How the Light Gets In

by Becks Rylynn

History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.

10. A Lifetime at Sea

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Uh... bugs? There are a lot of creepy crawlies in this chapter.

The first flashback in this chapter takes place during February of 2014 while Laurel was at rock bottom so blanket warnings for depression, alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, and some pretty extreme self hatred.

---

How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

---

.

.

.

Part Ten

A Lifetime at Sea

.

.

.

February, 2014

When Laurel steps out into the frigid night air, she can't breathe.

The anger and the hurt and the humiliation are choking her; curdling in her stomach, mixing with the copious amounts of vodka and wine and the few bites of food she managed to get down. It's a horrible mix. She feels like she's going to throw up. She feels like she's going to explode. She wants so badly to run. She wants to get away, go anywhere but here, but she can't. Her kid's in there. Also, her father's car is blocking her in. And she's not wearing any shoes.

She sinks down onto the front steps and draws in a few shallow breaths. Sara and Oliver. Again. It's almost hilarious, isn't it? She doesn't give a shit what Oliver does or who he sleeps with. She has no reason to. But Sara... Laurel had thought...

It's stupid. It was stupid.

She puts her head in her hands and tries not to vomit all over her front steps. She's such an idiot. She usually is when it comes to her family. She actually thought Sara was going to choose her. Fight for her. Maybe even apologize for what she did. How fucking stupid of her. Of course Sara was never going to choose her. Why would she? She never has before.

You'd think she'd learn. You'd think she'd fucking know by now.

They are never going to choose her. None of them are. That's not what happens. That's not how this works. People run from her. If she chases them, if she begs, she's the one left looking like a desperate fool.

It's not as if it's just Sara. Nobody can stand to be around her for longer than five minutes. Her dad doesn't need to pretend he likes her anymore now that Sara's back. Her mother's never even tried. Her husband is probably beyond tired of her stupid shit. He practically said as much when they got into that screaming match last night. Even her own daughter doesn't want to be around her. Hell, look at Tommy. He died to get away from her.

A bitter laugh starts in her chest and comes tumbling out, ripping out of her throat. She laughs until she chokes on it.

She's got people so twisted up they're throwing themselves into the ocean and impaling themselves on rebars just because they can't take it anymore. It's damn near impressive when you think about it. Is that some kind of record? She raises her head, running her fingers through her hair. She inhales the cold winter air and looks out at the darkened neighborhood. She sniffles and blinks away the burning in her eyes. She is getting so fucking sick of crying.

Next door, the Denton's house is dark and still. If she strains her ears, she can hear the faint sounds of the radio Ida insists they leave on whenever they're going to be out of the house. Directly across the street, the Henderson's curtains are shut tight but there is a warm glow coming from their home. Everything is nice and quiet tonight. She wishes she could be as calm as this neighborhood. She's been spinning since May.

She closes her eyes. She should be the one to leave next. It's her turn. She thinks that sounds fair. Maybe then they'll -

Behind her, the front door opens.

She doesn't move. It's just Dean. Coming to check on her. Calm down her mania. Dull her anger. Put up with her crap. That's what he does. He's good like that. Too good for her.

''Hey.''

Her eyes snap open.

The anger smoldering in her chest starts blazing once more. She lurches to her feet and staggers down the four front steps unsteadily. The alcohol in her system doesn't mesh well with the sudden movement and she stumbles. She has to clutch at the railing to avoid doing a faceplant on the cement walkway, but she makes it, whirling around to face Oliver. She doesn't exactly have a plan, but the fire in her chest erupts and these furious, harsh words just start spilling out. ''You are unbelievable. You lecture me on how I need to repair my relationship with Sara when you're the one who messed it up in the first place. By screwing her. And now you're doing it again!''

She has no idea where she's going with this. She doesn't care who he has sex with. She wants to stick her nose up in the air and declare that Oliver and Sara can have each other. That they deserve each other. Two narcissistic windbags. A match made in heaven. Or whatever.

But she's an idiot. She can't say any of that out loud. She wants this to just…not matter. She wants it to mean nothing to her, but it does. Missing her sister has been her constant state of being since 2007. That's who she is. That was her life. Now Sara's alive. Despite her anger, she thought maybe, just maybe Oliver would let her have her sister back. She thought maybe he wouldn't take her away again. She was wrong. She's always wrong. And it always hurts.

She's not sure what she's expecting his reaction to be. He can turn on a dime when it comes to her. He is so many different people and he doesn't even realize it. ''You're right,'' is what he says to her. ''This is all my fault.''

For a fraction of a second, she lets her guard down. It's the boiling hot rage in her throat. It's the alcohol churning in her system. It's all making her stupidly brave and smug. ''Yeah,'' she says boldly. ''Yes, it is.''

''And is you losing your job, doing drugs - Is that my fault?'' The look in his eyes burns her more than the anger. ''Is that your family's fault? Or are you going to blame Tommy for dying?''

It's a low blow. The lowest. She feels singed and wounded, flayed open and raw and terribly, terribly small. She feels like she has had the wind knocked out of her. He could have brought up anything. He could have thrown anything in her face, but he went for the thing he knew would hurt the most. She should have seen that coming. ''Screw you, Oliver,'' she sneers. It's a weak, shaky barb and she knows it's obvious there are tears gathering in her eyes, but she doesn't want him to win this one.

''I have stood by you through everything,'' he fires back at her. He says it like he actually believes he's telling the truth.

What a pathetic fucking lie. An easily disproven one at that. He hasn't done jack shit for her.

''The DUI,'' he lists. ''Losing your job. Laurel,'' he scoffs out her name. He does that. That little half smile, so exasperated and frustrated. It always makes her feel like the dumbest person on earth. ''I was concerned for your wellbeing when you were trying to get my mother the death penalty.''

There he goes again. Deliberately rewriting history to make her feel like an ant. She wants to remind him that she actively fought against giving Moira the death penalty. She wants to remind him that she risked her career to help his mother. She doesn't. She won't. She doesn't usually have trouble calling him out on his shit but there's something about him right now that makes her feel so...so impotent. She is just a tiny creature being swallowed whole by this snake of a man.

''Yeah,'' she says. ''You've been a real stand up kind of guy.''

''Laurel,'' he says. ''Do you think you're the only one who is having a hard time? Do you think you're the only one with family issues? You have no idea what is going on with my family right now,'' he rages, vomiting out this constant stream of bullshit. He doesn't even give her time to defend herself. To ask him how she would know what's going on with his family. Or what the hell that has to do with anything at all. ''But I am still standing here,'' he tells her, because just he has to let her know how lucky she is to have him. ''And you,'' he says, leveling her with that look. ''You are still blaming everyone but yourself.''

