A HUUUUUGE thanks goes to MISSYriver for her incredible help with betaing this story – hun, you are amazing! Also, thank you for coming up with the title!

Another thanks goes to everybody who offered to beta for me (lisarealist55 and juvinadelgreko) and also the shout-outs and signal boosts from anyone (specially felicityollies with the awesome accompanying gif). You people are the kindest.

I don't think it will go down as this in the canon (probably not at all), but I did want to explore this idea and that's exactly what fanfics are for, right?

I don't know where Slabeside is located, but for the sake of this fic, let's say it is somewhere reachable from Star City within a couple of hours drive. Yeah, I know, it's a bit of a stretch, as probably many things in this fic, but hey, it's Arrow. :) And combined with fanfiction, everything is possible, right? Anyway. Here comes. Enjoy.


The Life Between

OLIVER

He didn't expect to see her here. Ever.

He has sort of pushed even the thought of such a possibility away, forbidding himself to so much as visualize it. If nothing else, he was expecting her to already have moved through half the country with his son, learning the details of their new identities together.

He certainly didn't expect her to sit at a table in the visitation room at Slabside maximum security prison, not even a full week after his arrest, her hair combed back into a tight ponytail, her brightly painted lips pursed as she silently observes him making his way to join her at the table.

The feeling of dread fills him, because if she is here, if she is in fact not in A.R.G.U.S.'s protective custody, then something must have happened to William. And God-

His legs almost buckle underneath him before he even reaches his chair. Something must register with her, because her hands instantly fly into the air in a placating gesture as she quickly blurts out, "He's fine. William's okay."

He exhales in relief, collapses into the chair with a heavy thud, his head momentarily spinning.

"Are you okay?" he asks next, eyes squinting at her. She is holding herself, arms wound tightly around her frame and jaw clenched tightly, a clear sign something is wrong.

"Yeah, Oliver, I'm great. Came to visit my newly wedded husband in the slab. Is that enough small talk? Or should we talk about the weather?"

His eyes fall shut, her words and her harsh tone are all the answer he needs.

"You're angry," he utters. He's not asking. It's a statement both of them know to be true.

"You think?" She hisses, eyes brittle and unyielding. The table between them is a couple of feet long, but she feels so distant it could be miles separating them.

"Aren't you angry?" she asks when he doesn't offer a reply. There is deep hurt and a fair dose of disappointment in her tone, her eyes holding his in silent accusation, and he can't blame her.

Of course he's angry. He's angry how it all went down, he's angry with Diaz for pushing him so hard, but most of all, he is absolute furious with himself for making the choice that put his son and his wife in this risky and compromising position. He didn't know another way out.

He still didn't. This is not what he wanted for either of them.

"You didn't even kiss me goodbye," Felicity whispers and it's a lament that cuts through him like a jagged knife.

"You didn't say a word to me, Oliver. You've had multiple opportunities to do so – hell, you even said your own on-the-nose versions of a goodbye to John, Dinah and freaking Renee, but you didn't have to balls to come clean to your own wife. How do you think that makes me feel? You let me sit there and watch you be taken away in handcuffs, for crying out loud!" Her voice trembles, but her gaze is pinning him with undisputable accusation. He just sits there and takes it, because it's the least he can do – to acknowledge the error of his ways.

Acknowledge this flaw he continues to exhibit whenever times get rough and he fails to communicate with Felicity about it.

Truth be told, he couldn't. He might be the Green Arrow, but where his heart is concerned, where Felicity is concerned, he is a coward.

He knows, deep down, that if he had consulted her, if he discussed his plan with her, she would change his mind and he would lose all his resolve to do what needed to be done.

And there was no other way for it to be done. Diaz came after them, in their own home, and if not for Anatoly, they'd all be dead by now.

There was no other way.

But when his eyes finally rise from the metal surface of the table dividing them to meet hers, the sight that meets him is a physical blow.

It shouldn't, really. Because he knew. He knew what it would do to her and he decided to go along anyway.

It's so painfully obvious now, how barely she is holding herself together, her whole frame is shaking like a leaf, arms tightly wound around her torso to hold herself together.

