Synopsis: After Oliver dies at the hands of Slade Wilson, Felicity's world spins out of control. When a business card appears on her door, she finds herself strangely drawn to a mysterious therapist's office. Dr. Zatara offers Felicity a unique form of therapy—three chances to alter a decision from the past, to change a variable—three chances to save Oliver. But at what cost?
Author's Note:
I've been ruminating over this story for the last several months. Actually, it's made it difficult to work on All in Day's Work because invariably, when I would sit to work on the other, this one would take hold.
For those of you who enjoy that Arrow is grounded in reality (well, as firmly grounded as a show about superheroes can be), well…this isn't so realistic. The very premise is quite fantastical—and does somewhat pay homage to a program that I enjoyed several years ago, Being Erica. In fact, one of the scenes that takes place in this first installment is heavily influenced by a scene from that show. With that being said, I hope that what you see here will make you want to see more, even if it does require the suspension of disbelief.
**EDITED to place text above in bold for the guest reviewer who evidently did not see the attribution.**
Rating: T
Warnings: language
Spoilers: Anything up through season 2 of Arrow is fair game, though this isn't exactly canon-compliant.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
ROADS NOT TAKEN, PART ONE
Maybe in another life, I will find you there…
She left before the city was awake and before the sun even hinted at peeking over the horizon. Though her still-sore arm rebelled against every vibration, every bump in the road, she took the Ducati, leaving behind the warmth of her townhouse on Maple Street, and let the cool air hit her and imbue her with a certain energy that she could not put into words, like so much she couldn't put into words these days. The wind whipped through her hair, chafing her cheeks, and made her buzz. It was that chilly, buzzing sort of energy that carried her.
She sat atop the cycle at the intersection of Ninth and Holt, across from the Big Belly Burger, the light emanating from the restaurant a stark contrast to the darkness outside. Through the large, picture windows, she watched Carly inside the restaurant as the woman yawned, poured a cup of coffee for herself, and began to fill the display counter with what, from her vantage point, looked to be pastries of some kind. A man she did not recognize went to the counter and placed an order. She waited there, watched, while he remained unaware of her, dreaming up a life for this man. He had been caught at work when Deathstroke's siege of the city began. Yes, that was it. And he must have been desperate to get home to his daughter. For a time after the attack, he had re-evaluated his choices, vowed to spend more time with his family, but like so many, he slowly fell into old habits, putting behind him the past that was gone and soon forgotten.
When she was younger this had been one of her favorite pastimes in the casinos. To watch people, to learn about human nature, to observe those who did not know she was observing. And now she found herself falling back into that pattern, the wanting to observe rather than wanting to speak, or interact, or be forced to smile. She wanted to be invisible and not face the looks of pity, or worse, to face those who had no idea of what she'd lost, whom she'd lost.
She wanted to stay on the corner and never move.
And still she felt the wind, alternately caressing her face and slapping it harshly with the cold reality it carried. And still she felt the buzzing energy.
What brings the buzz?
Crisp fall air?
Or Oliver?
It always came back to him. She kept expecting to see him. In her mind's eye, he would come. He would look too handsome as usual, rough on the edges but so smooth. Oh, so smooth.
"Can I trust you? I'm not an idiot. You've dropped some fairly ridiculous lies on me, and yet I still feel I can trust you. Why is that?"
"I must have one of those faces."
Even when he tried his recycled lines on her, it was difficult to feel truly insulted. Not when they were on the verge of a wonderfully unexpected partnership. Of course, it would take her two skipped heartbeats to catch her breath. This morphed into their norm. The usual unusual, she called her reaction internally. She would stare at him as he moved, feel intoxicated by him. Oliver was the only man who had ever made her feel so deliciously unsettled. Yes, she would watch him, counting his breaths so she could find her own. She would want to stay that way forever.
But nothing lasts forever.
Mindlessly, she found herself driving to the overlook. That was where she would be when the sun finally rose an hour later. It was where they had shared more than one morning (but not nearly enough), wrapped in an old quilt and each other, watching the water glimmer with hues of pink and orange and seeing the yellow orb of the sun shine through the thick green leaves of the trees that surrounded the opening on three sides.