That's as far as he gets.

Out of nowhere, an icy cold blast of water cuts through the air and hits him square on the side of the head, drenching him from head to toe.

Laurel, close enough to receive a small splash of the cold water, shrieks in surprise and jumps back, nearly falling on her ass.

Standing over by the rose bushes, Dean lowers the garden hose. When Oliver, sputtering and gasping, looks over at him incredulously, he just grins innocently and says, ''Whoops.''

''You - '' Oliver chokes on air. ''What the hell?!''

''Hey, man,'' Dean shrugs his shoulders. ''I'm just out here watering the rose bushes. It's not my fault you got in the way. You should watch where you're standing.''

''I'm nowhere near the rose bushes,'' Oliver protests. He looks pissed, but the soaked cat look he's got going on is far from intimidating.

''Standin' right by the hydrangeas though,'' Dean points out. ''Gotta water those too, pal. See how thirsty they are?'' He lifts the hose again and pulls the trigger on the nozzle, hitting Oliver with another freezing blast. Very little of it gets on the hydrangeas.

Oliver throws his hands up like he's trying to physically fight off the stream of water, which seems futile. ''Are you crazy?!''

Dean lowers the hose again. ''What do you mean?'' He looks so innocently baffled. He is a terrific con man. ''Of course not. I just care about the health of my flowers. I got a real green thumb,'' he says, matter of fact. ''I'm a fantastic gardener.'' He has never gardened in his life. ''See?'' Lightning fast, he lifts the hose and gives Oliver another spray.

Oliver doesn't struggle much this time, but he does growl out an incensed, ''Will you quit that?''

Laurel figures she likely ought to do something here. Stop Dean somehow. Confiscate the damn garden hose. She backs up and plops down heavily onto the concrete steps, focusing on catching her breath instead.

The front door opens once more and she looks over her shoulder, watching as Sam steps out onto the stoop. ''You guys,'' he's saying. ''What are you - Oh.'' It is an abrupt tone shift. ''Shit.'' He shuts the door behind him and gapes at the mess in front of him.

Dean is unmoved by his brother's appearance, merely offering another shrug. ''I just came out here to water the rose bushes.'' He smiles slowly. It's anything but innocent. ''Dunno what this idiot's doing. He keeps gettin' in my way. Watch.'' Once again, he points the nozzle at Oliver and pulls the trigger.

Oliver barely even reacts. Just stands there with his hands on his hips, staring grumpily at the ground.

A farce. She's living in a farce.

''See?'' Dean peers up at Sam, lowering the hose. ''No reflexes.''

Sam looks at him, emotionless. Then he appears to make a quick decision, standing straight, grin breaking out on his face. ''Wow.'' He looks right at Oliver. ''You're a real klutz, huh?''

''A real klutz,'' Dean agrees.

Sam shakes his head. ''Look what you've done to yourself.''

''You've gone and gotten yourself all wet.''

''That won't do.''

''He's what the moms at the playground would call a real Silly Billy,'' says Dean, earning himself a strange look from Sam. ''What? That's what they would call him.''

''Poor rich kid,'' Sam says, unapologetic. ''You look like a drowned rat.''

''And it's the middle of winter. You should really be more careful,'' Dean admonishes, finally dropping the hose. ''You'll catch your death out here.'' Sounds an awful lot like a warning. ''Sammy!'' He tears his eyes away from Oliver to swing a look in Sam's direction. ''Get the guy a towel, will you? He's dripping all over my path. I don't want this icing over.''

''Sure thing,'' Sam says easily. ''Don't go getting yourself into anymore trouble, Oliver,'' he says, tossing one last careless look in Oliver's direction before he steps inside.

Laurel does not think this night could possibly get any more humiliating. She halfway wonders if she's dead. Maybe she died in CNRI. Maybe it was her who got the rebar. Maybe she died in that crumbling building, stupid and alone because of her own foolishness, and this is her punishment. Her very own version of purgatory. A never-ending miserable life designed to remind her what a mess she is. Maybe that's it. Maybe she's dead. Or maybe she just wishes it? It would certainly be easier.

''So this is how we're going to do things now?''

It takes her weary brain a minute to understand that Oliver is speaking to her. She's not the one who sprayed him with the fucking hose but she's the one he's looking at with that expression full of fire.

She stares up at him, but doesn't respond. She's not interested. She's tired. She wants to go to bed.

''You're not even going to say anything?'' He goes on. ''You're just going to let him - ''

''Hey!'' There is no humor or over exaggerated false innocence in Dean's voice this time. Just a cold, cold rage. ''Don't talk to her,'' he warns. ''You shouldn't even be looking at her. She doesn't need your shit.''

Laurel feels no gratitude whatsoever. She knows he came out here to ''save'' her but all she feels is resentment. He is making a scene. She looks over at the Denton house and then across the street to the Henderson house where Gretchen Henderson is just stepping away from the windows, curtains falling back into place. Laurel's face burns at the thought of that judgmental, gossipy old woman seeing this chaos. The whole neighborhood will know by noon tomorrow.

She scrubs at her face, angry again.

''This is the guy?'' Oliver spits out. ''This is the guy you chose to - ''

''You,'' her voice, nearly a growl, startles even her, ''better watch what comes out of your mouth next.'' She doesn't mean to sound so homicidal but this fierce wave of protectiveness overrides the numbness for a brief moment when he goes after Dean. Oliver can say what he wants about her but he doesn't get to come for her family. She stands up, squaring her shoulders. ''Is this over, Oliver?'' She asks, looking him dead in the eye. ''Are you done?''

It's the wrong question to ask.

Oliver - angry and bitter and sopping wet, so deeply resentful of her pain and her rage and her emotions - scoffs at her. ''Yeah,'' he says, as if it is some kind of weapon. ''Yeah, I'm done. I'm done taking the blame. And I'm done caring.'' He says it like he's expecting her to cower and apologize. Go right back to being the good girl who isn't supposed to raise her voice or feel her feelings or do anything but forgive, forgive, forgive.

Laurel is too numb to care about any of that.

''Go have a drink,'' he tells her. ''Go to Verdant. I'll pay for it.'' He says it so mockingly. Even if it is just a burst of frustration, he genuinely intends to hurt her.

She could say she's surprised by that, but she's not. His gentleness is a newfound thing. He wasn't like that before the island. He wasn't a monster, but he was arrogant. He was entitled and uncomfortable with other people's emotions, especially hers. This man standing in front of her - This is who he was. She means to throw that back in his face. Open her mouth and let out a cutting remark or two of her own. She says nothing. She looks down at the ground.