His posture crumbles, because he just can't watch her like this and stay unaffected by the sight of her distress. He has never been immune to her, so what made him think he could face her and survive this?

"Felicity, I swear, I was going to tell you," he offers, and it's only half a lie, because he did want to tell her. So damn much.

"Then why didn't you?" her voice shakes with anger.

"Watson-" he sighs, "She- I thought she'd give me at least one night with you and William to explain properly. I didn't know she'd come for me at the hospital. I didn't know-" he trails off upon the stone-cold look that settles over her features.

"Should have let that bitch die when I had the chance."

His brows knit together, face scrunching. He's more than a little taken aback, he's never – ever – heard Felicity speak like this about another human being. It's not the course language, despite it being unusual, it's not entirely unheard for her. It's the fact she actually means it.

He lets it slide, she is angry and scared, lashing out seems like the only thing making sense right now, the only thing to be in control of. There are a whole lot of other emotions bunched in there somewhere, lurking beyond that uncharacteristically stoic exterior of hers, things he can't afford to look too closely right now. He decides to steer the conversation elsewhere instead, because there is a more pressing matter on his mind.

"I thought- I didn't expect you to come here."

She gives him an incredulous, scandalized look that would make another man cower. "I just- I thought we agreed you and William would go to A.R.G.U.S.'s protective custody-"

"No, Oliver!" she cuts across him sharply. "We didn't agree on anything. It was you who decided that you wanted to sacrifice yourself and you wanted us to leave Star City afterwards. I never agreed to any of this. And I am not letting anybody chase me out of my own home."

Under other circumstances, alarm bells would be already ringing inside his head at what she is saying, but his brain is fried at the devastated look of disappointment she is giving him.

He knows that what he did was necessary, that with his decision, he has done right by everybody – possibly even his son – everybody, but her. His eyes study the surface of the metal table, which at the moment seems warmer than the steely coldness he just saw in her eyes.

"That said," she continues, waiting a long moment until he lifts his gaze to hers again, "I made sure measures are put in place to ensure William's and mine's security. John and Lyla both made sure we are as safe as possible for the time being, at least until they catch that son-of-a-bitch Diaz," she spits the name and his brain is slowly starting to pick up on what she is actually saying, "But you'll be disappointed to hear our friends also agree it's for the best that we stay where we are right now."

He nods absentmindedly, still trying to catch up to her words, the impact of what she is saying finally starting to sink in and his jaw clenches, because he absolutely doesn't agree, not one bit, and he makes a mental note to somehow find a way to talk to John about this, because it's unacceptable and unthinkable for her and William to just stay in the open like this when he is stuck here, impotent to do shit about their safety.

"Please don't make us leave," she suddenly pleads in a small voice and the change of tone cuts through his chest like a whiplash. "I know you think that protective custody is best for us, but it's not, Oliver. It's not." She holds his eyes, a measure of despair and fatality behind the sheen of tears she doesn't allow to fall and the sight makes the hair on his neck stand, because if there is one thing Felicity Smoak doesn't do, it's plead.

"Everything I know and hold dear is in this city, Oliver. I can't leave this all behind and run. I can't do this to William, either. He's started to feel comfortable here, to settle. To like school again and feel like he belongs. He has his grandparents to talk to, the only real family he's got left. I know it's not gonna be easy now that your identity is revealed, I know it puts us more at risk, but please, don't make me take that safety blanket away from him. He's got nothing else left."

"He has you," he immediately wants to argue, but he makes himself stop and bite his tongue in time at the look of utmost despair and resignation in her eyes. Because it's another quality he has a hard time associating with his wife – helplessness.

The burning feeling starts at the back of his eyes and quickly spreads, moisture not far behind, causing his vision to blur momentarily. She puts him to shame, his wife, and the realization that what he's asking of her might be a little too much hits him with a force of a loaded truck.

He needs them safe.

But Felicity is right that it might be worthless if they won't be able to live their lives, if they lose who they are along the way.

