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Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow!

Episode Tag: "Dead to Rights." Season 1.

Summary: In light of all that's happened, Tommy saw this as a true opportunity to start fresh with Malcolm, and he willing to take it. Hopefully, his father saw the same.

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Rekindle

Tommy stood at the bank of windows that took up the entirety of the north facing wall on the 10th floor of Starling General Hospital, his hip leaning against the sill as he stared blankly out into the sparkling lights of the nightlife. The private hospital room had a deceptively calm and quiet atmosphere compared to the loops that his brain was running right now.

His father lay on the bed in a gown, tucked under the blanket with wires and tubes leading from his body, still unconscious from the surgery to remove the bullet from his shoulder, a fresh bag of blood hanging at his side to help flush out the ruminants of the poison. Poison. His father had been poisoned. But not just that, he'd been poisoned with a bullet—from an assassination attempt.

His stomach churned sickly and his heart squeezed in his chest. He didn't have time to freak out before... with men with guns shooting at them, seeing men killed right before his eyes, watching his father get shot, Malcolm dying, the cold metal of the gun in his own hands, the appearance of the Vigilante—of Oliver. No, he couldn't think on that right now. Right now, his father was the important thing.

Malcolm hadn't seemed fazed by the event. He had been solid, unsurprised, practiced—like he'd been through something like it before (people trying to kill him), or planned very thoroughly for such an event. His office had hyped security, was on a separate generator, he had a safe room, bullet-proof glass—he had worn a Kevlar vest! Did he get death-threats often? Tommy wondered with a sick realization. How could he not have known such a thing? Were they really so torn apart from each other that something as important and horrifying couldn't be shared between them?

His hand clenched around the bandage on his right wrist, squeezing. He'd almost lost his father, but it was worse because Tommy was watching it happen, unable to do anything—useless—until Oliver... no. He'd nearly lost his father, his only living blood left. He'd be an orphan...

It didn't matter that he was almost thirty-years-old, a grown man. Deep down, he was still that lost little boy who lost his mother too soon and horribly, and whose loving, caring, funny father had disappeared in his own grief. Malcolm had told him, when he'd been crying for his father to stay, that he would understand when he was older—Tommy was older now, but he still didn't understand.

There were moments, sometimes guilty, most of the time not—where he wished that it was Malcolm Merlyn who had perished in that alleyway in the Glades and not his mother. Because he felt sure that Rebecca Merlyn would not have ran away for two years a month after the funeral, abandoning her grieving and scared son to be raised by servants. His mother never would have turned cold, calculative, manipulative in the face of Malcolm's death, like he had upon his return.

They were separate of each other. It didn't matter how close they were on a physical level, the emotional was just intolerable between them. Resentment, hate, distrust, disappointment. But he guessed it was tolerable because they basically kept out of each others lives. They lived in the same house, that was no longer a home, but they might as well have been like they were on the other side of the world from each other. Tommy always felt an aching relief when Malcolm went away on business because then there wasn't a chance that they would 'accidentally' run into each other and feel the crushing absence of his mother hanging between them. He was able to do as he pleased, to tear that burden off of himself—even as he craved for the father that he had been before either of their worlds shattered.

As Laurel had said, Malcolm had reached out with this olive branch and Tommy had dubiously agreed after great contemplation of the outcomes coming to the ceremony tonight would of had on their relationship. Whether it would make it marginally better or tremendously worse. Tonight didn't go—as either of them could have marginally contemplated or expected. But it had given him a look into his father that he had never even knew existed in the selfish, God-complexed man that Tommy had learned to perceive

Malcolm had come for him this time, had kept him safe, had protected him. When Tommy had gotten in trouble with the cops, over-stepping the legal, perhaps attempting to provoke a reaction of the hard man, Malcolm bailed him out, did an outward act of fatherhood for appearances sake, but never in the way that Tommy might have craved. It always felt like he didn't care. If the man cared, he wouldn't have abandoned his eight-year-old son in the fresh tracks of his mother's death, despite his own grief.

Despite what had brought them to this moment, or because of it—maybe, this could be an opportunity for them both to start fresh, in the face of this horror.

Malcolm's awakening grunt and jolt startled Tommy from his thoughts. He jumped to his feet.

"Dad?"

"Tommy?"

