The Oliver That Returned

CONTENT:
Rating: Mature
Flavor: Drama
Language: a bit
Violence: none
Nudity: none
Sex: none
Other: none

Author's Note:

No, you didn't just read this chapter last chapter ;)


The Oliver That Returned

==#==

Oliver stood looking out the window as darkness crept over Starling City and the lights began to come on, like the stars coming out at dusk. Only so many, many more. It was like being in the center of a galaxy. He swayed a little, overtaken by momentary vertigo. He locked his legs and raised his eyes to the horizon, a trick Dad had taught him to combat sea sickness. Dad. Oliver fought to keep his balance, to tear himself away from the memories that flooded him, threatened to overwhelm him and draw him into the maelstrom of a flashback.

Home. Oliver focused on his grounding mantra. I'm home. He was home - there were lights, electricity, heat. Forget heat, there was air conditioning. The ventilation fan whirred quietly within the bowels of the hospital. The air was so clean, so sterile, that it stung his nose.

And his ears were cold. He suppressed the impulse to touch them, to touch the bristly hair for the millionth time.

He tensed as he heard a noise outside the door. He turned, ready to defend himself, yet holding himself in check. The door burst open, making him flinch, but he held it together. His mother bustled past the protesting doctor.

The sight of her pierced him, like a spear of light. "M-Mom?" He couldn't move.

"Oh, Oliver!" She rushed to him in a breeze of her essence, her perfume. She enveloped him in her arms. "Oh, my beautiful baby boy."

"Mom," Oliver blurted again, emotion thickening his voice. He wrapped his arms around her, clung like a desperate child. She was warm, alive. "Mom..." His mother, nurturing, caring, loving. How he had wanted for so long to just be held. Sheltered. Protected. "Mom." He cried without shame, his voice rising higher, leaving its strength behind. "Mom, Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, hold me; I'm scared."

"Shhh," she said, hugging him tighter. "It's okay, don't cry. Mommy's here." Her voice broke with her own tears. "I've got you. You're safe."

"Mommy... Mommy..." Oliver couldn't control his shaking. "Mommy...!"

A sharp impact jolted Oliver's world, courtesy of Slade's boot. "Wake up, kid. You're crying for your mommy again."

Oliver couldn't control his shaking. It had been so real! He sat up, halfway, looked around the darkened fuselage. His home-away-from-home. His home-in-Hell.

He collapsed back on the makeshift cot. He had to turn immediately on his side to keep tears and mucous from running back into his throat and choking him. He curled up and threw the blanket over his head.

I want my mommy!

If only it were so easy to make all this go away by the intervention of a grownup.

No, you don't, he told the petulant child within him. If she were here, she'd only suffer, worse than you.

==#==

Moira felt Oliver start shaking. She tried to hold him tighter, to comfort him, but he went so stiff, so still, she had to step back and look at him. His glassy, unfocused eyes scared her. "Doctor," she called. "Doctor!"

Dr. Lamb hurried in with his colleague, Dr. Saunders. "It's all right, Moira," her physician said with a comforting hand on her arm. "Move away."

She let herself be pulled back. "What's wrong with him?"

Dr. Saunders approached Oliver warily. "It's going to be all right. He does this, he's in a sort of fugue state."

"Wh-?" Moira looked at Dr. Lamb with concern.

"I tried to warn you," he said gently.

The other doctor wasn't so kind. "It's very important you do not try to touch him in this state. He could become violent. You shouldn't have run in here and tried to embrace him like that."

Moira's jaw dropped. Not hug her son? Her son, missing - dead - these five years, suffering who knew what. She was shocked speechless. Dr. Lamb squeezed her arm, silently urging her to restrain herself.

Saunders turned to Oliver, focusing solely on him. "Mr. Queen? Mr. Queen, it's all right. You're safe," he kept calmly reassuring Oliver, careful not to touch him.

Then Oliver shuddered, blinked, and his eyes came back into sharp focus. They darted around, while Oliver backed up, his arms rising in a defensive position. "What's going on?" he demanded in a hard voice. "Where am I?" He brushed at the tears on his face, frowned at the wetness on his hands.

"You're home," Dr. Lamb reassured him.

Oliver only looked suspiciously around the room.

"Mr. Queen," Saunders said, "you're at Starling General Hospital. You were rescued from an island in the south China sea. Do you remember?"