He takes a deep breath and then another and okay… Okay, maybe, just maybe, if John and Lyla believe they can possibly meet somewhere in the middle on this issue, keep his family's safety at an acceptable level without the need to have them completely uproot their lives, who is he to ask her to give up absolutely everything that she knows and holds dear? Along with her identity, the comfort of her home, their friends and family?

Begrudgingly, he nods his assent, utters a single "Okay," in defeat, but his chest burns with the spreading dread that he signed their death certificates.

It's her life, though. And no matter how protected and safe he wants (needs) them to be, he realizes that what he's already asked of her way too much.

It took him the whole of his first night spent in his cell to figure it out, tossing and turning on his bunk in the dark while shutting out the cat-calls and hisses of the other inmates, passing on messages between each other and taunting the new arrivals, to realize how very mentally and emotionally unprepared he was for this when he took agent Watson's deal. He didn't really have time to ponder all the aspects his unilateral – and highly desperate – deal would bring not only him, but his wife and son. He thought…well he didn't. He wanted to see them safe. Now he wishes he had taken the time, wishes that for a single moment, he would have tried to look at things from the perspective of the people he was trying to protect by pushing his choices on them.

"I am sorry," he utters, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, spitting out words through clenched teeth because he has a hard time keeping his voice even. "I am so sorry, Felicity. I couldn't see another way." In fact, he still can't, and that feels even more crippling. "I am sorry that I've put you into this position." He pulls his hands down, forces his eyes to meet hers, it's the least she deserves and he knows that for all of his sincere apologies, they are not gonna do her any good.

She sits there, resignedly watching him, looking small and tired, the weight of the world weighting on her shoulders. And yet, she still sits here – here, with her head held high and he honestly doesn't know how she does it.

"I am sorry too," she utters back after a long moment, her voice suddenly soft. "I am sorry that you are here, Oliver. And I am sorry that it all came down to a situation where you felt you had no other choice than to sacrifice your own life to save your home and keep your loved ones safe."

There is too much tenderness in her look, too much knowledge, her piercing gaze one he's been on the receiving end a million of times over, the I-know-times-are-rough-but-were-are-in-this-together look, and despite he knows it isn't, it still feels like absolution. He takes a big gulp of air as his chest suddenly loosens and expands with a breath he didn't know he wasn't taking.

Her arms finally unwind from their position of holding her frame, one hand falling to the table and sliding across the surface in search for his own, but before he can even reach for it-

"No touching!" The guard's voice is far sharper and louder than necessary, bouncing off of the concrete and metal of the room and Felicity visibly flinches, her hand instantaneously retracting into her lap as she darts frightened eyes at the guard.

The anger that seizes Oliver is immediate and all-consuming, he's sure there is no actual rule prohibiting inmates and their visitors – their spouses – from touching each other. Apparently, vigilantes are unpopular with criminals and law officers equally.

But more importantly, nobody, absolutely nobody is allowed to intimidate his wife in such a way.

It dawns on Oliver on how vulnerable he put himself and his wife. Despite his anger, there is not a thing he can do about the situation.

He grits his teeth, focuses on Felicity instead, because it still feels kind of surreal to actually having her here, sitting across from him, so close and yet so impossibly unreachable.

"I love you," he murmurs, it's the only truth left to him. And really, how can he not? He just single-handedly turned his wife's whole life upside down and yet she is sitting here, trying to reach for him across a metal prison table.

One corner of her mouth flicks slightly upwards, and he considers it a win. "I know. And I love you too, Oliver. But God help me, you seriously need to start working on your savior complex of yours," she deadpans.

He barks out a surprised laugh, shaking his head at her because only her, only Felicity Smoak has the power to draw a smile from him under the most horrible of circumstances.

The slow, knowing smile she gives him in return ignites his whole chest aflame, and it is so familiar, so intimate. In that moment, nothing else exists in the world but the two of them.

Before he realizes, their time is up and she reluctantly pushing back to her feet, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

"I'll be back in next week," she promises, and the look she gives him leaves no room for argument.

His heart skips a beat, despite all his bravado talk about protective custody and leaving him behind, he does want to see her, selfishly holding her – and by her proxy his son too –close and have her in any capacity he can. For a long time now, there has been no question that he simply can't do this "living" thing without her.