"Dad." Tommy gasped in relief as he rushed to the bed, clasping Malcolm's reaching hand desperately. "You're okay, dad. You're safe now. We're at the hospital."

"Are you okay, son?"

"I'm fine." Tommy shook his head in disbelief. "I was worried about you, dad. You were shot. And... and... Poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Malcolm repeated.

Tommy nodded. "The bullets were laced with... curare? That's what he called it..." he made a face and shook his head. "I'm glad you're okay, dad."

Malcolm gave a brief smile. "Me, too." He paused and looked at Tommy. "He, who?"

Tommy's mouth went into a hard line. "The Vigilante."

"The Vigilante?" Malcolm started to sit up, with a small grunt of pain. "Did you hurt you?"

"Dad, what the hell?" Tommy exclaimed and pushed him back. "Lay back down before you hurt yourself, you just woke up! And, no. He saved your life."

Malcolm raised a brow in surprise. It was clear now, then, that The Hood didn't know that he was the Dark Archer. Good. Other wise, he didn't think the Vigilante would have been trying to stop the assassination attempt and instead jumped in line. Or perhaps it was just because of all the civilians.

"You saw him."

"No." Tommy lied, his eyes tightening slightly, but he didn't look away from his father, otherwise the man would know it was a lie. He didn't know how to feel about knowing that Oliver was The Hood, he was too confused on the matter at the moment, so he decided to simply not think about it. And he was going to need a pretty strong malt before, during, and after.

There was some silence between them before Tommy spoke again. "I should get a nurse... tell them you're awake." He went to stand, but Malcolm's dry palm tightened around his hand.

"That can wait." Malcolm told him. "Stay, Tommy. Talk to me."

Tommy settled his weight back down fully. "Dad..." he shook his head. "What happened tonight... those men, they tried to kill you. They almost..." he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes unbidden. "If I lost you like..." he gulped against the sudden lump in his throat, leaving the obvious sentence unfinished. "I don't know what I would do."

Malcolm whispered, "Tommy."

"I know... things have been fucked up between us since—for a long time, and I know I've said things, but..." he shook his head, "I never wanted you die, okay?"

Malcolm reached out and put a finger under Tommy's chin, lifting his face to see him again. His heart ache at the devastated look his son wore. Malcolm locked eyes with him. "I know."

"Dad... you... how?" he shook his head, trying to straighten his thoughts out. "Those men, they almost killed us. But you... how did you do that? Where...? I don't understand how that happened. How you were so calm. Where you learned to fight like that."

Malcolm was quiet for a moment, a light furrow between his brow as he contemplated what his son was ready to hear. "A long time ago," he started slowly, "While away on a business trip, I learned of this place called Nanda Parbat."

"Nanda Parbat?" Tommy repeated. "What's that?"

"A place in Tibet."

"When were you in Tibet?" Tommy asked, getting sidetracked.

Malcolm waved the question away.

"When your mother was killed," Every time his mother was brought up, especially by Malcolm, Tommy felt a mixture of grief and anger. But it was finally time that his son understood, "Her loss was almost unbearable. In my grief and anger, I did things that are too shameful to admit, but they made me realise that I couldn't bear to stay in Starling City, surrounded by her memory."

"Dad..." Tommy gulped down on his own emotions as he listened to his father actually express the true feelings of a heartbroken father. Finally explaining to his son why he'd left in the wake of his wife's death, effectively abandoning his eight-year-old son for two-years.

Tommy held so much resentment, anger, hate, sadness, self-loathing in regards to his father and their relationship. But if tonight taught him anything, those feelings were petty in the light of almost losing his father for good, just as good as his mother.

"I was so lost after what happened to your mother... But I met a man there. In Nanda Parbat. He helped me make sense of things, showed me, helped me find a purpose in life... to make the city a better place for everyone, especially you."

"When you came back, you were different. Colder. A completely different person. My dad was gone. The man that I—"

"Who I was before... he was too soft-hearted to survive in the world that God gave him. I had to adapt to survive."

"You sound like we're at war!"

Malcolm tightened his hold on his son's hand, his eyes intense. "Don't you see, Tommy—we are. This Vigilante," Tommy flinched slightly, "This Hood—he's only the beginning. It only gets worse from here!"

"Dad, you're scaring me." Tommy admitted.

Malcolm took a deep breath—

"Malcolm," Moira stood in the doorway. Both Merlyns looked back. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Malcolm's expression smoothed down into his more business-pleasure mask. "Tommy, could you give us a minute?"