''I have loved you for half my life,'' he says. ''But I'm done running - ''

She never gets to hear the end of that sentence. She doesn't care, but she never gets to hear it. She hears something else though and when she lifts her head back up, Oliver is on the ground. For a brief second, denial sets in and she thinks that maybe he has just slipped. Then everything catches up to her and she realizes - No, that's not what happened.

Oliver is on the ground, trying to push himself back to his feet, bleeding, and Dean is standing over him, shaking out his hand. There is a split second look of regret in his eyes, like he knows he shouldn't have done that, but it's too late to take it back now. He sets his jaw and squares his shoulders.

Laurel is too tired to muster up the energy to be outraged or to admonish him, but she does sigh heavily.

Oliver's fine anyway. There's blood gushing from his nose but he looks more annoyed than pained. He pulls himself to his feet, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. ''Nice to know you married into a family of psychopaths,'' he says, presumably to Laurel.

Nice to know that even when someone else punches him in the face, it's still her fault.

The front door opens again. ''Ollie?'' It's Sara this time, approaching with caution. ''What are you...?'' There's a pause and then, ''Oh my god.'' She bounds down the steps and over to Oliver, instantly pushing him away from Dean, her hands moving up to his face. ''Holy shit, are you okay?''

Mom is close behind her, rushing over to fuss over Oliver. ''Oliver,'' she says. ''Oliver, what's happened?''

''I'm fine,'' he says, brushing their hands away. ''I'm fine. He's crazy.'' He swings a withering glare in Dean's direction. Gets a wolfish smile in response. ''But I'm fine.''

''Did you spray him with the garden hose?'' That's Dad's incredulous voice, right beside her. She can't bring herself to look at him.

Dean tilts his head to the side, offers a pleasant smile, and says, simply, ''I was watering the rose bushes.''

''God,'' Sara mutters, halfway to a sneer. She's got one hand gripping Oliver's shirt, inspecting his bloody face, but she does pause her concerned girlfriend routine long enough to glower in Laurel's general direction. ''What the hell, Laurel?''

''What? I didn't punch him.''

Mom is the one who trains her pinched gaze on her. ''You could have stopped him.''

''That's fucking hilarious,'' Laurel deadpans. Mom and Sara, two staunch feminists, blaming a woman for the actions of a man. But she's not much of a woman to them. She doesn't even get the dignity of being a person. She hasn't for a long time. She shouldn't be surprised.

''Uh, no,'' Dean speaks up. ''She couldn't have. That's not her job.''

Laurel, feeling increasingly hollowed out by everything that has happened tonight, is too far gone to stop the words that come out of her mouth. ''He was just following his heart.'' There is a sick, emptied out part of her full of dull throbbing and a massive wine headache that gets so much pleasure out of the way her mother goes completely white at the sound of the familiar words. ''I would have thought you two would understand,'' she continues. ''Or is destruction only okay when it's Sara's heart that's causing it?''

''Laurel,'' Dad warns.

Sara does not take kindly to the dig. ''Oh, that's real nice,'' she hisses. ''This has been an awesome night. Thanks so much for the party. You really picked a winner with that one,'' she points to Dean, ''didn't you?''

''Thank you,'' Laurel says. ''I think so.'' She looks at her sister, her little dead sister, back from the sea, so ridiculously beautiful and truly alive, more alive than Laurel has ever been in her entire life, and she delivers the final blow. ''You gonna try and fuck this one too?''

''Jesus, Laurel!'' It's Dad who steps in, grabbing her arm to pull her away from Sara and then placing himself in between them as if Laurel is some kind of rabid animal he needs to protect his precious Sara from. He looks and sounds spitting mad and every bit of it is directed at her. He's usually mad at her for something. Her father's anger is a familiar shadow. She is well versed in his exasperation and disappointment. She knows his rage like she knows her own.

If her mother is cold, her father is red hot.

Mad at Laurel is his default setting. She is always doing something to set him off. If it's not what she does it's what she doesn't do. It's who her friends are, who her clients are, who she marries, how she does her job, how she parents. What she eats, what she doesn't, what she drinks and how much of it, the emotions she feels, the words she says, the words she doesn't. He gets mad at her when he's drunk and she has to drive down to some seedy bar to haul his sloppy drunken ass home and he gets mad when she doesn't bother to get out of bed and just sends a cab. He gets mad when she almost dies and he gets really mad when she lives. He just gets mad. It's his thing. He's always angry and then he acts like that's what love is. As if his love for her is something that can only be shown through anger and possessiveness. Like this is what it means to be devoted.

She thinks that's wrong. But, then again, when he loves people they tend to love him back. Maybe he's right. Where has her soft love gotten her? What has tenderness ever given her? Maybe there is something to be said for anger.

''That's enough,'' Daddy says firmly. ''You're embarrassing yourself.'' He gives her that familiar look she knows so well. It's his 'I wish it had been you and not her' look. It's not new. What is new is how little it hurts this time. Normally she buckles under the weight of that look. Tonight, she couldn't care less. There's nothing. He looks at her and there's nothing.

Given the strangely unsettled look on his face, he must notice the empty look in her eyes. She can't find it in her to care about that either. Instead, she laughs in his face. ''I'm embarrassing myself? Trust me, Dad, I'm not the one who should be embarrassed here.''

''You know what?'' Dean sounds utterly exhausted. ''I'm pulling the plug. This is over.'' He looks at the Lance family with nothing but steel in his eyes. ''It's time for you to leave.''

Sara is the one who pipes up after a second of quiet, with a ridiculously incredulous sounding, ''You're kicking us out?'' Her shock is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Bold of her to assume they were all just going to go back inside and finish eating their cold chicken cacciatore.

''Yep,'' Dean responds with a burst of false cheer. ''Right on your ass, Goldilocks.''

Mom doesn't take kindly to that. ''What makes you think you have the right to - ''

''It's my house,'' he snaps.

''Oh,'' she laughs. ''Is it? Remind me again what you contribute to this household, Dean. How much of your money paid for this? For any of this?''

''Uh,'' Sara looks profoundly uncomfortable. She deserves that. ''Mom - ''

''Dinah,'' sighs Dad. ''Please don't do this right now.''

Mom ignores them both. She's good at that. ''Oh, that's right,'' she says with an exaggerated sneer. ''I forgot. You don't have any money. You don't even have a job. No wonder my poor daughter looks so run down. It's because of you. You just take and take and take from her while she does everything and you just sit around getting drunk.''

Laurel bursts out laughing. It's inappropriate, but she can't help it. It was the ''my poor daughter'' thing. That sounded so funny coming from her mother.