She dismounted the bike, tugged the quilt from the compartment under the seat, and moved toward that special place almost mechanically.
The sun finally rose, but the day was overcast, cloudy, gray. She could faintly discern the outline of a ship in the distance but could see little of the details. The brilliance sustained in her memories faded to the dullness of her reality. There were no more brilliantly colored leaves to greet the sky. Green was long gone. No red, yellow, or orange remained either. There was only brown. Brown death on the streets of the city. Brown death in this, her sanctuary. Brown death blowing away. She stooped and picked up a leaf that was resting near her shoe. She turned it in her hand, tracing the spine of it with her eyes, peering into its delicate, dry lines.
Where had this leaf come from? What tree? For they were all empty now. She did not know. She could not know. But she did know one thing for certain. It was brown and it was dead. It had once been alive, but it was now dried up and a waste of existence.
She felt like that leaf.
She traced the spine of it once again; this time she let her fingers delicately skip down it.
When had the wind become so cold? It was biting through her as it whipped again. She crushed the leaf in her hand. Little brown pieces now rested in her palm. She let them drop to the ground and watched brown death spread.
She was cold now. Bitter more like it. Cold in a way that the quilt she wrapped around herself could not combat. The wind had a bite, and it blew across the cliff top, inhibited only by the bare trees that no longer sheltered anything, not even her memories. It nipped at her ankles and at her hands. She shoved those hands deep into her coat pockets, but her feet were going numb.
She was numb.
She began to think of fire. Not the fire that lit the city streets five months earlier in Slade Wilson's brief reign of terror. No, she thought of something Oliver told her in the very spot in which she sat.
Oliver had told her that people were like fires. There were different types. Some burned brightly, white fire, spent their energy in a burst, and died with nary a spark left to show for it. Others were like blue fire that came from deep within the billows of smoke, smoldering for a time, before finally emerging through steadiness, through endurance, through stubbornness. And then there were those who burned wildly, like the red flames, consuming from the outside in, crackling with power, overwhelming with their intensity.
Oliver was red; she was blue.
Of course, he'd said these things on one of those rare occasions when just the right amount of alcohol combined with extra time made for a contemplative night. He knew a battle lay before them, an end game. He was primed for it; terrified of it. He asked her to leave, to put as much distance between them as she could because Slade knew she was both his weakness and his strength.
But for that night, as they escaped the city lights and found the stars in the night sky above, they found comfort in each other's flames.
He told her a number of things, and she kept trying to remember them all, to catalogue them in the recesses of her mind. Yet she couldn't. Not entirely.
But she remembered the things that mattered.
He loved her.
And he'd died saving her.
The business card tacked to her front door caught Felicity's eyes immediately, partly for its simplicity, partly for its impertinence.
Dr. Zatara, therapist
No address. Odd.
Was this John's doing? He'd been telling her for weeks that she needed to talk about it. But talking about it made it real. Then she would have to process it, start to let it go.
And she wasn't ready for that.
The world moved around her, but she felt frozen in that moment, that eternity from five months ago. Hearing the gurgling. She begged him to stay with her, assured him that he wasn't alone even as she could hear another accented voice through the comm suggesting quite the opposite was true.
When she finally reached him, his body was broken, his eyes searching for her. She had knelt beside him, knelt in his blood. And as the life drained from him, she was certain it drained from her, as well.
The weight of Diggle's large hand on her shoulder brought her from her thoughts. "You missed your follow-up with the orthopedic surgeon."
"Remind me for your next birthday to get you your very own copy of Dr. Seuss's Are You My Mother."
"I'm your emergency contact. When they couldn't reach you, they reached out to me."
"Well, regardless of whether I kept that appointment or not, I'll still be setting off the metal detectors at the airport. And as an added bonus, I've got the scars to show for it." She smiled humorlessly, thinking back to how she had been so proud to get her first 'real' scar when she'd gone against William Tockman.
"Felicity, you've got to stop. Oliver wouldn't want this for you."
