a/n: i honestly don't think i'll ever stop mourning tommy merlyn and his relationship with laurel. i know she's all gung-ho about oliver, but i'd like to believe she'd come to a place where she could honestly say she was in love with tommy as well. and also, there's an inkling of olicity in here, but you'll only see it by squinting really, really hard. i didn't read it through before posting so there are probably tons of mistakes. sorry. story title comes from still here by digital daggers. italicized sections indicate flashbacks to some of the happier times in laurel and tommy's relationship.
promise that time won't erase us
She shouldn't have come.
It's been two weeks since the Glades caved in on itself because of Malcolm Merlyn's vengeance-construed orchestration, and it affected citizens beyond the shadier part of Starling City just as much. She'd had to weave her way through the crowd of reporters and paparazzi outside the gates of Queen Manor, itching to catch a glimpse of either Oliver or Thea after their mother pled guilty to being aware of the Undertaking all along.
She, herself, hasn't seen her own father for longer than ten minutes at a time due to his inability to not immerse himself in his work. It wouldn't have bothered her so much if she could've done the same; bury herself under cases and legal counseling and searching up ways to make sure her clientele was never less than satisfied with the justice she intended to serve.
Instead, CNRI is nothing more than a mountain of ashes, responsible for the gaping hole in her heart that she hasn't been able to stitch up after being left alone to nothing but her own thoughts for the past two weeks─which she spent studiously avoiding the man before her and his concerned texts and hasty voicemails, she might add.
Oliver stands in the foyer of his family's mansion, looking for all the world the picture of sturdiness, his broad shoulders and stoic expression betraying the fact that he lost his mother to prison and his best friend to a rusty pipe, all in the course of one day. She detects a minuscule amount of warmth gather in his eyes at the sight of her, and a knot inadvertently forms in her throat.
"Hey," he exhales, leaning down to her face for a kiss, only to have her hand come up to lightly push at his chest. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but he relents, stepping back and giving her room to breathe without her overwhelming need to be held and comforted clouding her judgement.
He laughs. "Really? You just managed to showcase to all of Starling City that Laurel Lance is not to be messed with, and you want your celebratory feast to consist of mac and cheese?"
She scoffs, swatting at his arm. "Hey! Mac and cheese is a delicacy that only champions can rightly appreciate."
He shakes his head in mock disappointment, but kisses the tip of her nose and digs through her pantry for the noodles.
The previous affection drains from his gaze and he steps forward, enveloping her hands in his big ones, rubbing over her knuckles with his thumbs. "Please don't."
He knows why she's here.
She looks away, gently extricating her hands from his grasp, moving to stand in front of his living room's grand windows, relishing the feel of the sun's rays washing over her body through the glass panes. She doesn't have to look behind her to know he's followed.
"Don't make this harder than it already is, Oliver."
A pause. "Tommy would want us to be happy."
Her heart clenches in despair, and she turns to face him, not failing to notice how his arguments aren't being stated with as much fervor as she would've expected. It's like he knows she's right, knows that they never should've disregarded Tommy's feelings for something that would inevitably crash and burn and wither away sooner than later.
"I know," she whispers, hands clenching into fists at her sides as she passes him on her path to his front door. She thought she was strong enough to do this, thought that two weeks was plenty of time to gather her thoughts and mention the fact that Tommy Merlyn is no longer anything but the sweetest memory. "I know he would."
"You can't love a ghost for the rest of your life, Laurel."
She immediately halts─how dare he?
She's been second-guessing every word that escapes his lips ever since he returned from whatever hell it was that shaped him into a virtual stranger she has no hope of ever recognizing as the Oliver she'd once been so in love with, and he's been letting her, doing absolutely nothing to sway her mind in the direction that's geared toward actually trusting him.
Laurel closes her eyes as she fights the anger that begins to thrum steadily through her veins. Her hand itches with the urgency to slap Oliver across his stupidly compassionate face and all she can see behind her shut eyelids is red and Tommy's smiling face.
"God, I love you. I love you so much, Laurel."
She turns, hair whipping in front of her face with the force of the movement. "How would loving you be any different, Oliver?" she asks, walking up to Oliver so that their faces are merely inches apart, hoping he detects the unperturbed fury radiating from her every pore. "I know who Tommy Merlyn was. He always wore brightly-colored socks, he had to be laying on his stomach on the left side of the bed before he could properly fall asleep. He couldn't use chopsticks to save his life but he never stopped trying because he thought it was necessary and ridiculously impressive. He had three scars on his elbow from flying off his trampoline into his father's patio table when he was eight, and he had the biggest heart of anyone I'd ever met."
