I started writing this story in April of 2016, in reaction to episode 4x18. Oliver has lost so many important people to him during the years, and I think losing Laurel should have been the last straw for his psyche. So this story will delve into that; the second and final part is already written, and I will post it soon.

The first chapter is pretty hopeless and bleak, and focused solely on Oliver.

The second part will see him deal with his loss, come to some realizations, and features a lot of sibling time between Thea and Oliver.

Pairing(s): Brief meaningless interlude of Oliver/random!OC; otherwise Laurel/Oliver (or as much as it can be, when one of them is gone)

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me; but I sure wish it wasn't in the hands of Guggenheim & Co...


Part 1: Ruin

Once upon a time, Oliver Queen's death ruined Laurel Lance's life.

He cheated on her, got involved with her sister, took said sister on a yacht, and got them both seemingly killed.

So maybe it could be called poetic justice to say that Laurel Lance's death ruined Oliver Queen's life in return.

...

Laurel Lance had been The Black Canary. Once this knowledge became public, once the news reported on her death, and the eye witness accounts of what had transpired in the hospital came out, most citizens of Star City started to put the pieces together.

It took less than 48 hours after one of Star City's heroes had drawn her last breath for the press to come to the conclusion that Oliver Queen had to be The Green Arrow.

Thankfully, the police was severely lacking in evidence to back up what everyone now believed.

...

He would turn around to say something to her, only to realize she wasn't there.

He would walk along the street and think he'd glimpsed a curtain of golden curls in the distance that could only belong to her.

At night, when they were out and fighting for the city, sometimes he would hear her steps behind him, the slight creaking of her leather, the sound of her breathing. If he turned around, she would never be there. If he didn't, the sounds would haunt him, like a ghost silently walking beside him.

In fights, he'd hear the sound of her kicks and punches, hear her cry out in rage and fierceness. A few times, when things got bad and the situation looked bleak, he'd imagine hearing the Canary Cry, cutting like a beacon of hope through the night, and he would know to keep on fighting.

She was everywhere, and yet once he looked, searched, or reached out for her, she was nowhere.

...

Later, he wouldn't even be able to recall how he got into bed with the girl from the bar.

The mixture of grief, rage and devastation which he carried around at all time made for a strange bed-fellow, and through the haze of his warring emotions, he couldn't remember much of the events that led up to their tryst.

It had been another bad day, and then somehow, he had ended up in a ruddy bar near his apartment. For the most part, his brooding and subdued posture had kept people away; until the pretty red-head had sat down next to him. He hadn't really been drunk at that point, just buzzed enough that he didn't mind the company. They hadn't really talked much, just sat next to each other and toasted to bad days and life's harshness. When she had left, he had followed to find her waiting for him outside the bar.

It was easy, uncomplicated. He didn't really see red hair spilling over his pillows, didn't see warm brown eyes. Somehow, he wasn't really there with her, his mind drifting.

His head and heart and memories were somewhere else, far away.

Afterwards, she didn't snuggle close to him like many of his previous bed-partners had done, but just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The buzz from the alcohol was still in his system, but he felt too wound up to think about sleep, despite the exhaustion that should have claimed him.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of messed up", the red-head said, and it took Oliver a few moments to actively recall that her name was Ashley. There was no malice in her words, and her comment didn't really sting, but it did annoy him slightly. She didn't know him, or his life, or what he was going through.

"But it's alright, I knew what I was in for." She got up with those words, and started collecting her clothes.

"So why bring it up in the first place?", Oliver asked, trying not to feel irritation well up within him. He had taken enough criticism and verbal beatings over his behavior in the last months, no years, he didn't need any more. He watched her move around, for the first time really taking in her features, the lines of her body. It slowly dawned on him then, that he had been on complete auto-pilot the last few hours.

The red-head shrugged nonchalantly, while putting on her underwear. "Our issue are part of us. And the way you sat hunched over on that bar stool, it was clear as day that you were there to drown your sorrows."

Pulling on her jeans, she added: "Besides, I'm not quite sure you actually realized that you called out another girl's name."

He froze at that, his mind going blank. In all his years, even though he had been with various women, he had never ever mixed up anyone's names. Things like that just didn't happen to him.

"Who…?", he voiced his confusion in one word, and the woman in his bedroom laughed slightly at that. It was far from a happy sound, resigned and slightly sad in nature. She watched him for a moment, dark eyes searching for something. What, he couldn't even guess at.

"I'm no expert, but I think you have a shit-ton of pent-up emotions if you even have to ask that."

Jacket in hand, she stepped up next to the side of the bed he was still lounging in. With a tenderness that didn't fit their quick interlude together, she kissed his forehead.

"We both got what we wanted out of this, that's all that matters. It was fun, but don't call me", and with these words, she stepped away from him and left.

