I was just wondering how Oliver might've felt in the ten or so episodes where Chloe was gone.
Note: SEASON TEN EPISODE FOUR and "One More Day" by VAST (that sad song used in Lazarus? Anyone remember?) DO NOT BELONG TO ME.
Please review!
So he missed her more than anything in the world. Thinking about her made his heart ache.
When you love someone, what the hell do you do?
As hard as he tried—helping out Clark and the crew, doing his best to keep busy—nothing made him feel better. Not even being Green Arrow. Archery, of all things, couldn't distract him from the pain in his chest, the way he laid in bed and clutched at the sheets and wished that Chloe was beside him.
Sometimes Oliver would stand on a rooftop, staring down at everything below, seeing but not really seeing. His eyes would become glassy, and his heart would beat out a hiccupy unnatural rhythm, and he'd wonder what was wrong with him. But he knew exactly what was wrong: Chloe was gone.
Oliver hadn't cried since his parents died. (But maybe that was a lie.) His nose often felt tingly, an uncomfortable feeling like swallowing a lump of wasabi, and his heart sank into the deep recesses of his ribcage and something would prick behind his eyes, fast and wet.
He didn't know when he was ever slightly okay. Maybe when he was on TV, that time when he was being interviewed by the one lady who had no mercy as she fired questions at him point-blank. He was shaking and shoving down that awful feeling as hard as he could, and he was thinking of Chloe.
"I think our audience would like some answers," the woman said loftily when he didn't respond.
And the lump in Ollie's throat felt like a ball of steel, and he swallowed quickly to no avail. "I lost someone," he confessed, and he sounded hollow even to himself."She meant everything to me."
It took him so much effort to talk, to say those words, yet the woman interviewing him was not impressed, didn't pity him or sympathize. She narrowed her eyes. "So what do you want for that, a merit badge and some special rights?"
Her scathing tone made him flinch. "No."
She waited. He didn't know how to reply. He didn't have any hope left, or any energy, and he just missed Chloe so much. But having a breakdown on national television wouldn't be alright.
When Oliver saw Clark, just standing there suddenly, something inside him temporarily shifted.
What he had been waiting for had arrived. Someone was here to support him. Chloe may have been gone, but her childhood friend was still around, a bulking Kryptonian with Boy Scout morals.
And there was Lois and AC and Vic and Bart too.
"No, you're right," Oliver said, and the words came tumbling out with renewed confidence. "I'm not special. This isn't about who I am, it's about what I do. And I don't think I'm the only rich boy who thinks that way." A breath. It felt good to talk like Oliver Queen again. "I mean, it was John F. Kennedy who said, 'Ask not what your country does for you, but what you do for your country.'"
The reporter looked at him with a cross between disbelief and disgust. "So now you're comparing yourself to a fallen hero of this country?" She asked disdainfully. So many dis's, a cluster of critical hatred that bounced off his skin harmlessly now.
"Well, why not?" Oliver said breezily. "He saw the hero in all of us. I'm not dwelling on revenge for past atrocities, or—or looking ahead to what I can personally gain from a few tax breaks, or drilling oil wells in the ocean, or putting up razor wire fences to keep out immigrants who only wanted what our grandparents wanted." He bit down so hard on his tongue that it bled. "In this world of armchair bloggers who created a generation of critics instead of leaders…"
Tasting his own metallic blood, Oliver thought about Chloe. Her smile. Her kiss. The way she touched his face, gingerly, like she might break him, though she was the more fragile one. "… I'm actually doing something. Right here, right now. For the city. For my country." He looked up, at the reporter. At the camera. And finally at Clark, who was wearing a proud expression that Chloe might've worn—but Chloe would've had a bigger smile, of course. That beautiful grin that made him want to hold her close and never let go. (But he had.) "And I'm not alone. You're damn right I'm a hero."
The woman stared at him, eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish's, and he knew at that moment that he'd won, possibly even changed her opinion on him. When the interview finished, sooner than he'd expected, he stood—legs trembling—and left, Clark by his side.
That night, Oliver went out in green leather for the first time in several weeks. He stopped three muggings and an armed robbery. His muscles moved smoothly and his mind was blissfully blank.
"Nice interview, Mr. Queen," said a cop approvingly as he handcuffed a crook.
"Ah…" Oliver said quietly, "thanks." The flashing lights of the policeman's cruiser were jolting him back to reality. The happy high of the victory of his interview had already faded. Now his legs hurt, and his arms were sore, and his heart was still bruised.
He trudged home.
Once, he thought he saw her in a crowd. That day he was in Metropolis, and he saw short blonde hair, and he pushed past dozens of people to get to her. His heart was pounding and he was so close that he could reach out and touch a pale gold lock, and his voice was raspy when he shouted, "Chloe!"
But when the girl turned around, it wasn't Chloe, and her hair didn't seem so beautiful anymore when he realized that she wasn't who he wanted her to be, and he ached inside.
He hurt so badly that he couldn't even bring himself to apologize to the girl for mistaking her for someone else. Now the pain wasn't just in his chest—it had seeped into his bones and was taking control like a disease with no cure.
"Oh my god," the stranger gasped, her jaw dropping. "You're Oliver Queen!"
What would he give to see Chloe's face again? "I am," Ollie said, and his cracking heart felt like something that had died and could never, ever be resurrected.
I'd give anything
for one more day with you.