"Does that mean I am forgiven?" he throws back in a light tone, he needs to see her smile just one more time before she goes.

She cocks her head to the side, considering him, pondering his question with serious eyes, and he knows it was the wrong move, knowing instantly he would get back more than he bargained for with that single good-natured jibe.

"No, Oliver," she answers gravely. "This is not something that can be forgiven easily. You single-handedly took the liberty to decide the fate of not only you, but me and William. I've told you time and again that that's not how a relationship, no less a marriage is supposed to work, but you went with it anyway."

His eyes fall to the table, because there is nothing to say to that.

"But we are married. And I knew exactly what I was saying yes to when I married you." Her voice is quiet and measured, so unusual to her familiar flair. It's a causal statement, as if her words are no big deal. As if they don't hold the power to break him with equal amount of love and shame. "Which means I will have to find a way to come to terms with this. But you have to give me time," she cautions, and he vigorously nods his head. Time is the only thing he can offer her right now anyway.

"But I am not going anywhere, if that's what you are wondering," she adds softy, lowering her head to catch his gaze, her eyes shining certainty and resolve as it purposefully holds his, telling him everything he needs to know through that single gentle look alone and air still in his chest.

She is truly remarkable, his wife. Crazily smart, funny and fierce. With the kindest, warmest heart beating in her chest.

He will never understand how he got so lucky.

And as she turns to leave, the shriek of the heavy metal door falling shut behind her, cold dread settles in the pit of Oliver's stomach. He can't imagine how he's ever supposed to make this right.


FELICITY

The light cracks through the half-drawn blinds, early sunlight spilling into the bedroom and bathing the sheets in warm, yellow glow. Felicity's eyes crack open, one by one, and with a tired hand, she deactivates the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table long before it has the opportunity to fulfil its job to actually wake her.

She doesn't need an alarm clock these days, walking the fine line between half-sleeping and half-waking through life. Or the nightmare that her life has recently become.

She rolls out from bed, tiredly stumbling her way to the bathroom.

She never throws a single glance at the other side of the bed, knowing she would only meet the heartbreaking coldness of empty sheets. God knows she has made that mistake more than an embarrassing amount of times before the truth has finally started to sink in.

Her husband was never coming home.

She goes about her business, wincing at the sight that greets her in the mirror. Her eyes are dull, their usual animated blue dimmed to a watery, washed-out stare. Her face is slack, paler than usual. Her roots are starting to show, screaming at her to do something about the amount of dark spreading through her scalp. She needs to make an appointment, but she hasn't got around to it, kept pushing it back, and who can really blame her? The last couple of weeks have been- Yeah.

Frak.

Her eyes fall away from her image, cheeks flushing with shame and frustration at herself and okay, okay, she can do this, she decides while brushing her teeth with a little more force than necessary. She is an adult and she can very well pick up the stupid phone and call Lucy, her hairdresser, to come and dye her stupid hair. She doesn't even have to go out, Lucy will make a house call. She throws another quick glance in the mirror, her forehead wrinkling in distaste at half the inch of dark staining the vibrant blonde and okay, okay.

It's a plan.

Glad to have decided on at least one mundane but necessary task for today, she feels better about herself and spends a fair amount of time applying her make-up, a slightly thicker layer than usual going under her eyes, because God, she desperately needs it.

Brushing her hair back into her tight, trademark ponytail and choosing a simple grey cotton dress, she looks at herself in the mirror, surprised she looks- normal. She is starting to look like herself.

For some reason, it surprises her, looking normal when everything else is so obviously wrong. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, her hands clasping together. The coldness of her wedding band sends a jolt of awareness through her but she refuses to let it bring her down.

Morning. Breakfast. William.

Right.

Time to face the music.

Xxx

By the time her stepson emerges from his room – his new room they spend the last couple of weeks furnishing, decorating and tailoring to his tastes – and walks down the steps to the lofts kitchen, she already has the eggs and bacon on the table, toasts ready to be put into the toaster.

She is not hopeless in the kitchen as Oliver made her out to be. Well, okay, she is. But she is smart enough to be able to at least learn how to cook or fry stupid eggs and bacon for one hungry teenage boy without burning down the kitchen.

