face. Starts to feel the guilt bite at him. But Connor is there, kneeling close to him. Ironically, looking more alive than ever, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide, full of that look he gets when he wants to help and doesn't know how. But he knows there's only one way to make this better. So when Michaela whispers "we should call the police", he nods.
"No," Connor says flatly.
"Connor, there's a dead body-"
"And you think getting Oliver arrested will change that? For saving my life instead of standing there?"
"We'll explain what happened-"
"Including you pushing Sam down the stairs? Or is justice only necessary for other people?"
Laurel interjects, sounding more weary than anything else. "I doubt a jury's going to believe that all of us were defending ourselves from one man in his home in the middle of the night. So unless everyone wants to take their chances standing trial for murder, I suggest we bypass the police. Connor and Oliver, you need to get cleaned up then go home. We'll take care of the body."
And with that, Connor is leading Oliver towards the bathroom, leaving Michaela to argue with Laurel. Connor makes a bizarre nurse, scratches on his neck and blood on his lapel, dabbing matter-of-factly at the flecks of blood on Oliver's skin and clothes. "Thank you, Ollie" he says "If you hadn't…I mean. You saved me." And Oliver doesn't know what to say to that, he's never been thanked for a murder before. "You're welcome" doesn't really fit the bill. And he can feel the laughter bubbling up at how surreal this all feels, but somehow it turns into a shudder. Connor gives another one of those concerned little frowns. He wishes he would stop that. Connor's the one who almost died. Oliver should be taking care of him, instead of just sitting here mute, and – Jesus, Connor's offering his jacket, like they're in a teen romcom. So it takes a minimum of manslaughter for Connor to do the whole romance thing. Can't say that's surprising.
"You should keep it," Oliver says. Connor's always freezing. Oliver has told him numerous times that he needs more layers. "No guy's ever wanted me to wear more clothes," Connor had said incredulously. Oliver knows that it was just a joke (a predictable one, even for Connor), but he likes the thought that something separates him from the multitudes of other men Connor's been with. Like maybe he'll be remembered. He's rerunning memories like that in his head, memories of his friends, parents, sister, Connor. As long as he keeps the film running in his head, he can't hear Connor choking in the abundant silence, or feel the weight of the cool yet sweat-slicked steel trophy in his hand. Can't hypothesise about alternate endings where he'd use a little less force, try to pull Sam off, call for help.
Then Connor's saying his name again, "Ollie, let's go home." His voice always treads between the world in Oliver's mind and the one on the ground. And Oliver can't bring himself to regret what he did, remembering Sam, a faceless, pallid waxwork on the floor, and imagining Connor in his place, crumpled like paper. He can't imagine acting differently, letting Sam's grip tighten for a second. His friends always said falling for Connor would be dangerous. They never said for who.