"Well, he doesn't get a say, now does he?" Her tone was terse, though she immediately regretted it. John was the one person who knew everything, and she couldn't imagine the weight he carried now, the responsibility of the hood he wore at night in addition to his impending fatherhood. She didn't need to add to his burdens.
But Digg didn't take her harshness personally. "We always knew it was a possibility. Because of the life he lived, we always knew…"
"Knowing and believing are two different things," she replied, the harshness gone.
It was the same conversation they'd had before. It was a conversation she feared they would have again.
"I miss him, too. But I need your head in the game. When we decided to carry on…"
"It was the right thing to do," she replied softly.
"What are you doing?" Laurel demanded as Diggle removed Oliver's hood, even as Felicity cradled his head in her lap, her tears silently dripping onto his cheeks.
"Oliver can't be found with this on," Diggle explained, the lump in his throat evident by his coarse voice.
"What are you talking about?" Laurel's tears spilled over, blurring her vision. "This city needs to know what he sacrificed! Ollie deserves to be remembered as a hero!" Ineffectually, she pulled on Diggle's arm, trying to still his movements.
Felicity extricated herself from her position, gently leaning Oliver's head back onto the ground, and stood toe-to-toe with Laurel. "Oliver is a hero, but he wouldn't want what you're saying."
"You think you know what he would want more than I do?"
"Yes." One simple word spoken with such certainty. Felicity wasn't sure where the steeliness came from, not when her heart felt even more shattered than the arm she supported against her abdomen, the arm that had been snapped like a twig only minutes before.
"You barely even knew him! How long, Felicity? One year? Two? I've known him more than half my life. He was my first everything!"
Felicity held her ground as she gritted out the words, "This isn't about you."
Diggle intervened. "Oliver never wanted recognition. He wore this hood to protect those he loved but also to protect the idea of the Arrow. The Arrow is more than one man."
"How can you say that?" Laurel scoffed as she blindly wiped at her tears. "Without Oliver, there is no Arrow."
Felicity found her voice again. "That's where you're wrong. More than ever, this city needs someone it can believe in. It needs hope. I'm not going to let you take that away!"
Felicity leaned her against her front door. "I'm sorry I'm letting you down, and I hate that I'm letting Oliver down. I'm just not strong like you are, and a head shrink is not going to fix me."
"What are you talking about?"
Felicity held up the business card. "This was on my door."
Digg looked at it and shook his head. "This wasn't me, but it's not a bad idea."
"And what exactly am I supposed to say? There aren't enough words or enough tears or enough drugs to make this better. Every morning, I wake up and for one split second, I've forgotten. And then I remember, and this weight crashes down on me, and I can't breathe. And then I don't want to breathe."
Diggle rested his hand on her shoulder. "But you're still breathing. One of these days, it will hurt less. It'll still hurt, but in a different way. A way that lets you think of the good times, not the bad."
She had perfected the art of looking okay, not being okay. She didn't wear sweats or neglect basic cleanliness rituals, such as bathing or brushing her teeth. She wasn't going to starve herself to death or self-medicate, unless caffeine counted. Sometimes she even wore the bright lipstick he liked.
The Arrow gave Starling City hope, but it was Oliver who gave her hope.
She went about her business, the card left on her front door long forgotten.
It was a few weeks later—when she started noticing the holiday decorations were finally being put up around town—that she left the office, dodging Ray Palmer along the way, to get lunch, planning to walk the few blocks to a small bistro that specialized in gyros, when she saw Laurel again. The two women hadn't spoken in person since Oliver's memorial service; periodically, Laurel reached out to Digg for help when the arm of the law wasn't quite long enough, reluctantly accepting that the Arrow mantle had passed. Through Laurel's father (who at Oliver's funeral had played peacekeeper when by all rights, he should have been home recuperating from his own injuries…or still in the hospital), Felicity knew Laurel was seeing someone, that he was a decent man, and she was finally starting to be happy again. Captain Lance had followed up with his own unsolicited advice that Felicity should think about doing the same, that he knew better than anyone what living in the past could do to a person.
But today would not be that day.