The idea that Laurel is the one who does everything while Dean just sits around cracking open six pack after six pack is also laughable. She hasn't done anything worthwhile for her family in months. She doesn't cook or clean. She is no longer bringing in any income. She is burning through their savings. She hasn't let her husband touch her since Christmas. She can barely be bothered to parent her daughter and when she does, she can't even do that right. And the worst part is that she doesn't care. She hasn't looked for a new job. Every time Dean talks about getting a job, she talks him out of it because she doesn't want to be home alone with Mary. She has no idea what to do with a baby. She doesn't even know what to do with herself. She keeps lying to him, telling him she'll find a job and they'll be fine, even though she has no intention of getting off the couch or out of bed to look. She also has no intention of halting her near daily trips to the liquor store so they'll be in the hole soon enough.

All she does is drag her family down. She sleeps and she drinks and she snaps at everyone and she has panic attacks Dean has to talk her down from and that's it. That's her entire role now. That's all she is.

And she doesn't even care.

She doesn't change. She doesn't feel remorse for what she's done to them or what she's done to herself. She hardly feels anything anymore other than the random bursts of a rage so powerful it makes her hands shake and that all-consuming, mind numbing fog of grief and sadness that never goes away. She lies and says she'll get better but she knows she won't. There is no better. It doesn't exist. There is nowhere for her to go.

She does love her family, she thinks, but in the grand scheme of things, love isn't worth much in this life. Her love is worth even less. Laurel is not a mother or a wife or a sister or a daughter or a person. She isn't anything anymore.

Her mother would know that if she paid attention, but she doesn't. She never has. Not to Laurel. Now that Sara's home, she'll drift away even more. Now that she's got her baby girl back, she will finally be able to stop pretending she cares about whether or oldest lives or dies.

''Mom,'' Laurel says, voice casual and nonchalant. ''Do you think you could do us all a favor and, for once in your life, shut your mouth?''

There is a stunned silence after that. Nobody quite knows what to do with that declaration.

She doesn't say it to be cruel. In fact, she feels absolutely nothing when she says it. No anger. No catharsis. She says it because - well, whatever, someone had to. Dean doesn't normally care about her parents' opinion of him, but the drunk comment stung. It's easy to see. She can't have that happen. ''I'll send Sam out with your coats,'' he says stonily, before turning and retreating inside.

She looks out at the neighborhood. She doesn't know if anyone other than Gretchen Henderson is paying attention to this drama unfolding on the Winchester-Lance front lawn but if they are then they've had quite a show.

''Sweetie,'' Mom tries, and takes a step in her direction.

Laurel looks at her mother and says, very calmly, ''You can feel however you want to feel about me, but if you ever speak to my husband like that again, I will ruin you.'' Because why not burn another bridge tonight? It's not like it matters. None of these people want her bridges.

Her mother stares at her, mouth agape.

She used to think it would be gratifying to finally call her mother out like that. She used to think it would mean something. It would fix something. But nothing's fixed. She tries not to look at them too much, especially not Sara, when Sam comes out with a pile of coats that he unceremoniously drops into her father's arms. He must be wondering what on earth his brother married into.

On any other given day, Laurel might be mortified by this whole production. As it is, she can't bring herself to care. She's not really here anyway. She looks away from them and rubs at her tired face. She wants to go inside now. That's the only thought in her head. She'd really like to go inside. Her head is starting to pound and she's nauseous and so cold she's shivering and there's sweat breaking out on her forehead and -

She can't do this anymore.

It hits her like a truck. Slams into her. Almost knocks her right over. She can't do any of this. She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to tear herself to pieces for a family that's only ever used her as a scapegoat. She doesn't want to be Oliver's villain. She doesn't want to be a shitty wife or a shitty mother or a shitty person. She doesn't want to lie in bed all day or sit on the couch and drink and read the same sentence in her book over and over again. She doesn't want to ignore her daughter because she's so tired and so ruined that she can't even try to be a mom. She doesn't want to do everything in halves because she can't remember how to be whole. She doesn't want to be tender and kind and soft and merciful nor does she want to be hard and rigid and unforgiving and uptight and full of rage. She doesn't want to grieve anymore because, at this point, she can't even remember who she's grieving for. Is it Tommy? Sara? Herself?

She doesn't want to be numb and she definitely doesn't want to feel. She floats through her life like a ghost, unrecognizable, trapped in a body with a broken mind that has been rapidly deteriorating at least since she got pregnant, probably long before, and she can't do it anymore. She doesn't want to be here and she can't be there. So what's left? She can't keep waiting for things to get better because they're never going to get better. Things don't get better. Not for her. They only ever get worse. Trauma will just keep chipping away at her until she's gone. What is she supposed to do? What choices are left?

If it had been her instead of Tommy who died in that building... That would have been better.

It would have been better.

When Sam goes inside, she looks at her family, all of them standing so close together, and her, apart from them, on the other side.

They will never love her.

Not the way she loves them.

''Laurel.'' It's Oliver who addresses her. He still looks fed up. ''Laurel, look at me.''

She does what he says.

''You know this isn't fair,'' he tells her.

She laughs, but it's an ugly sound. Sounds more like she's choking. She keeps her eyes on him for a second and tries to remember how she ever could have loved this man or why she still feels, on the good days, some misguided fondness for him. She draws a blank. ''None of this,'' she says, ''was fair.''

Miraculously, he shuts his mouth.

''There's a strip mall about three blocks in that direction,'' she says, directing her attention back to her family, pointing off to the left. ''There's a Chinese restaurant there. We eat there all the time.''

''Laurel,'' Dad says.

''You can continue your family dinner there,'' she says, ignoring him completely. ''Or don't. I don't care what you do. All I know is that you need to leave. Now.''

''This isn't how this was supposed to go,'' he says quietly.

She thinks she should laugh at that. Bitterly. She just looks at him. Glances from him to Mom to Sara and then back to Oliver, still soaking wet. ''This was always how this was going to go,'' she says, deadpan, and then she turns her back on all four of them and walks away.

.

.

.

November, 2016

It has been exactly one week and one day.

This is not, objectively, a long time. A drop in the bucket, her grandfather would say. Still, a lot of life can happen in one week. It feels like it's been a long time. The minutes and the hours and the days have stretched out, created an awkward distance, put up an invisible wall between them.

Laurel stares at the door in front of her, fingers tight around the cup of coffee she bought from the new restaurant across the street. She has been standing here for five minutes now, trying to work up the nerve to knock on the door. She's nearly finished her stupidly overpriced - but fantastic, she has to admit - cup of coffee. She probably shouldn't have wasted money on the coffee. Or risked the public outing. She was procrastinating.