"I─"
"I can't say the same about you; ever since you've been back, I feel like I only get to see the parts of who you are that you dictate worthy of displaying. The rest of you is shrouded with mystery." She pauses, chest heaving with the force of her anger before she notices the chink in Oliver's jaw and the way he refuses to look directly at her. She knows he wants to deny it, wants to convince her otherwise to get her to stay, and she sighs. "And I'm not pushing you to tell me what happened on that island, or to become someone you aren't sure you are anymore, but that alone makes you more of a ghost than Tommy will ever be."
His mouth opens, trying to formulate a coherent argument against her words, and she tilts her head to the side in sadness as she watches the internal struggle cloud his already-stormy eyes. She shuts her eyes tightly, tears spilling effortlessly down her cheeks; she hates herself even more now, for piling more reasons for misery on top of his already monumental repertoire.
She knows Oliver's a good man, worthy of her affections and more, but yet, she can't bring herself to look at him without the sinking feeling of remorse and anguish tugging at her insides. Laurel doesn't think she'll ever forgive him for Sara, for pushing her away, for making her want him despite the perfect relationship she held with Tommy.
More than anything, she doesn't think she'll forgive herself for dismissing Tommy so quickly and jumping into Oliver's arms with little explanation and even less hesitation.
Before, she would've argued, would've asserted herself as being more than capable of dealing with Oliver's multiple scars, of patching him back up until he's good as new again.
Now, she's got a couple of scars of her own.
She steps forward and grabs his arm, giving what she hopes is perceived as a reassuring squeeze. Frankly, she barely has the strength to get out of bed in the mornings, much less lend out comfort to someone. "Look, Ollie. I know you'd like to think you don't need anyone to guide you in the right direction, but you do. Someone who you can talk to, who you want to show those more gruesome crevices of your soul to because you know they're worthy of seeing the good, the bad, and the ugly and accepting all of it." His eyes meet hers for the first time in what feel like eons, and she can't help but wonder if a mental image appeared to him that fits her description. She's not surprised when the jealousy she should feel doesn't come, just a hollow aspiration that his future won't be marred by such tragic events. "I know now that I was never meant to fill that position."
"I'm sorry," he says, gaze fixed on the floor, and she can't help but think that it's the most honest she's ever heard him sound, before and after the island.
She nods, backing away and attempting a smile as she begins making her way to the door once more, feeling so emotionally drained that she's having difficulty accepting that she had to have this conversation with him at all. "So am I. For not seeing it sooner."
"You loved him."
There's no hitch in her step, no minute pause that give way to his words having any sort of effect on her. All he's doing is telling her something she already knows, something that was obvious to everyone but her. She opens the elegant mahogany door and steps through the threshold.
"How about this one?" she asks, twirling in front of him, the royal blue material moving around her like ocean waves.
He nods distractedly, scrolling through his phone. "I like it."
Laurel pouts, walking forward and laying a hand on his shoulder until his eyes travel from his phone's screen to meet hers. She can't help but notice the tired lines around his eyes and the hunch in his shoulders that's been growing more prominent with each passing day.
"You said that about the last one, and the one before, and the one before..."
His lips quirk in amusement and he takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips against her palm in a feather-light kiss that makes her heart cave in on itself a bit. For his notorious playboy background, Tommy could be quite the sweetheart. "Frankly, you could be wearing a barrel and I'd still think you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on."
She smiles. "Keep saying things like that, Merlyn, and I will help you re-define what it means to 'get lucky.'"
He simply winks at her and tells her to get the maroon one.
"Your use of the past tense is severely incorrect."
.
The door closes behind her with a resounding thud that seems to echo throughout her apartment.
It feels a lot less like home than it used to. Everywhere she looks, she sees him; drinking coffee on her window seat, taking a nap on the couch, making dinner in her kitchen, switching the light bulbs in her hallway.
The sound of her stomach growling fills the room, and she sighs, sluggishly moving towards the kitchen, frowning when she realizes she hasn't even stepped foot in her own kitchen since before Tommy died. Her hand reaches toward the refrigerator when it freezes mid-air.
There, resting under a heart-shaped magnet, rests a picture of Tommy and Laurel, from one of their many dates. They're at an ice rink, and she's grinning at the camera, unadulterated joy shining through the lens. She feels a knot form in the base of her throat as she takes in Tommy's expression; his face is turned into hers, nose pressed against her cheek as he smiles into her skin, arms wrapped around her in a way that would make billions of women in the world envious.
All thought of nourishing her hungry stomach is eradicated from her brain as Laurel makes her way to her bathroom, clutching the photograph to her chest with shaky hands.
"I hate that picture," he complains, scrunching up his nose. "The angle makes me look like I have five chins. I almost want to renew that gym membership we both know I never used."