Oliver scowled. "Why are you holding me here?" His eyes, cold chips of flint, assessed the room and the three people in it. Moira felt a nervous twinge. But her son couldn't become violent. Wouldn't hurt her. Would he?

Dr. Saunders continued handling him firmly, but with caution. "Mr. Queen, no one is 'holding' you here. You're under observation after your trauma. Perhaps you'd like something to help you relax?"

"I don't want any of your damned pills!" Oliver snarled at him. "Or your shots!"

"Mr. Queen, you need to calm down."

Dr. Lamb disengaged from Moira to go to the door to summon orderlies from the hall.

"You do not threaten me!" Oliver's eyes were wild, he tensed for a fight.

"No one is threatening you, Mr. Queen," Saunders said in an infuriatingly calm and condescending tone.

Moira found her voice. "Oliver, I'm here to take you home."

"Home?" His head snapped around to focus on her. His eyes went wide. "Mom?"

"Yes, Oliver, it's me. You're home."

"Home..." His voice lost its edge, its gruffness. He brushed a hand over his shorn hair and started shaking again.

"Mr. Queen, you should sit down."

"Home...?" Oliver wobbled away from Saunders' soliciting hand. "Is this real?"

"Yes, Mr. Queen. You really need to-"

Oliver's legs gave out and he sat down, straight down on the floor. Moira moved to go to him, but was brusquely pushed aside by two burly men in white. They moved to pick Oliver up and guide him to the bed under Dr. Saunders' instructions.

Moira found herself tugged in the opposite direction by Dr. Lamb's hand on her arm. "What happened? Doctor, what is going on?" They exited to the relative quiet of the hall.

"As I was saying, Moira, besides the wounds and scars, Oliver has suffered mental trauma."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He has these fugue episodes, like you've seen. He's very sensitive, especially to being touched."

"But 'reacting violently'?" she scoffed.

"He's been alone, without human contact, defending himself. So, yes, he is on somewhat of a hair trigger."

Moira's heart sank.

"He's sensitive to other things, too - smells, taste. He shouldn't be over-stimulated, and he may have trouble adapting to civilized food."

She put her head in her hands. She'd gotten her son back, but in pieces it seemed. In trying to suppress a sob, she gave an unladylike hiccough.

Dr. Lamb handed her a tissue. "He has occasional blackouts, and flashbacks. Moira... you need to prepare yourself. The Oliver that returned might not be the Oliver you lost."

She looked back towards the room, and that stranger, that deranged man. "So you're telling me," she said woodenly, "my son is still lost to me."

"He just needs to heal. Dr. Saunders is a leading-"

"I don't like Dr. Saunders."

"You haven't really met the man."

"We have our own mental health professionals."

"With all due respect, ma'am, an upscale therapist is not exactly used to dealing with PTSD."

It had to be bad if Dr. Lamb started calling her 'ma'am' or 'Mrs. Queen.' Still, they could not stop her from taking her son after his obligatory 'overnight observation.' Dr. Saunders laid out the rules of how to handle Oliver in his state, and Moira briefed her family and household staff.

==#==

Oliver woke slowly, to the indistinct murmur of voices. he had to know what they were saying. Woozily, he sat up, feeling as if he were moving under water. The drugs. He was in a hospital. He was home.

His bare feet slid to the cold tile floor. He took a few deep breaths, trying to shake off the sedatives. He wobbled like a drunken sailor to the door. There were more voices now, still indistinct. Oliver leaned against the wall, pulled the door open.

"There is extensive permanent damage," he heard the doctor droning. "There are burns and scar tissue over thirty per cent of his body, twelve fractured bones that have healed improperly. He shouldn't have survived."

"He shouldn't have come back," Moira's voice said.

"Mom?" Oliver's voice was weak.

"Robert should have lived. I need my husband back."

Oliver tried to speak up, go to them, but his tongue was lead, his muscles too weak.

"He shouldn't have lived," Tommy said sadly. "He shouldn't have survived all that. He's not the same."

Stung by this betrayal, words of denial on his lips, Oliver staggered out into the hall. He approached the door the voices were coming from.

Then he froze. Because she spoke.

"He shouldn't have come home," Laurel spit with vehemence. "It should have been Sara! I want my sister back.

"He doesn't deserve to live."

"He doesn't deserve to live," the voices chorused.

Panic quickened Oliver's heart. He reversed course, away from that door - too late! It burst open, and faceless black ops soldiers charged out. "Make sure he never leaves this place alive."