Felicity ducked onto a side street to avoid being spotted by Laurel. Even niceties, if they could exchange those, felt too difficult. She stayed close to the row of brick buildings. This was a route she actually took fairly often. Perhaps that's why she noticed something different—a heavy wooden door labeled with a fairly simple sign: Dr. Zatara, therapist.
She shook her head slightly, continuing on her way with plans to circle around at the next intersection to put her back on course and avoid Laurel at the same time. Watching the crosswalk signal, she turned left and began walking the next block before she planned to turn again. Maybe it was cowardly to take the long way around to avoid Laurel Lance, but she really wasn't feeling brave today.
She continued along Simmons Street, this one not quite as familiar to her. She took her time, looking at the buildings, the businesses that lined the block. And suddenly, it caught her eye. A simple sign: Dr. Zatara, therapist. This time, it was etched on the glass door of a gleaming modern building.
Good grief. Was Dr. Zatara the Starbucks of therapy? Of course, with as many devastating events as Starling City had endured over the last few years, maybe it made sense in an only-in-Starling-City-way to have a therapy franchise.
By the time Felicity made it back around to Fisk Avenue, Laurel was nowhere in sight. The scent of food mixed with car exhaust had her quickening her steps. Yet as she reached the restaurant, she stopped in her tracks, her abrupt lack of movement causing the pedestrians behind her to mutter complaints as they went around her. Next to Gondola, she saw the familiar, simple sign: Dr. Zatara, therapist. This time it was on a decorative wrought-iron grate that covered a metal door with a small window.
Something was clearly not right. Three therapy offices for the same doctor within not even a quarter-mile radius? After lunch, she would do a search to see what she could find out about this Dr. Zatara.
Or, she reasoned, her curiosity quite piqued, she could just take a look.
She passed the entrance to the restaurant and reached for the door handle of the ubiquitous therapist's office. Was this how Alice felt before going into the rabbit hole?
Felicity opened the door and walked inside to find it was not at all what she expected. A typical office tended to have a sterile look or décor that screamed success. Perhaps a therapist's office, she reasoned, would look comfortable, homey even. There was no formal reception area. At least, not one that Felicity recognized as such. Instead, large velvet-covered couches were situated in the room, framed by patterned silk drapes that went from floor to ceiling. Her heels sank into opulent carpet, and the air smelled almost…spicy.
"This place looks like a brothel," she muttered. "The only things missing are sex toys."
A striking, dark haired woman emerged from behind a decorative screen. Her hair flowed freely over her shoulders, nearly as dark as the black pants she wore. The pants were paired with a white bustier (that made Felicity fleetingly wonder whether this woman and Sara got their tops from the same place because everything was definitely pushed up). The bustier was made perhaps a bit more modest by the leather blazer the woman wore over it.
The woman raised an eyebrow and smiled, her teeth perfectly white and straight. "How would you know what a brothel looks like, Felicity Smoak?"
The hair on the back of Felicity's neck stood up. Huh. Not a figure of speech. Alarm coursed through her. "How do you know my name?"
"I know everything about you—your real hair color, what you do on your off hours."
"That's not an answer."
"Not the one you wanted, but it is an answer."
"Who are you?"
"Please forgive my poor manners. I am Zatanna Zatara."
"Wow. Try saying that three times fast," Felicity muttered.
"What can I do for you today, Felicity?"
"I saw your office, and I was curious."
"You have the need to speak with someone about your experiences, yes?"
"You still haven't explained how you know who I am, so that makes me a little…yeah…not trusting of you." She hated mysteries—hated them with a passion—and this certainly qualified. But she also had the sense that she was getting in way over her head. Without saying another word, she turned and went out the door. However, instead of finding herself outside and one step closer to lunch, she walked into the reception area—from the other direction.
Dr. Zatara turned to face Felicity, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
"What just happened?" Felicity demanded. "It's not possible to walk out of here into here."
"With all that you've witnessed, can you accept that there are some things beyond your understanding?"
Felicity practically snorted. "Like your office following me?"
"Technically, you were following this place. Otherwise, you would not have seen it. Some part of you wants what I have to offer."
Felicity rubbed her forehead. "I'm going nuts. Maybe I do need therapy. Just—not from you."