She laughs, tugging at the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer. "They're five very cute chins," she assures him, the tip of her nose joining with his before she pulls back with a gasp. "In fact, I'm positive that if you weren't already a billionaire several times over, you'd make a pretty good living as Tommy Merlyn, renowned chin-model."
He chuckles, arms enveloping her waist in a cocoon of security and affection, gray eyes surveying every crevice of her face, committing the gleam in her eyes and the tilt of her lips to a memory. "Will you never cease to amaze me?" he asks, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, searing kiss, groaning when she abruptly pulls away.
Laurel sashays toward her bedroom, hips swaying from side to side in a manner that tells him she knows exactly what she's doing. Ever the vixen, she pauses to turn her head over her shoulder and look at him teasingly under long eyelashes.
"Looks like you'll have to wait it out and see," she purrs.
He nods voraciously, taking long strides to meet her in the middle of her hallway, the dim lighting casting a glow over his handsome face that has her inhaling sharply. "Now that's a membership I wouldn't mind joining. Sign me up."
Warmth fills her from head to toe at his comment, like it always does when he says things like that, clearly making it known that he'll be there with her through it all if she'll have him. While there's still the situation of her unresolved feelings for Oliver and the fact that closure is something she desperately seeks to have, she can't help but think that if there's a single person she'd give that up for, it's Tommy.
Because the way he's looking at her now, with such potent love and desire brimming his eyes, she can't remember her own name, much less anything about anyone else that isn't the man standing in front of her and how he's the best decision she ever made.
He gets closer to her until her back's pressed up against the wall, his knee wedged between her legs in a way that has her biting down on her lip to keep from moaning. Tommy smirks, well aware of the power he has over her, and he places his hands on her thighs, hiking the hem of her pencil skirt upwards in a tantalizing fashion that he knows drives Laurel insane; she never really was one for patience. He picks her up, her legs straddling his waist with ease as he continues their original path to her bed.
"With pleasure," she breathes, lips meeting his once more as her hands reach down to help him with the buttons of her blouse.
She turns on the hot water in her shower to its maximum strength in order to drown out her sobs. Laurel rubs at her skin until it's red and raw and bleeding, viciously attempting to wash away ever kiss, every caress, every loving glance Oliver might have ever left imprinted on her skin, her sobs growing more pronounced as she becomes aware that she's inadvertently cleansing her skin of any trace Tommy might have ever left.
Haphazard tears mingle with the water on her cheeks and she gives up on hygiene after a couple of minutes and resorts to sitting in her tub with her knees pulled up to her chest, the water scalding her back until it leaves her skin crawling. She considers staying there, allowing the water to burn her skin until the pain is so unendurable that she feels herself slipping over the brink of sanity.
It's then that she remembers the smoke in her throat, the heavy weight of a slab of cement crushing her as CNRI tumbles to the ground, remembers thinking that this is it, this is how I'm going to die and wishing she could've hugged her father goodbye, could've told Oliver she loved him, could've...until she wasn't wishing anything anymore, but looking up at the face of her savior in shock and unadulterated emotion.
She'd be lying if she said she wasn't surprised to find Tommy standing there, muscles straining with the force he was exerting in order to lift the rock off of her form. She expected the Hood, or SCPD, maybe even Oliver, but never Tommy, never her ex-boyfriend that she never bothered to reconcile with, be it in a platonic manner or otherwise.
But he was there, telling her he loved her, to run, not to worry; "I'm right behind you."
By then, she was only faintly aware of the fire that threatened to consume them, because her head was thrumming with the joy of being alive, of getting to see another day, all thanks to Tommy─her hero. It's when she's in the safety of her father's arms that she hears a thundering crash as CNRI continues to crumble behind her that she realizes Tommy's still inside, alone and trapped.
Laurel fought and thrashed against her father's hold, spots blurring her vision from the excessive strain of her sobs until she falls limp, wanting more than anything for Tommy to emerge from the rubble of the destroyed building.
She wishes she couldn't still perfectly recall the feeling of her heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach at the realization that he never would.
She abruptly shuts off the water and stands, wrapping herself in one of the robes Tommy left behind from his frequent overnighters at her apartment. Despite the fact that her self-loathing is at an all-time high, she never lets herself forget that Tommy's life was taken in exchange for saving hers, and she'd be damned if she was going to let his death be in vain all because she wants to throw herself a pity party.
She walks to her room and collapses on her bed, tears streaming down onto her pillow despite the fact that her eyes remain closed.
"How can you fall asleep within a blink of an eye like that? You're like a sloth." He grins, tilting her chin up to press his lips to hers. "Only much cuter, of course."
Under the throes of sleep, she dreams of the boy with gray eyes and charismatic smile; the same one who's scent still lingers on her pillow, the same one who's name rests on her lips like a mantra she doesn't think will ever finish running its course.