Oliver remained seated on the bed, frozen in thought, indecision and taken aback by the complete weirdness of the whole encounter.

Later, when he went downstairs after taking a shower, he froze upon what he found on the table: a note, next to the picture frame that usually sat on the side table by his front door.

With trepidation, he picked up the paper, dreading its contents.

'Sorry for your loss.
A'

Focusing on the picture, his hand unconsciously let go of the note, and it fluttered back onto the tabletop. Laurel's face smiled up at him, as beautiful as she had always been, and her eyes seemed to be all-knowing.

"What are you doing, you idiot", he muttered to himself, deciding that this was the last time he picked up a woman in a bar. He just really hoped she didn't go to the press with the story of how former-playboy-millionaire Oliver Queen had taken a stranger home and called the wrong name during sex.

The name of a dead woman he had wronged in so many ways. A name he had no right to ever say in this context ever again.

...

The apartment was his personal hell.
His sister still lived there, and every time he came by to check on Thea, it was the little things that would slowly squeeze the air out of him.

She was everywhere.

On the couch, where her scent lingered even weeks after she had last sat there.
On the armchair, where the old purple and brown checkered blanket still lay folded, the one he had known to be hers for almost as long as he had known her.
In the kitchen, where her favorite mug remained on a shelf, the ugly yellow one he had always hated, with the smallest chip in the handle.
In Thea's bedroom, where he watched over his sister sometimes at night, and where a short black leather jacket hung that he knew to be the one Sara had once gifted Laurel.
The painting of the bright green forest in the hallway she had always loved.
The picture frames on the wall, portraying years gone by in the form of family and friends.

Only once did he dare to enter the bedroom. Her bedroom, where her scent still lingered. Where the outfit she had last worn to work was still laid out on a chair, where her bed was still unmade in shades of midnight blue. Her bedroom, where he remembered making love to her.
It should have brought him peace, to have so many reminders of her. To feel her so close, when she wasn't with them any longer.

But there was no comfort to be found for Oliver Queen.

She was everywhere. But as always, she was also nowhere.

...

Many nights, sleep brought no rest.

Nightmares kept waking him, and every time he was trapped between sleep and consciousness, the dead lingered around him.

Moira was practicing forms and movements with a bloody Katana in hand. Tommy kept throwing tiny pieces of bricks against the window, like the deadly satire of an old romance cliché. Robert juggled bullets through the air, one, two, three, four, five, always dropping the sixth one. Others, like Shado, Yao Fei and Slade, occasionally lingered in the corners of the room, but always kept themselves in the background, like silent spectators.

And then there was Laurel. She was the only one who kept changing. Like her ghost had not settled in his nightmares. Sometimes, she just stood next to his bed in her hospital gown, stained red, staring at him with dead eyes. Other times, she'd be dressed as the Black Canary, tossing her tonfas mindlessly in the air and catching them again.

Once, she was there after a nightmare, tucked into bed next to him. Comforting him, smiling at him, caressing him. And then she leaned in, and whispered: "Want to hear a secret?"
Fool that he was even in his dreams, he nodded in anticipation. She leaned back then, still smiling, warmth and love in her eyes. And in the next moment, she opened her mouth and let loose her Canary Cry.
That night, he came to on the floor, with a huge bruise on the back of his head, nothing but white noise and the rapid hammering of his heartbeat filling his ears.

Once in a while, she would sit curled up next to him, back against the headboard, and just watch him. These moments were the closest to peace he got during those nights.

Come morning, his ghosts would fade, but his exhaustion stayed. Rest became more and more difficult to find. On some days, he felt like he had never left the island.

...

The arrows that had once been his signature weapon remained untouched in his quiver. He switched to beating people up with his bow or his fists. Every arrow he saw, or heard whistle through the air, was the arrow that had stolen her away. It was his arrow, his weapon, that had killed her. And although a part of him wanted to taint the streets red, red, red with the same weapon, just like her blood had stained his gloves, his suit and the hospital bed underneath her, there was another, bigger part of him, that just could not look at another arrow ever again without seeing her blood.

Things turned from bad to worse, when in a fight going badly for the team, Speedy took one of her arrows to stab her attacker in the shoulder. Blood kept pouring out from the wound, and red was all he saw for a long while, until Spartan finally snapped him out of it. Like an amateur, the Green Arrow had frozen on the spot. It was only one of many close calls that would follow.

As it turned out, his issues with arrows weren't restrained to battle. Even in the bunker, the mere sight of his arrows made him sometimes space out for a minute, and all he would see would be her, stabbed by Damien Darhk, lying bleeding on that hospital bed, suddenly gone after telling him...

No. No.

The arrows remained in the bunker from then on, and Thea took care to use them only where he wouldn't see them hit.

...

And piece by piece, his life fell into ruin.