Oliver ran, through long, darkened halls, turned endless corners. Where was the way out? His feet slapped on the cold tiles. The drumming of booted feet echoed behind him, drawing closer, closer.

Cold tile turned to cold steel, corridors to cages. Oliver darted between them, lost in the maze. Bodies lay inside some of the cages, motionless. Lifeless?

He pushed himself around one more corner and stopped dead, facing a familiar figure, turned into a stranger; a cold, cold woman.

"S-Sara?"

"Prisoners do not speak." She raised a gun, shot him without hesitation.

The bullet ripped through his left side, the shock and pain threw him back, threw him to the cold, unyielding floor of the cell. A steel pan with some crude instruments and bandages clattered down beside him.

"What is this?" he wailed.

"Test," the dark Russian said above him. "To see if you are strong enough."

"Strong enough for what?" Oliver gritted his teeth against the biting pain and reached for the medical supplies.

"To survive worse."

The tray of bandages stayed tantalizingly out of reach. "Help me," Oliver gasped. He was losing strength rapidly. "Help me!"

He thrashed weakly in the bed.

"I've got you, Ollie." A warm hand stouched his cheek. Blearily, he opened his eyes. "L...? Shado?" He blinked; the world was still dark and fuzzy. "You're alive? Sl... Slade?"

Shado looked over her shoulder, and Oliver followed her gaze. He could just make out the form of the burly Australian sitting there, blackened against the darkness. One eye gleamed back at them.

Shado turned back to Oliver. "What happened to you on that ship?"

"Ship?" Oliver struggled to remember. "I... I was home. Th-They rescued me, and... Y-You were - You weren't there. And-And th-then they... s-said I didn't deserve to live. They didn't want me."

"You're still here, Oliver, with us," she said soothingly. Slade rasped something else, something unintelligible.

"I was... so sure this time." Weariness crept over Oliver, threatened to drag him down into blackness. "Why do I keep dreaming of home?"

==#==

The next day, Oliver was silent and still in the limo on the way home. Moira wasn't sure if she would disturb him with talk, or if she should just let him drift. Her fear of that glassy-eyed dead stare made up her mind for her. "Is everything all right?"

"It's just so... I can hardly believe it's real."

Moira's first instinct was to touch her son, reassure him of this reality. But Dr. Saunders' warnings made her second guess herself. She moved her hand slowly, making sure he saw it, and when he didn't flinch, she put it over his own, squeezed gently. "It is, Oliver. You're home." She had to keep reassuring him about that, Dr. Saunders had emphasized.

She tried to read Oliver's facial expression, but found it closed to her. She'd noticed he seemed tense - scared, even - around all the people and noise of the hospital. The quiet confines of the car settled him, but now that they'd left the city buildings behind for shadowy suburban roads, he began to tense again. He pulled away from her hand and she let go. "It's all right," she murmured in assurance.

Oliver all but leapt from the car when it stopped, and looked around the grounds as if expecting something to spring out and attack. He jumped when the driver came around to take the bags out of the trunk.

"It's all right," Moira reminded him, coming slowly to his side. "It's safe. You're home." She kept talking to him, prattling on about the house, his room, trying to instill a sense of normalcy.

Oliver seemed dazed by it all. He didn't seem to hear the maid inform them of their guest. When Walter approached to greet him, he went into one of those blank stares.

"You remember Walter?" Moira prompted him. "Walter Steele, your father's friend." She feared she was losing him as he retreated inside his mind. She stopped Thea as she ran in, aiming to throw herself at her long-lost brother. "Easy, Thea," she told the bewildered and angry teen. "Let's not overwhelm him."

Oliver looked at Thea, his face blank. Didn't he recognize his own sister? Thea drew back from the unsettling look. Moira's heart sank. Would she have to explain who Thea was, too?

Then Oliver blinked. "Wh-? S-Speedy?"

"Yes, Ollie. It's me." She smiled.

"But... how? What... What happened to you?" His eyes darted over her, noting her clothes, her figure.

"Ah, I grew up?" Thea half-teased.

"In two years?"

Thea shared a puzzled look with her mother. "Oliver," Moira said gently, "you've been gone five years." Surely they'd told him this? "Thea is 17."

"Five? Five years...," he trailed off, his eyes going unfocused again.

"Ollie?" Thea reached for him, but Moira intervened again. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's just a little overwhelmed. Give him some time."

Then Tommy Merlyn breezed in with his usual brash manner. "Hey, buddy! What'd I tell ya? Yachts suck!"