She takes a few steps away from the door. She doesn't know why she's so nervous. It's just Oliver. She's known him since she was fourteen. Although they've never been magically bound before. That's the difference. In her defense, she hasn't been actively avoiding him. She's tried calling him four times over the past week. He's the one who hasn't picked up.

It's just been a busy week. She got one day of relative calm to celebrate her newfound health and energy and then Mary brought home a cold from preschool. Laurel has spent the entire week knee deep in taking care of her sick baby. She hasn't had time to come down here and have this conversation. She doesn't even know how to have this conversation.

She takes another sip of the coffee. That new place across the street has amazing coffee. She thinks they might put chicory in it. Dean would love it. She takes a few more leisurely sips of her coffee, purely to kill time, but there is only so much coffee left in her cup. She can't stand here all day.

She drains the rest of her coffee and then she reaches out and knocks on the door. There is no answer. She gives it a few minutes, trying to come up with an icebreaker, and then she knocks again. Still no answer. She hadn't been expecting that. She had been so sure he was home today. It's Sunday. She knows for a fact that he spends his Sundays the exact same way. Working out, grocery shopping, and catching up on emails. Felicity used to complain that he never even wanted to go out for dinner on Sundays. If Laurel didn't know better, she would almost think that sounded lonely. But she does know better. He so rarely gets a moment of peace to himself without violence, brooding, or some wacky villain interrupting his life. His Sundays must be precious. She knows hers sure used to be.

She checks her watch. All right, one more try and then she's going home. She rings the doorbell this time, even though she knows he hates that.

It does the trick.

It takes about three minutes but finally, the door opens and there's Oliver. In all his glory. Literally. He opens the door in nothing but a towel, skin still glistening with water droplets. ''Laurel!'' He looks surprised to see her, but he smiles. On his arm, there is a tattoo of winding vines, creeping all the way to his fingertips. Just likes hers. ''Hi. Sorry, I...'' She can see the tips of his ears turning red. ''I wasn't expecting you.''

She arches an eyebrow. ''This is how you answer the door?''

''I was in the shower!''

''This is like a reverse strippergram.''

''You're hilarious,'' he says sarcastically, though she can tell he wants to laugh. He moves aside to let her into the loft and she steps inside, smirking lightly as she passes him by.

''Sorry to interrupt your shower,'' she says as he shuts the door behind her. ''I was just in the neighborhood so I thought I'd drop by and - '' She stops short.

Thea is sitting on the couch. She looks incredibly tense and she's talking into her phone, voice low, angry, and very, very fast. There's an untouched sandwich and fries sitting in front of her and a Diet Coke getting warm next to it. She doesn't look up when Laurel enters. She's so focused she doesn't even appear to realize Oliver's there.

Laurel turns back to Oliver. ''Did she not hear me knocking?''

''Oh, I don't think she's hearing much of anything right now,'' he says. ''She's in a rage bubble.'' He laughs, but it's unconvincing. ''We have a small problem.''

''A small problem.''

''Well, I think it's a small problem.''

''What does she think?''

''That it's a large problem.'' He looks over at Thea. ''Have you ever heard of Vicki Vale?''

''Vicki Vale,'' Laurel repeats, surprised. ''Yeah, of course. Journalist over in Gotham City. She won a Pulitzer Prize.''

''That she did,'' he nods. ''Apparently, she has a nephew. Ayden Vale. He's a blogger. Considers himself the next Vicki Vale. He's a dick.''

She's not loving where this is going.

Vicki Vale's most popular pieces have had nothing to do with vigilantism. She won a Pulitzer in 2011 for a series exposing the rampant corruption within the local government and police department in Gotham. In 2014, she was nominated for a longform piece about the murders of Dr. Thomas Wayne and his wife Martha and the legacy they left behind on the shoulders of their son Bruce. None of that has anything to do with vigilantism.

But she does have an interest in this brand new vigilante era. She's made that very clear over the past year or so. She's talked about her interest in them in interviews, on her social media, even wrote a well-received article about The Flash and the subsequent revitalization of Central City. The article was primarily about The Flash, but it did have a mention or two of Green Arrow and the Star City vigilantes. It even brought up that urban legend from Gotham City. The Batman or whatever he's called. It was enough to raise Oliver's hackles.

Ms. Vale is an incredibly prolific journalist and she has quite a knack for, well, unmasking. For lack of a better term. If she wanted to expose the identities of any vigilante, she could. No doubt about that. If her blogger nephew is anything like her, Oliver could be in real trouble should Ayden Vale set his sights on the Green Arrow.

''What does he want?'' She asks, taking her sunglasses off and tucking them into the pocket of her green canvas jacket.

''To take me down,'' Oliver says. He sounds profoundly unbothered by this. ''He wrote a blog post about it. It's obnoxious.''

She frowns at his nonchalance. ''Now when you say he wants to take you down, do you mean Oliver Queen or Green Arrow?''

''Me,'' he says. ''Oliver Queen. Mayor of Star City.''

''Really?''

''Yep, Ayden Vale wants to have me impeached.''

''Ayden Vale,'' Thea's voice cuts in, ''is a narcissistic crumb of a man.''

Laurel and Oliver share a look. That's a lot of fury to direct at a blogger.

Oliver still doesn't look particularly concerned about Ayden Vale. He does, however, look concerned about his sister's blood pressure. ''He wrote this stupid fucking think piece,'' Thea seethes, ''about how Oliver's corrupt and how he's not qualified to be Mayor - ''

''He's not qualified to be Mayor,'' Laurel points out.

''Excuse me,'' says Oliver. ''I've seen every episode of The West Wing.''

'' - And he basically ended it with a threat,'' Thea goes on, choosing to ignore everything that was just said. ''He said he was going to make sure Oliver was impeached before the end of the year.''

''I think he might be underestimating how difficult it is to impeach someone,'' Oliver says. ''He better step up if he wants me gone. His post has been up since September and nothing has happened.''

''Wait a minute,'' Laurel holds a hand up. ''This blog post has been up since September?''

''It doesn't matter how long it's been up,'' Thea snaps. ''It's gaining traction now. Look at this.'' She waves her phone in front of Oliver's face. ''The hit count is going up by the minute. All because some dude from Wired decided to retweet it last night.''

''Yeah, to laugh at him.''

''It doesn't matter why he did it! Not everyone is laughing,'' she insists. ''A lot of people think he's right. Public opinion about you has been split down the middle from the beginning. If you want to be reelected - ''

''Speedy, I'm not even a year into my first term,'' Oliver cuts in gently. ''Do you think now is the time to - ''

''Yes,'' she says bluntly. ''Ollie, you making it into City Hall was a fluke. You didn't even win your first election.''