"A classic defense mechanism," the other woman replied smugly.
"You act as though you know me. But you don't."
"I know that Oliver Queen was your partner and your lover before he died saving the city from Deathstroke. I know that your pain is palpable, that every breath is agonizing, that you feel as though your soul has been crushed. Yet you put one foot in front of the other and still use your talents to help the city. But what if you could save Oliver?"
"That's not even funny," Felicity replied, her voice barely above a whisper as the tightness in her chest clenched even more, stifling her breaths.
"Dear child, I'm not trying to be funny. I'm quite sincere. I'm not what one would consider a traditional therapist. A traditional therapist asks you to seek understanding of your actions through analyzing them. I give you the opportunity to relive your actions, to change your destiny."
"That's not possible."
"You walked through that door," Zatanna replied, pointing to the exit, "and came through there." She pointed to the door behind her. "You've seen enough in your life to know that you've beaten the impossible before. Is this any different?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"My reasons are my own. But what does it matter? I can give you three chances to relive that which has passed, three opportunities to set Oliver Queen on a different course, if that is what you choose to do. Who knows? You may even succeed."
Felicity took a deep breath, even as the lump in her throat seemed to grow. She wouldn't break down. She needed her wits about her. But this just seemed too much, too cruel, and yet the cruelty of hope bloomed within her. "Why three?"
"Why not three?" Zatanna challenged.
"It's just an arbitrary number. Why not four? Six? Ten thousand chances?"
"Don't you know? Three is an important number. Whatever energy a person puts out into the world, be it positive or negative, will be returned to that person three times. It's the rule of three."
"This is insane."
"What is insane is that you've given up on living. I know you've thought about that night. If given the chance to do it over, you think you could have saved Oliver?"
She could feel the warmth of his blood on her hands. "Yes."
"You?"
"Yes!" Felicity replied far more forcefully, earning her a knowing smile from the other woman.
"Oliver knew the risks, and he accepted them."
"I don't accept them. I should have realized sooner that…"
"That a man you didn't even know existed was Oliver's not-so-dead adversary? Who are you Felicity Smoak, that you think you could control Oliver Queen's destiny?"
"His destiny? I just can't believe that he would survive five years of torment to die like that!"
"The Queen's Gambit. That was the beginning of Oliver becoming the Arrow."
How did this woman know? But there was no denying her knowledge. "That was the beginning of the end for him. If Oliver had never gone on the Queen's Gambit, he never would have been on that island. He wouldn't have lived through hell on Earth. He never would have met Slade."
"Then you have your starting point. Do you want this?"
"Yes."
"Then be prepared to live with the consequences."
It happened in the blink of an eye. Perhaps even faster. One moment she was surrounded by Dr. Zatara's garish office; the next she sat in a stadium-style lecture hall full of people whose eyes were focused on her.
No, no, no.
This looked like Building 14.
She turned to her right and saw Professor Stapleton sitting atop his desk, a look of impatience on his face.
No, no, no.
Wake up. Wake up!
"We're waiting, Ms. Smoak."
"Professor, I just have a little problem."
"So do I. I have to endure another one of your 'poems.'"
Felicity narrowed her eyes at the man's sneering airquotes.
"Your recitation, Ms. Smoak?"
Recitation?!
Felicity swallowed hard. This was an inconvenient dream. A day she'd rather forget, actually. Her friend Heather had cajoled her into taking a course entitled Studies in Poetry: The First Person Memoir and Lyric Voice. The final exam consisted of a recitation of a self-written poem that encompassed one's journey.
She had earned a C for the course after a disastrous recitation—complete with the public sneering of a professor who derided her poem as trite drivel.
No. Not this again. But to top it all off, she couldn't even remember that poem, be it ever so trite. More like blocked it all out.
Heather, who sat at a desk adjacent to Felicity, picked up a paper from Felicity's desk and shoved it into her hands. "Go," she whispered.
Felicity looked at the paper and relief washed over her. The forgotten poem. She could do this. She could do this.
Gathering her courage, she walked to the front of the room. "I call this poem 'Snowflakes.'"
