It was eleven fifty-nine, last time he checked. But now, Oliver wasn't sure what time it was. It didn't really matter.
Through everything, Laurel Lance had always been a strength by his side, whether Oliver realised it or not. He had hurt her, over and over, and yet she still stood by him, still loved him. She tore apart demons, sang through the drums of war and stood strong against harsh winds and terrifying waves.
Even with her dying breath, she told him of her love, a sweet canary singing quiet tunes in the midst of death and destruction. What had he done so well in a past life to deserve the company of a soul like hers?
And then everything came crashing down.
The hospital had offered everyone space, as they do in the wake of dealing with the loved ones of those they had not been able to save. They had even offered to speak with them, let them grieve through speaking with someone who was well versed in dealing with grief. While counselling was probably further down the track, it could help now.
Quentin accepted. Last time he kept things to himself, he crawled into the bottom of a bottle, and he was through doing that. He'd find the same strength his beloved eldest had and talk about his grief, work through it.
Diggle left before they could ask him. Felicity and Thea politely declined, but they would find comfort in each other, in the friendship they had. They both wore their heart on their sleeves, and so it would be best for them to take some time and come to terms with the grief together.
The only one left was Oliver.
He was still sitting outside her room. Where he saw the life leave her, saw her last breath, her last song.
He declined speaking with someone, then from there, no matter who came to him, who spoke to him, the archer stayed silent. Expression unreadable, muscles tense, body like stone, he leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, gazed fixed firmly on the tiles on the floor.
Oliver. Oliver, get up. You can't keep shutting people out like this.
Her voice cut through his mind like her piercing cry, silenced by the cut of his own arrow. The guilt of not showing the elder Lance how much she meant to him ate away at the archer, sitting there, as if buried in heavy chains. She had been through so much. So much pain and anguish, much because of him. And yet she still loved him. Still found it in her heart to forgive him when he had barely even forgiven himself.
He loved her. Oh god, he loved her. Maybe not romantically, not anymore, but the world knew. Oliver Queen loved Laurel Lance, and would for the rest of his life. There was not a mountain he would not move, not a sea he would not part, not a sky he would tear asunder for her.
But what use was that now she was gone?
He could have stayed there forever. Waited until Death slowly came for him, so he could run after Laurel, drag her back into the world, where she belonged. With the team. With him.
You know you can't do that, right?
The vigilante shook his head. She was right. For so many years he would just internalize his pain, ignore the hands reaching out for him to help. And he still did that now, if he was truely honest with himself. If Oliver Queen was to suffer, he was to suffer alone. That had been quietly decided years ago.
It had taken just as long for Queen to realise that he didn't deserve all the pain in the world. And even if he made a mistake, the man shouldn't dwell on it as much as he used to. The past was done, a fixed point in time.
Learn from your mistakes.
Move on.
You can be better than your pain, Oliver. Like me.
Oliver looked down to his own hand, still holding the old photo of her. God, she was so happy then. Such a sweet bird, her songs could make the heart of monsters crumble, soothe the worst of aches in the heart. A gentle breeze and a raging maelstrom all laced together into one loving soul.
A calloused thumb traced the back of the photo, as if it was her hand, tiny in comparison to his.
If she was here, Laurel would take that hand, place it gently in both of hers. She would make Queen look at her, gaze strong and smile determined as she spoke.
C'mon Ollie. You have strength, I've seen it. You wouldn't have survived until now without it. Use it to keep yourself going, even when you don't want to.
"..."
Oliver Queen, don't make me kick you.
Finally, Oliver made himself move. His body ached, as if he had been hit by a truck, but a few rolls of his head loosened his stiff muscles somewhat.
Slowly looking to the clock just a ways down the hall, it told the archer it was almost five in the morning. He could hear movement nearby, some nurses probably thinking whether or not they should kick Oliver Queen out or continue to let him grieve.
Turning down to the weathered photo. And, despite it all, he smiled. Smiled at her beautiful soul, captured perfectly on paper. Smiled as tears rolled down his cheeks, silent walls crumbling down around him.
But he wouldn't crumble with them.
Be strong. Like she was.
Oliver would keep the picture with him. Like he did on Lian Yu, and he would for the rest of his life. Keep her close to him, close to his heart.
He quietly hoped Tommy would be there to greet her.
And with one last look to where he last saw her, Oliver sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He wouldn't remember her blank expression as her soul passed on or her pale skin or still body.
No.
That would not be allowed.
He would remember her as she was. Her gorgeous smile. Her strong embrace when he was sad. Her strength through everything the world threw at her. Her endless love and forgiveness. And her deafening screech, the only warning their enemies would get before they fell to the Black Canary.
He would remember Laurel Lance.
See ya, Ollie.
"...See ya, pretty bird."