''I would have,'' he says, and then pauses. ''At least I think I would've.'' ''Your next campaign needs to be a priority,'' she informs him. ''No matter how far away it is. It's going to be a rough ride and you need to prepare for that. What's best for this city is for you to be in office. We need to make sure you stay there.''

Laurel bites her tongue to keep from saying anything. She understands that Thea means it's best to keep Oliver in office for the vigilantes, but as a Mayor... Meh. He spent taxpayers' money on a statue of his dead ex, he slashed the parks department's budget in half, and he greenlit the well-intentioned but ultimately poorly thought out bike lanes in Orchid Bay. It's not like he's the world's greatest mayor. It's not like he's the worst either. He's just sort of okay. There is an adjustment period and she's content to give him a little grace as he gets used to his new position, but acting like he's the city's last hope is overstating things.

''He's written other inflammatory posts about you,'' Thea says. ''And they're just going to keep coming. Especially if he gains an audience. I don't know why he has such a vendetta against you, but he does and if he gets enough supporters we could be in deep shit. We're out of our depth here. It wouldn't take long for him to figure that out and latch onto every weak spot he finds. You're floundering - ''

''I wouldn't say I'm floundering.''

'' - And that could be a huge problem. And what happens if he gets his aunt on board?''

''He won't. She doesn't even follow him on twitter.''

''You have a lot of secrets. She could dig them up in a week. I'm not just talking about Green Arrow. I'm talking about everything. Everything you did back in your party days, what happened to you on Lian Yu, William and Samantha...''

Oliver stiffens at the mention of William's name, and his expression darkens. He doesn't say anything but he no longer looks blasé about the whole thing. ''Then we need to shut him down.''

''I'm working on it,'' she says. ''But it's not like he's done anything illegal and he's ignoring my calls and emails. He's super annoying.'' He scowls. ''He spells his name with a Y. Who spells Ayden with a Y? That's stupid. That's as stupid as his smug face.'' She looks down at her phone for a second, scrolling, still grumbling about Ayden's face, and when she does look up at her brother again, she looks startled.

He, in turn, looks startled that she looks startled. ''What?''

''Um, ew.'' She steps back, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and mild to moderate revulsion. ''Are you naked? Have you been naked this whole time?'' She points to the stairs with one of her perfectly manicured red nails. ''Go put some clothes on. Your company is currently your ex-girlfriend and your little sister. This is inappropriate.''

He stares at her, mouth open, and then looks over at Laurel, seemingly desperate for some help.

She pats him on the shoulder. ''Go finish your shower,'' she advises. ''I'll keep your tornado company.''

He looks between them and then turns to trudge back up the stairs. The tension in his body is far more obvious than it was only moments prior. She has a feeling Thea really got in his head with the William name drop. His son is an extremely raw wound for him. She can understand why. She can't even want to think about how it must feel to have to send your child away knowing you will most likely never see them again. It would be excruciating. Even knowing it's for the best wouldn't lessen the pain. She could never do it. Oliver's feelings about William do not appear to have changed much over the past several months. Everyone knows better than to mention either William or Samantha in his presence.

Laurel watches him walk away and then turns back to Thea. ''I think you stressed him out.''

''He should be stressed out,'' she gripes. ''I'm stressed out.''

''Okay.'' Laurel gestures to Thea's phone. ''Let me see the post.''

Thea pulls up the offending blog post and hands the phone over before heading back over to the couch.

The post on Ayden Vale's blog is longwinded and obnoxious. It takes Laurel maybe a paragraph to figure out two important things:

One: Ayden Vale is no Vicki Vale. They are not comparable in any way. They are not playing in the same league. They're not even in the same hemisphere.

Two: He seems deeply unpleasant. Every word he's written just drips with sarcasm, entitlement, and resentment. Worse, he seems so proud of that. He flaunts his bitterness like it's a badge of honor. He's like a bad caricature of a skeevy journalist.

He does make a few fair points about Oliver's qualifications - or lack thereof - but most of what he's written is wildly harsh, sensationalized, and just plain mean spirited. He even goes in on the Black Canary statue and, in a more hurtful move, the woman behind the mask. There's an entire section about her.

Why is there no public memorial for the victims of the Undertaking or any of the other countless attacks this city has been forced to suffer through as a direct result of the Green Arrow's recklessness?

It's a fair question, but the way he talks specifically about her is so flippantly cruel.

Surely there are victims of a crime more deserving of a memorial as grandiose as the one Oliver Queen commissioned - using taxpayers' dollars, I might add - for his high school girlfriend. Ms. Lance was not our hero. We never asked for her. She was a foolish, arrogant girl who had to drape herself in leather and buckles to mean anything. She dressed herself up like a silly action figure because she knew what she was doing was wrong. She was killed whilst actively engaging in illegal activity. Why should we, the citizens of this city, have to pay for Mr. Queen's grief simply because he is the Mayor? Should all criminals be sainted when their reckless behavior ends with their demise? Or just the ones he's slept with?

I mean...

He's not entirely wrong but he doesn't have to say it like that.

She finds the use of the word ''girl'' to be especially demeaning. Especially considering it takes her two seconds to look at his profile and find out he is five years younger than her.

She understands the statue was a bad idea. It was a physical representation of Oliver's guilt and grief and he should not have burdened the people of this city (and their wallets) with it. She even understands, to a point, Vale's dislike of vigilantes. When you make the choice to become a vigilante, you have to realize that not everyone will appreciate what you do. She has known that from the minute she put on that mask. She expected it. She just didn't expect it to sting quite this much. Everything he wrote about her reduces her to nothing more than some dumb criminal Oliver Queen used to fuck.

She reads and re-reads the piece while Thea picks at her cold fries and slurps her Diet Coke. Laurel looks up after a few minutes of silence, glances over at Thea briefly to ask her a question, and promptly has to do a double take. There is a big black spider crawling up the younger woman's throat, creeping up onto her cheek.

Laurel takes a step back, mouth opening in shock, and nearly drops the phone.

Thea turns her head to look at her, raising her eyebrows in concern at the shaken look on Laurel's face. ''What?'' Then she cringes. ''Oh, did you get to the part where he goes in on Black Canary? Sorry, I should've warned you about that.''

There is no spider.

There is nothing crawling its way up Thea's neck. There is nothing there. There never was.

Laurel blinks a few times, mouth working soundlessly until she can find her voice. She's forgotten the question she was going to ask. ''Yes,'' she rasps out. ''He's...'' She attempts a smile. ''He's a little harsh.''