Breakfast is important.

So she makes a point learning how to do it properly. She is not Gordon Ramsay, but William always polishes off his plate without any complaints. So there, she is an accomplished cook now, apparently. Ha! Something to gloat to Oliver the next time he teases her about her cooking skills.

The thought of him is immediate, so shockingly longed-for, that she stops mid-movement while putting the toasts into the toaster. Her hands give a slight tremor, still frozen, her vision blurring on its own volition.

"Felicity?" William asks with genuine concern from behind her back, reaching out to touch her shoulder, standing shocking close to her. He's a sneaky silent thing, much like his father.

She gulps down the lump, quickly forces the bread into the toaster before plastering a smile onto her face and turns to the boy – well, young man – standing uneasily in front of her, his hands tightly clasped in front of him.

"Good morning, William," she says good naturedly, not leaving him any room to escape before enveloping him in warm hug. "Sleep well?"

Unsurprisingly, he returns the hug, nodding against the crook of her shoulder and Felicity can feel a tiny smile stretch against the side of her neck.

It's still new, this domesticity between the two of them without the buffer of Oliver. But she genuinely loves this boy, with all of her heart, and she has a feeling it's mutual.

She doesn't even realize how much she needed the hug until it's over and William awkwardly, a little embarrassedly, extracting himself from within the circle of her arms.

"Morning," he utters shyly, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his jeans, cheeks staining a nice shade of red and oh God, could this kid be any cuter?

The answering smile she gives him is completely genuine this time, because really, out of all the things she thought would be hardest doing alone, taking care of William is not one of them.

The toaster whooshes, throwing out the bread, and she quickly turns to collect the pieces from the counter. Stupid thing always does that.

"Eggs and bacon are on the table, grab a glass of juice from the fridge, okay?" she calls over her shoulder, hissing when she burns her fingers on the hot toast.

"You want some too?" Williams asks but doesn't wait for the answer as he takes out two glasses from the cabinet, pouring them both one.

It's a dance they perfected over the past couple of weeks, a morning ritual that still feels a bit strange but shockingly comforting.

"Thank you," she says with a smile, bringing the toasts to the table and they both sit down.

"So, what's on your schedule today?" she asks easily, taking a sip of her juice, quietly listening to William listing all the things that await him in school, animatedly talking about a project he is currently working on.

She listens, nodding here and there, offering her input, but other than that, she lets him talk, marveling at his animated speech, only a little bit jealous of how enthusiastic he can be about his day when she already dreads her own.

Yet she continues to smile, even laughs a little with him, because it looks like Sarah Eppstein finally got what was coming to her – the little cheat – and with a start Felicity realizes that somehow during the past couple of weeks, this part of the day has become her most favorite one.

XXX

She drives William to school, occasionally checking the now familiar black Escalade in her rearview mirror the two A.R.G.U.S. agents use to accompany them everywhere these days and as she drops William off, smiling and giving him a slight wave of her fingers as she watches him disappear inside the building. Glancing back into the rearview mirror as she pulls away from the curb, she is glad to see the car's keeping its distance, secretly hoping William to be unaware of its presence and how closely they are being monitored. It would be a little too on the nose having two specially trained federal agents drop him off at school every day and wouldn't help his school cred, not that it's worth much these days.

A sigh leaves her lips when her eyes meet a familiar sight at the lawn in front of the main building, a pair of gossiping mothers not so subtly pointing in her direction and heads together whispering, no doubt sharing a very juicy scoop on her husband's very recent public bombastic unmasking.

It's not a question of whether the talk is bad. She had some people approach and tell her they supported Oliver, that they didn't agree with him being put behind bars; that his actions as the Green Arrow have somehow helped them in one way or another, which – if she is honest – is always a nice touch. And a nice change from the openly rude and pointed remarks she gets from the rest.