"Sure." Tommy nodded after a moment and stood. The interruption was followed with a little too much relief in the young Merlyn. "I should probably call Laurel anyways." On impulse, before he left, Tommy pressed a kiss to his father's forehead. Then a polite one to Moira's cheek as he passed her.

He went down the hall and managed to find a coffee vending machine. He fished a dollar bill from his wallet and put it into the slot, a Styrofoam cup went into the holder and it started to fill. It tasted atrocious, but maybe it was just the thing to kick start his brain after his deflation of adrenaline.

He needed a minute to simply sort through all of what his father had said. He wasn't lying when he said he was scared, the way Malcolm had talked frightened him. He didn't know what this Nanda Parbat was that his father talked about with such reverence—but it sounded to him almost like a cult.

He took out his cell phone, intending to see what he could find with a search on Nanda Parbat, but got distracted by the number of texts and voice mails from Laurel.

"Shit." He muttered. He didn't even listen to them, and instead just called her back. She picked up on the first ring. Somehow, he managed to convince her that he was fine, Malcolm was fine, and not to come to the hospital. He just wanted to spend time with his dad. He put his phone back in his pant pocket, finished off the bitter dollar coffee with a sigh, and crushed the cup. He threw it into the trash next to the machine, and turned back towards the room. He would wait until Moira was done talking with his father, but he stopped short at the uncertain but determined man standing in front of him.

Of course, if Moira was here, he should have expected Oliver to be around somewhere. He might have been the Vigilante, but he was still a son. He still had to put up the charade of the Old Oliver Queen, didn't he?

The last thing he wanted was to see Oliver, let alone speak to him. He'd been too focused and concerned about Malcolm to even want to attempt to try and sort through whatever feelings he had towards the fact that his best-friend was the biggest liar he could ever know.

The silence stretched between them. Apparently Oliver was going to wait for him to have the first word so he could have the last. Tommy sighed internally, let's just get this over with.

"My dad's going to be okay thanks to you."

"It's thanks to you." Oliver whispered.

Tommy narrowed his eyes. "I once asked you what happened out on that Island and you said 'a lot'. That doesn't seem to cover it." Oliver shifted on his feet and suddenly, something that might have always been seen as an innocent tell suddenly seemed lethal. "It was you I saw who killed those guys that kidnapped us, wasn't it?"

His voice was guarded, "I'm sure you had a lot of questions."

"Yeah." Tommy allowed after a moment. "But just one for now." He clenched his fists at his sides. "Where you ever going to tell me?"

"No." His voice was gruff.

Tommy scoffed and without another word, by-passed the man he thought he knew better than himself at one point in life, returning to his father's room just as Moira was leaving. They gave each other subdued goodnights, and she went back to her son down the hall, and he stepped back into his father's room.

"Good talk?" Tommy asked.

"Considering the circumstances," Malcolm allowed as he observed his son. "Tommy, it's late. You should head home, get some rest. I'll be here in the morning."

Tommy shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere, dad. There's a perfectly good couch right there, and that's where I'll be."

"Alright." Malcolm smiled.

"There's something I want to show you," Tommy told him. Malcolm nodded and waited. Tommy sat back on the side of Malcolm's bed, fishing his wallet back out of his pants. He fished in behind the small wallet photo that he kept of the three of them, the last time they were all together, and pulled out the custom-sized gold coin that was little larger than a quarter.

"Is that...?" Malcolm took the coin, and turned it in his fingers.

Tommy nodded and said softly, "The last time you did that trick for me... was the night we found out about mom." He cleared his throat and took the coin back. "But that wasn't what I want to show you."

And Malcolm's eyes brightened as he watched as Tommy carefully, but fluidly flipped the coin in and out between each of his fingers, before curling his hand into a fist around the coin, turned his wrist and opened his palm again—the coin vanished. And then he reached towards Malcolm's ear with the opposite hand, and the same coin reappeared.

"You learned the trick!" Malcolm chuckled.

Tommy nodded and then smiled as Malcolm took the coin and repeated the trick on his son.

"I want us... to start over, dad." He told the man earnestly after a moment. "Do you think we can do that?"

Malcolm nodded. "I'd like that."

All the other stuff could wait until tomorrow, right now, it was just the two Merlyn men.

[end]

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