But Professor Stapleton moved from his perch and walked behind her, snatching the paper from her hands. "Poetry is organic. It cannot breathe if you read it." The ripping of her poem made Felicity cringe. The professor continued until the paper was in tiny pieces. "Here are your snowflakes, Ms. Smoak. Itty, bitty, minuscule snowflakes." And with that, he dropped the bits of paper over Felicity's head.
She pinched her arm, expecting to find the remnants of soreness. "I'm waking up now," she muttered audibly.
"And putting us to sleep, I'm afraid," Professor Stapleton jabbed, resulting in a few chuckles from her classmates.
Felicity scanned the room, and her eyes fell on Heather who was shaking her head and mouthing, 'What's wrong with you?'
Felicity looked down at her arm. No ugly scars marred the skin. No signs of the surgical repair job.
"Well, Ms. Smoak, have you anything prepared for us? Or are you still 'waking up'?"
Screw it.
"I'm waking up to ash and dust
I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust
I'm breathing in the chemicals."
Her voice came out soft, shaky even, much to her annoyance. She fought to steady her nerves under the professor's cool, assessing eyes.
"I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse."
And then she saw it. The slight nod of the older man's head. Approval.
"I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
I'm radioactive."
"Yes, Ms. Smoak. Share your rage against the machine of society," the professor encouraged.
Her volume increased. "I raise my flags, don my clothes
It's a revolution, I suppose
We'll paint it red to fit right in
I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse
I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
I'm radioactive, radioactive
All systems go, the sun hasn't died
Deep in my bones, straight from inside
I'm radioactive."
She pushed her glasses where they had fallen slightly down the bridge of her nose. Clearing her throat, she added, "With apologies to Imagine Dragons."
Many of her classmates stared, slack-jawed until finally Heather smiled brightly and began to applaud. Her solitary clapping was soon accompanied by the others in the lecture hall.
For his part, Professor Stapleton nodded his head, considering the unbeknownst-to-him pilfered lyrics of "Radioactive." If the date on the board was any indication—May 3, 2007—it would be another five years before Imagine Dragons found national acclaim for that particular song.
"Old destruction, in the form of dragons, as feared by those in the Middle Ages as compared with our new dragons. New destruction. Technology and how it has the potential to imprison us. The struggle to maintain humanity as we find new and better methods of destroying ourselves. We become the dragons. I'm refreshingly surprised by the depth of your use of symbolism, Ms. Smoak."
"I'm likewise amazed by your ability to be so unaware of your own bullshit, Professor Stapleton."
The professor's bushy brows furrowed as he considered her insult, only to break into a broad grin. "And still you rage. Exquisite, Ms. Smoak. A+ for you."
"What was that back there?" Heather asked as she caught up to Felicity in the hall.
Felicity, for her part, looked down at her clothes. "At least I'm not naked. I always liked this skirt. What I can't figure out is why I'm not awake yet. Or maybe I am awake and this is real and…"
"You are awake, and you just told off Professor Stapleton. Only he didn't seem to realize you were doing it."
"I've wanted to tell him what I've thought of him for years."
"For years? We've only been in his class for five months. What's going on with you? Are you okay? Is this about your other finals? Are you having a stress-related meltdown? Oh, God. I've heard of these. I just didn't think you, of all people, would ever… Look, I know you. You could probably teach the material better than the professors."
"Where's my phone?"
"In your backpack maybe?"
Felicity slung the pack off her shoulder. "I've got to get a plane ticket."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm heading west."
"To see your mom? Oh, God, you have gone crazy."
Felicity shuddered. "Not that crazy." She dug into her backpack, retrieving a cell phone that made her grimace in horror. "A flip phone? What was I thinking?" she muttered.
"Hey," Heather reached out and stilled Felicity's movements. "What is going on with you?"
"I can do this, Heather. I will do this. I'm going to save Oliver!" Her eyes shone brightly as an almost giddy laugh escaped from her lips.
"Who's Oliver?"
To be continued...
Author's Note 2: Just as Felicity can't really take credit for Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive," obviously, neither would I. Credit goes to Ben McKee, Dan Platzman, Wayne Sermon, Alexander Grand, and Josh Mosser.