It's more that they dare to approach her at all that's frustrating Felicity, the open speculations on hers and God-forbid even Williams involvement in his father's actions and it's another thing she adds to Felicity-Smoak's-long-list-of-not-fairs, because while the FBI's immunity deal stayed under wraps and everybody else has gotten away with keeping their identity a secret, her own – and so far very private life – has been suddenly blown up and splattered across the pages of every damn tabloid in the city. It feels like she can't go anywhere these days without looks and whispers following her everywhere, and frankly, she is so fed up with it she could scream.

And that's just her. She doesn't even want to think about how it must be for William. High-school is a hellish place even without having your dad publicly unmasked as a vigilante.

She'd offered him a change of schools, even suggested a private tutor if he chose not interact with his peers at this stage – "At least until things settle, Will." – before they looked at options of his public schooling again.

But William is his father's son in more ways than she originally anticipated, stubbornly claiming he wants to stay where he is, pointing out the few actual friends he has managed to make through the year (a former bully, no less, which always brings a smirk to Felicity's face, because it's such an Oliver thing to do), and braves on every single day.

She is damn proud of him it steals her breath away, and it gets her every time, how quickly and completely she fell for this silent, sensitive and exceptionally bright boy.

It makes her wonder how different Oliver's life could have turned out if he had a slightly different upbringing.

It didn't matter now, though.

Everything he's done, everything that's happened to him, influenced him, drove him – good and bad – lead him right here, from the Hood to the Green Arrow and ultimately to her.

And though life feels pretty shitty right now, she couldn't feel any regrets.

Well, Oliver meeting Ra's al Ghul's scimitar she could definitely live without, but everything else.

Before she knows it, she is pulling the car into her building's parking garage. Climbing from the driver's seat, she intentionally doesn't let herself wonder how on earth she could have spent the last twenty minutes so completely lost in her own mind.

Xxx

By the time she walks into the loft again, Curtis is already there, furiously typing away at one of their multiple workstations set up in the living room.

Looking around more closely – today is the day to realize all the unflattering truths about her life as of recent – she takes in the state of the place and admits that it's a mess.

Papers, pens and pieces of various equipment in various stages of development are scattered on every available surface and she can't even remember when's the last time she actually cleaned the place up.

She realizes with a wince, she should rearrange the space a little so it resembles a living room more suitable to accommodate William and his teenage needs of home-entertainment. Damn, she meant to do that, she hadn't gotten to it yet.

She sighs.

Like so many other things.

Remembering to cross at least one thing off her ever growing to-do list, she picks up her phone and calls Lucy while she makes herself a cup of coffee, finally fixing a date to dye her hair and feeling marginally better for it after she hangs up.

She heads back to Curtis, who's already on a spiral about the newest batch of ideas he's come up last night (in his sleep, the lucky bastard), and she forces herself to listen to what he has to say this time instead of offering him her usual "Ohs" and "Uhms" and "That's-an-interesting-ideas".

Falling into her work, into the familiarity of it, helps to easy some of the ache that's taken constant residence in her ribcage for the past couple of weeks. Her work, at least, is something she actually has control over.

xxx

That night, when she lays down to sleep alone in a bedroom, she turns to his side, empty as it is, and hugs his pillow to her chest. It's pathetic really, it's not even his pillow; they haven't shared this bed in over six months.

She feels the heavy press of tears at the back of her eyes, the pressure of the day searching for a way to let them go, but she doesn't, if the past weeks have taught her anything, it's that tears don't resolve anything.

So she lays there staring into the darkness, willing sleep to come and claim her, offer her a few hours of respite, but as per usual, there is too much swirling in her overactive brain to allow her to rest. And among all the swirling thoughts, one returns ever more often.

She can't do this.

Every morning she tells herself she can. She only has to put one foot in front of the other, survive the day by taking care of William, putting on the façade for him as well as the rest of her friends along with the rest of the world and pretend to have it all together, because that's who she's supposed to be, that's who they all expect to see when they look at her.

Until one day, it may not feel like a struggle. One day, she'll go through the motions without feeling as if she has to force herself to do this while all she wants to do is to crawl miserably into a nearest dark corner and let herself fall apart.

Because her husband, her partner, her very best friend, is in prison. And he might never come home.