Oliver whirled at the sudden commotion, and seemed about to attack, but then something happened, something worse. Oliver froze in mid-motion. His eyes went blank, unseeing, but instead of remaining still, he began shaking violently.

"Is he having a seizure?" Tommy asked in alarm. He moved to help his friend.

"Don't touch him!" Moira warned hastily. "He's having a flashback. Oliver! Can you hear me?"

He started screaming. "Sara! Sara!" His body jerked; he fell against the table, knocking it over, spilling photographs and the vase to the floor.

"Oh my God!" Thea jumped back in shock and fear. Walter stood frozen, Tommy as well, a horrified look on his face.

Moira knelt next to Oliver's thrashing body, resisting the urge to try to hold him still. "Oliver! You're home - you're safe! Oliver, it's your mother. You're all right. You're home, come back to me, my brave boy."

"Help! Help me! Dad!" His shout felt like a bullet in her chest. He was reliving the sinking of The Queen's Gambit all over again, right in front of her. "Help! No! Sara! No, Dad, no! She's still out there!"

Moira swallowed her tears. "Oliver, you're home. It's just a nightmare, baby. Wake up, baby, please wake up..."

With a final gasp, Oliver's eyes opened wide. "What happened? Where am I?" He floundered about, trying to stand. "What's happening?"

"Easy, easy! You just had a flashback." Moira tried to help him up, but he flinched back. "Mind the glass."

"Tommy," Oliver said, looking around as he stood. "Thea." Neither answered, uncertain what to say, what to do. Then Oliver narrowed his eyes at Walter. "What are you doing here?" he growled.

"I..." Walter stuttered. He looked to Moira.

She told Oliver, "I'll explain in a minute. Let's get you cleaned up, get you a glass of water."

==#==

"Sweetheart..." Moira took Oliver aside in the kitchen while the others went to the dining room where Raisa served lunch. "Things have changed since you've been gone. Walter and I are married now."

She tried to break it to him gently, but she saw a brief tension run through him as if he suppressed a flinch from a blow. "Are you okay with this, Oliver?"

"What difference does it make?" he replied bitterly.

She had no answer to that. "I don't want you to think we did anything to disrespect your father."

To her surprise, tears sprang into his eyes. He blinked, turned away, tried to hold them back.

"Oliver..." She reached out to him, but he pulled away. "I'm so sorry."

"No. He choked down his emotions. "No, it's... all right, Mom. I know you didn't... I just need time."

"Of course, sweetheart."

Oliver composed himself and seemed fine during lunch, though he avoided looking at Walter. He picked at his food, which was expected. Then Raisa brought him some peanut butter and honey on toast, his childhood favorite, and his face lit up like a kid's. He wolfed down two slices and managed a 'moar, pease' with his mouth full. Everyone chuckled, and Raisa went to make a big batch, more suitable to a man-sized Ollie.

Tommy captured most of Oliver's attention, keeping up a non-stop prattle of trivia and pop culture Oliver had missed. Nothing serious, nothing weighty. He was a good friend, with so much depth hidden behind his carefree facade.

Then Thea stopped the conversation cold when she asked what it was like, on the island. An innocent question, perhaps.

Oliver looked down at his plate, a shadow crossing his face. Finally, he rasped, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry," Thea mumbled. Moira patted her hand.

Tommy jumped into the gap. "Hey, there were no steak houses, no beer, lousy cell reception, and worst of all? No toilet paper!"

Moira looked in alarm at Oliver, worried that Tommy had gone too far, but he smiled and even managed a little laugh. "Yeah. That about sums it up."

"So tomorrow," Tommy continued smoothly, "you and me, doing the town. We can scope out a venue for your party."

"Party?"

"Dude." Tommy looked seriously at his friend. "You have to have a coming back from the dead party."

Moira said, "That's a little fast, Tommy. Give him some time to recover."

"No, Mom; I'm fine. I wouldn't mind a little drive around town."

"You have your appointment tomorrow," she reminded him, not mentioning that it as with a mental health professional.

"Well, after," Oliver said optimistically. "Around like three? I'll call you."

"You have a cell phone?"

"Uh..."

Thea choked down a giggle.

Walter said, "We'll get you set up."

Oliver still avoided looking at him. "Sure."

"Great," said Tommy. "I'll seeya then."

Moira followed him to the door for a private word. "Tommy... Oliver might not be up for any activities so soon. You saw... how he is." She ducked her head in embarrassment.

