You wake up in your bed, pushing yourself into a seated position and rubbing your eyes. Didn't you just wake up? And you went downstairs and Rick—

You groan when you remember what happened, the arguing and the breaking down and eventually passing out, you guess. Rick must have carried you up here; you don't think your father would be able to.

When you walk downstairs, it's quiet and empty. The clock informs you that Don would have left for work an hour ago. It's a school day, but you're going to assume he called you in sick. You can live with that, though you aren't sure how you're going to pass this year with all the absences you've racked up.

Rick comes later in the day. You're sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window at a sparrow hopping around the branches of the tree you used to swing from as a kid (you have cloudy memories of your mother pushing you on the wooden plank that still hangs from a low-lying branch), wishing you had wings so you could fly away from everything like the cheery yellow bird that is chirping like everything is hunky-dory.

"Hey, Molly," Rick calls. "Is this a good time?"

"Birds are assholes," you say, instead of answering his question. "Look at that feathery bastard. He thinks he's hot shit because he can fly all over the place and no one can stop him. I hope a cat eats him."

"Never took you for an ornithologist," he takes the seat across from you and watches the bird in question. "But I guess you're right. Birds have it pretty easy."

"And then they have to go and broadcast it to everyone," you continue. "Every morning, when the sun goes up, they have to scream, 'look at me! I'm a stupid bird! And my life is just great, so fuck you!'"

You hear Rick snort. "You've got quite the mouth there, kid."

"So what?" you challenge.

"Bet your father doesn't appreciate it very much."

You roll your eyes. "Screw him, if he wanted a proper lady, he should have raised her himself."

He whistles. "Guess I can't argue with that logic."

"What are you doing here?" you finally ask. "How'd you get in here, anyway?"

"I know where Don hides the key. And I could have picked the locks, if I didn't. I wanted to talk to you," Rick answers.

"Yeah, we talked, you can go now."

He sighs. "I know I hurt you, kid. I regret leaving, I really do, but there's nothing I can do about that except be here for you now."

You continue to watch the bird as you mull over his words carefully. "At least you came back," you mutter.

"Setting the bar awful low, don't you think?"

"No one else has come back, so you being the first has to count for something. But I don't forgive you for leaving."

"You don't have to forgive me if you don't want to."

"I guess I should say the same to you."

"I don't blame you for my accident."

You pull your knees to your chest. "You should," you mumble into them.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Why are you so intent on blaming yourself for this? Are you the one who sabotaged the star racer?"

"No, but— "

Rick cuts you off. "Then how is it your fault?"

"You don't understand," you growl. "You weren't there."

"I know I wasn't there, we've established that. Why don't you explain it to me?"

You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself to respond, when the memory of red eyes and sharp beaks nearly knocks the wind out of you, forcing you to curl in on yourself. You hear Rick ask if you're okay, and you choke, "He used me."

"Who used you?"

"Can-" Fear overtakes you as you remember the horror you felt after learning the truth (about your mother, about Rick, about yourself), the absolute powerlessness of being under his control, the shock as you realized what Jordan was about to do…

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality. Rick's dumb sunglasses are still covering his eyes, but you can see the concern etched on his face all the same. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready, kid."

"But he sent someone to sabotage the Arrow so you would be out of the race, and he killed my mother, all so he could get to me so he could use me." And it almost sounds like pleading, like you're begging him to understand, and part of you wants him to get angry and walk away again because it's what you deserve, because you'll only ever hurt the people you care about and haven't you done enough damage already?

Rick sighs. "I don't really understand, but I doubt you're as guilty as you think you are."

"I'm not even a good pilot, it was all him," you whine.

"Sounds to me like someone's fucking with you," Rick says. He leans back again. "You're a kickass pilot, Molly."

"How do you know?" you challenge.

He gives you a shit-eating grin and responds, "Because you learned from the best."

You glare at him, waiting for the punch line, but he only raises an eyebrow at you as if daring you to disagree. "You're serious," you finally say.

"As a heart attack."

And you can't really help it; you giggle. Rick's expression softens a little, and if you didn't know any better, you'd almost think it was one of fatherly affection. But that's absolutely ridiculous.