The thought alone, of what it means for her, a scary and lonely path ahead of her, is really the thing that steals her sleep from her every night. The crushing responsibility she feels towards Oliver, to keep William and herself safe and happy, it's a responsibility she doesn't know how to shoulder. And she hasn't even allowed herself to think about the long run.

She swore she would never be this girl. Never be her mother, a single parent left to fend for herself with no emotional support or backup plan, living one day to the other with sand constantly shifting under her feet.

The past few weeks has brought a striking clarity and understanding for Felicity, and it was a harsh and brutal lesson. She has finally walked in her mother's shoes and she can see the haunch of insanity that comes with the knowledge of being single-handedly responsible for another human being – a child nonetheless.

Suddenly the cocktail dresses and flimsy outfits, the flirtatious and silly, almost childish behavior? It doesn't matter in the great scheme of things. If that was her mom's way of coping with the daily crushing weight of this kind of responsibility, it is certainly a small price to pay.

Only, Felicity's husband hasn't actually left her. Not willingly. He is gone because he wanted to protect her and his son, protect his friends and this city.

And look what it got him. So much for the benefit of saving people's lives.

She wishes he was here. She wishes he would tell her, "Hey, hon, I know things have been tough lately, but it's all gonna work out," "Hold on a little while longer for me, okay?" "We've faced far worse things together and we always, always made it through." "I love you." "You are one of the strongest people I know."

But she doesn't feel strong right now. And he is not here to prove her otherwise. He may never be again.

The only words they can exchange these days are half-ushered statements filled with double meaning, because they can never really know who might be listening. Every word they say is listened to, monitored and examined, because that's how life in prison works.

She had to claw and scratch and threaten her way to be even be able to execute her marital right of her weekly visits and it's still not enough. How could it ever be enough?

They are supposed to have a life together. Not this farce, not this dangling hope that maybe one day – but most probably never – she might never have him home and in her bed again.

It's just not fair and the bitterness and injustice of it threatens to choke her every night.

Because Oliver Queen is a good man. An honorable man. A man who risked and sacrificed his life so his family and friends could stay free and the people of this city safe. And everybody around her is going on with their lives, continuing as if nothing happened, as if this was completely acceptable that Oliver takes all the blame and throws his life away.

It makes living this reality that much harder.

She glances at the clock on her bedside table, the time shining in big red letters at her, but she doesn't have to wear her glasses to know it's again way past any reasonable time to go to bed. Turning on her back tiredly, she gazes at the ceiling, willing her racing mind to quiet down enough to allow her the few hours of oblivion she desperately needs.

She had never needed another human to simply breathe. She's always been fine on her own. But then Oliver Queen happened and now she can't imagine a life without him; the lonely nights, take-out dinners and cold sheets where his squinting, sleep-rumpled features should be kissing her good morning.

She is this person now. The wife desperately in love with her husband, close and yet so far out of her reach. She is the parent of a child whom she loves dearly, fiercely, but whose own mother has died not even a year ago only to have his father taken away from him too.

How in the world is she supposed to fix that? Certainly not on her own.

So she lies there, in the middle of the night, scrubbing her hands over her face in frustration, forcibly willing her mind to shut up and let her sleep. But even as her mind finally stills and there is a quiet lull to her swirling thoughts, an image is conjured up behind her closed lids, unbidden and haunting, Oliver lying somewhere in the darkness behind a set of impenetrable, metal walls, vulnerable and unprotected, and as alone as her.

She is worried about his safety. A big chunk of the Slabside cells are occupied by familiar faces, people he helped put behind bars. Every day is filled with dread, that impossible anticipation of the inevitable and unimaginable; the call that will tell her Oliver's luck has run out and they need her to come to collect her husband's body.

It still feels surreal, even after all these weeks, that this is what her life has come to – holding her breath and waiting for the call to announce it's definitely and irrevocably over.

She doesn't want this life. This is not the life she's signed up for. She can't be a widow and a single parent before she even turns thirty.

But it's the life she has.

Wake up. Go through the motions. Stop. Repeat.

Until one day, maybe it won't hurt quite so much.


This can work as a stand-alone fic. But there might be more where this came from…

You can find me on tumblr as leuska