Tommy's mien grew serious. "I know," he said quietly. "Don't worry, Aunt Mo. I'll take him for a ride, just him and me, in a safe, quiet car. It might help him get back, you know?"

She nodded, relieved. "You're a good boy, Tommy." She kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

"Ah, well," he stammered. "Don't tell the ladies; they really do go for the bad boys."

She chuckled. "Go on."

As Tommy turned and went down the steps of the portico, a dark limousine pulled in around the curve of the driveway. Tommy frowned at it, his whole demeanor changing. Quickly he looked away and went to his car.

Moira scowled as well, and marched over to the limousine before it's passenger could emerge. The tinted window rolled down. "What are you doing here?" she snapped without preamble.

"I just wanted to see how Oliver was doing," Malcolm said.

"You weren't invited. In fact, you were specifically not invited. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Really, Moira, this animosity is uncalled for. You know I have nothing against your son, despite the differences between Robert and I. I feel terrible for what he must have been through."

"Then you understand why I don't want you here." She glared down at the man. He protested innocence in the sinking of The Queen's Gambit, or at least a 'miscommunication.' Moira had a different story from a source in Malcolm's organization, but no solid proof, either way.

"Has he said anything about Robert? Did Robert tell him anything about the Undertaking?"

Fury boiled up inside Moira. "His father died when the yacht sank, in front of his eyes! How can you be so callous?"

"I sympathize, Moira," he said placatingly. " I do. But after so many years, coming so close to our goals, we can't let a random vector come into conflict with our plans. For all our safety - Oliver's included - we have to find out what he knows."

"He doesn't know anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Even if he does, he's in no condition to oppose us. He's... damaged."

Malcolm looked sorrowful. Moira could almost believe he had feelings. "Maybe when he's settled in, I could talk to him."

"No."

"I am his godfather, Moira."

She glared at him. "Get off my property, Malcolm. And stay the hell away from my family!" She turned and marched back to the house, muscles tense to keep from shaking.

She barely heard the purr of the limo as it slithered away.

==#==

After lunch, Oliver had gone to get a shower and a nap. It had taken a lot out of him, that small bit of human interaction, plus the flashback. He debated taking one of the pills Dr. Saunders had sent him home with, then finally figured he was too tired to need a sedative.

He made an effort to show at dinner, but he avoided conversation by staring at his plate the whole time. He could tell Thea was unhappy with his silence, but he was just too tired to be able to do anything about it.

His plate was different from the others. He had only some simple greens, a plain pork chop. On the one hand, he felt slightly humiliated, given the kiddie meal. On the other, he was grateful he didn't have to deal with the smell and harsh taste of sauces and spices.

When the fishing boat had rescued him, he'd wolfed down all the food they had given him, and then promptly threw up. Still, he couldn't stop himself from stuffing his face. After the third time, they gave up wasting their food on him.

After dinner, he went straight back to his room and paced. He was tired, but not sleepy. Truth be told, he was afraid of going to sleep and dreaming of being back on the island. Or worse, of waking up from this dream and still being there.

Eventually, he lay down, but he couldn't get comfortable in the suffocating softness of the bed, so he threw a pillow and blanket down on the floor and curled up there.

I'm home, he repeated as his eyes drifted closed. This is not a dream.

==#==

A storm rattled the windows of Queen Mansion in the night. Moira got up, certain she'd heard a clattering from Oliver's room. She threw on a robe and went to check on him. "Oliver?" She could feel the chill blowing from under the door. "Oliver?"

She went inside, wary of startling her son, though how he could be asleep with all the thunder and noise, she didn't know. Unless he was caught up in one of those nightmare memories again.

Instinctively, she rushed to the windows - they were thrown open, swinging in the wind, and letting the rain soak everything. She let out a frightened gasp when she came upon the crumpled form on the floor, but another flash of lightning revealed it was only some bedding.

Moira secured the windows quickly, then turned to the bed. "Oliver?" she called again. She couldn't see, and the lamp wasn't working. Walter came in with a flashlight moments later.

The bed was empty. The sweep of the light revealed that the armchair was empty, the bathroom door open, empty. No one was here.

"Oliver? Where's Oliver?" Moira turned to Walter, who could only shrug helplessly.

They looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, Walter convinced her there was nothing else they could do tonight, but wait for him to return. He went back to bed, while Moira sat up, waiting... waiting for her baby boy to come back home.

What if he wasn't really there at all? What if it had been just a dream?

==X==