''A little?'' Thea grumbles something under her breath and turns her attention back to her soda. ''He's an asshole,'' she states. ''A bitter asshole.''

Laurel doesn't answer. She is still staring at Thea, heart pounding in her chest, searching for the spider that does not exist. She looks back down at the phone and tries to breathe. Her eyes won't focus on the words anymore. She gives herself another few minutes to calm down. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe it was a shadow.

It wasn't a shadow.

She squeezes her eyes shut, clenching her teeth together. When she manages to get herself together enough to appear convincingly okay, she hands the phone back and sits down on the couch. ''All right,'' she says slowly. ''So he's not a fan.''

Thea snorts around her straw. She pulls the can of soda away from her mouth, looks at the stairs to make sure her brother is still gone, and leans in close to Laurel. There is still no trace of any spider. ''Did any part of that article make you think - ''

''Oh yeah, you've got a mole in your office,'' Laurel says with a nod. She does her best to shake off what just happened and focus on this absurd blogger. ''100%. There was way too much detail about how Ollie conducts his staff meetings.''

''Ugggh.'' Thea pouts and slouches back against the couch, boneless. ''I think I'm having a heart attack,'' she moans, rubbing at her forehead. ''Or a stroke. What does a stroke feel like?''

''I can't help you there,'' Laurel says, but then brightens and offers, ''I can tell you what an embolism feels like.''

Thea does not appear to find that joke funny.

Laurel watches the poor stressed out kid collapse back against the cushions of the couch, staring up at the ceiling morosely. It's times like these that she is struck by the fact that Thea is only twenty one years old. She should not be running City Hall. That should not be her responsibility. Oliver shouldn't have put that on her shoulders. He is her older brother. It's his job to protect her, not throw her to the wolves. She's a kid. She should be out doing...young adult things.

Whatever that is.

Laurel's not entirely sure. She was boring when she was twenty-one. She did lose it for a few years after the boat went down, but she's not exactly keen on advocating for Thea to go out and do the shitty things Laurel did while she was staggering through grief and trying to get through law school. She just wants her to go out and have some fun. Go dancing with her friends. Meet new people. Take an internship somewhere fun. Take a job that has something to do with fashion or journalism. Spend too much money on midnight takeout after the club. Laugh too loudly in the back of a cab. Maybe even break a few hearts. Just something other than cleaning up Oliver and Laurel's messes. She's spent the past seven and a half months managing Oliver and acting as a nanny for Mary. She shouldn't have to do those things when she is barely old enough to drink and still keeps her childhood teddy bear on her bed.

Thea moves her hand away from her face. She looks up at Laurel expectantly. ''What do I do?''

''What do you mean?''

''I mean,'' she stresses, ''what do I do? I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth and I took six months of online business classes. What do I do?''

''You let your brother handle this,'' Laurel says instantly, firmly. ''This is his problem. You can't be expected to do everything.''

Thea stares at her, puzzled. Then she frowns and wrinkles her nose in disagreement. ''I can't do that.''

''Thea.''

''He'll just let this whole thing fester!''

''Sweetie, you're twenty-one. You're just a kid.''

Thea looks back at the ceiling to avoid looking at her. ''I've never been just a kid.''

That is one of the saddest things Laurel has ever heard, but it's also true. Oliver and Thea have had tremendous privilege in their lives but the one luxury they were never awarded was the luxury of a childhood. Their parents adored them, but they treated them like little adults from the beginning. Instead of braiding her hair or teaching her how to ride a bike, Moira and Robert taught Thea proper posture, how to schmooze with investors, and how to be graceful under public scrutiny. The bits and pieces of normalcy Thea had when she was a little girl were stolen, smuggled into her stuffy life by Raisa, Oliver and Tommy, even Laurel.

Things got even worse when the boat went down. Thea spent her formative years getting drunk and high, shoplifting, and hanging around with a bunch of Gossip Girl rejects while Moira pretended it wasn't happening.

Moira and Robert Queen loved their children dearly and they did have warmth in them, but reputation came first. In the high society life they lived, children were to be seen and not heard. They raised successors. They didn't raise individuals. Look how that turned out.

Thea's a ball of stress in heels, she's halfway to an ulcer and acts like a forty five year old CEO in the body of a twenty one year old, and Oliver is... Well. Oliver.

They never had a chance.

Laurel studies Thea's pensive, broody expression, so much like her brother's. Still no spider anywhere in sight.

Another consequence of an unusual childhood is the way it can affect the bond between siblings. Especially if there's an age gap between them. It's either going to push them together or tear them apart. She is well aware of that. She can't say she necessarily has firsthand experience with that because she and Sara had a rather normal childhood, but she sure as hell has witnessed the long term side effects of it. She is married to a Winchester, after all. Her husband and brother in law are the poster children for trauma bonding and forced parentification.

No matter what Laurel says Thea will never leave Oliver. He gave her love, affection, and attention when she needed it the most. He made her laugh. Took her to the movies on her birthday. Protected her from thunderstorms. She will never leave his side. This job could drive her to the point of collapse and she will still remain by his side.

Laurel considers her options. She doesn't have many. ''I would start with discrediting Vale,'' she finally says.

Thea looks up, hopeful. ''How do I do that?''

''You're going to need to do some digging,'' Laurel advises. ''And you need to find the mole, obviously.''

''Yes. Good. I like that plan.'' Thea sits up. ''How do I find the mole?''

''Thorough background checks on your employees.''

''We do that before we hire them.''

''I'm talking deep dives into their lives. Ask Felicity to help you. You'll need to comb through their social media profiles, find out their routines, learn about their families, their spouses, what they eat for lunch. If I were you, I'd work on shuffling the playing board. Move people around. Tell them you're short staffed and give them jobs they wouldn't normally have. Keep an eye on Vale's blog and look for the corresponding details.''

Thea nods slowly, taking it in. ''I can do that.'' She makes a note of it on her phone, fingers flying. After a moment of nothing but her typing away on her keypad, she asks, ''Can I ask you a question?''

''Shoot.''

''Do most Mayors have PR people?'' She finishes up with her phone for now and puts it on the table, reaching for her soda. ''Or would that look bad? I don't know what's normal here.''

''Completely normal,'' Laurel says. ''Most local governments have PR departments.''

''Right, but I'm talking a personal publicist. It wouldn't make him look bad?''

''Why would it make him look bad? He's a public figure.'' She steals a few fries from Thea's lunch. ''I'd even call him a local celebrity. People have been following along with the Queen family saga for years. Even more so after he came home. I think most people in his situation would have a publicist.''

Thea chews on her straw. ''It wouldn't make him look like he has issues with publicity?''

''He does have issues with publicity,'' Laurel reminds her. ''I think it's best to be transparent about that. Maybe people will appreciate the honesty.''

''Hmm.'' Thea looks thoughtful. ''All right.'' She looks up and her eyes light up when she spots Oliver on the stairs. ''Ollie!'' She leaps to her feet and bounds over to him to excitedly chirp out, ''I'm resigning as your Chief of Staff!''

He freezes. ''You're - ''

''Wait.'' Laurel snaps back to attention, stunned. ''What?''

''I'm resigning as your Chief of Staff,'' Thea repeats. ''I'll stay on until the end of the year to help you find a replacement but then I'm out.''

''Thea.'' Poor Oliver looks dazed. ''What are you talking about?''

''I'm not qualified for the position.''

''So?!'' He is definitely starting to panic. ''I'm not qualified for my position either but I'm doing it!''

Laurel cocks her head to the side slightly. Odd way to go, but okay. She crosses one leg over the other and steals another fry. Frankly, she has to admit that the political drama going on in the background of her life is almost relaxing in comparison to everything else. She understands it far better than she understands witchcraft.

''Dude, relax,'' Thea intones, holding up a hand to halt big brother's frantic denial. ''I'm still staying on. Just not as your Chief of Staff. I'm thinking publicist instead.''

''You - ''

''PR is already 99% of what I spend most of my time doing,'' she points out. ''I may not technically be qualified for that position either, but I am damn good at it. I'm not even going to pretend to be modest about it. I'm so good at PR. That's where my focus should be.'' She says it all so firmly and resolutely, confident and sure of her decision. Despite the apparent suddenness of the announcement, Laurel gets the impression this is not a split second decision. ''Let's be honest,'' Thea continues. ''City Hall is a mess. If we want to stay in office, we need to work with what we've got and play to our strengths. I think what's best is to officially move me into PR, hire someone capable and qualified to handle the Chief of Staff position, and work hard to get Captain Lance into the Deputy Mayor position by the new year. I'd even say preferably by Christmas.''

Oliver says nothing. He appears to still be in the shock phase of his reaction by the looks of it.

Laurel has to admit that Thea makes a good point. She's not sure about the idea of her father taking on the position of Deputy Mayor - and neither is he - but everything else does make sense. ''I think she's right,'' she says, drawing his attention to her. ''She does excel at PR.''

''It's not like I'm leaving you in the lurch,'' Thea assures him. ''I'll still be right by your side. Possibly even more so than I am now. As your publicist, I'm going to be breathing down your neck.''

He pinches the bridge of his nose and then says, weakly, ''You're ruining my Sunday.''

''It's for the best, Ollie.'' She reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. ''Are you okay with this?''

He shakes his head wildly. ''No!''

It doesn't deter her in the slightest. ''Great!'' She turns around to grab her shoes from under the table. ''Listen, I have some trash to take out so I should get started on that. Also, you need a new personal assistant because Bethany's decided to open up that taco truck with her husband and I need to start looking at resumes.''

''It's Sunday,'' Laurel says.

Thea looks up from putting on her shoes. ''So?''

''So it's a day of rest.''

''There's no rest in politics.'' She shrugs on her jacket and grabs her purse from on top of the coffee table. She's already on her phone again, fingers moving unnervingly fast. ''I might be home late,'' she says. ''Tell Dean not to expect me for dinner.''

''Just don't work too hard. And don't go too hard on Vale right away,'' Laurel warns. ''He'll just dig his heels in and keep attacking.''

Thea nods but doesn't look up from her phone this time. ''Got it.'' She finally looks up to send Laurel a grateful smile and then turns to Oliver. ''There's a club sandwich on toasted rye with no mayo and extra bacon. The fries suck. I'd toss those. You can have the sandwich for dinner instead of having another sad bachelor meal of gas station beef jerky. I'll just steal a protein bar from your desk.''

Oliver, having moved past shock to sulking, doesn't respond.

Thea pokes at his shoulder. ''Did you hear what I said?''

He relents. ''Yes, I heard what you said.''

''Good.'' She looks satisfied. ''I'll see you later. Don't tweet anything without my approval. Okay, bye.'' She kisses his cheek once before turning and flouncing away, calling out over her shoulder as she's leaving, ''Love you!''

Oliver, huffy and pouty, doesn't say it back. He can be such a child sometimes. Once the door has closed behind her, he turns back to Laurel and asks, in the whiniest voice, ''What just happened?''

Laurel offers him a small smile and a shake of her head. ''Your sister works too much,'' she says, before she rises to her feet and starts cleaning up the untouched food. She's not sure why she does it. It's just an instinct. ''She's frighteningly competent. It's a little scary. Reminds me of your mother.'' She gathers up the mostly empty can of soda, her empty coffee cup, and the container with the fries and the sandwich, and heads into the kitchen.

It doesn't take long for Ollie to follow after her. ''I was gone for ten minutes,'' he complains. ''Ten minutes and suddenly she's my publicist?''

''She was always your publicist,'' she reminds him. ''It was never sudden.'' She throws the fries away and makes sure the container with the sandwich is sealed before slipping into the fridge. ''It's already a huge part of her job. Making it official makes sense, don't you think? She shouldn't have to fill two positions.''

''Why didn't she just talk to me?''

''Don't ask me. I wasn't part of her decision.''

He looks reluctant to believe that. ''You didn't say anything to her?''

''No.'' She turns on the faucet, dumping out the remains of the soda and rinsing out the can and her empty coffee cup. She doesn't say anything else to Oliver, busying herself searching for the recycling. That should be the end of it because this isn't her kitchen and it isn't her problem, but there are several dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter, which could use a wipe and it's...bothersome. She takes her jacket off, rolls up the sleeves of her loose fitting black button down blouse, and grabs the dishtowel from the back of the sink. She gives it a quick sniff and rinses it to make sure it's clean before wiping down the counter. She makes quick work of the counter, turns to get the island, and then stops.

Oliver is bent over, elbows on the counter top, thumbs typing away on his phone.

''What are you doing?''

''I'm tweeting,'' he declares. ''Without her approval,'' he adds on, haughtily. ''Because I am a grown up and I can.''

No way is that a battle she cares to wade into.

''Lift,'' she orders.

He dutifully lifts his elbows so she can clean the island.

She grabs a bowl and a mug that look like they've been sitting out since breakfast and puts it in the sink, turning the faucet to hot to let it soak. The bowl still has bits of crusty, congealed oatmeal glued to the sides. Oliver is officially worse than her four year old. She busies herself with wiping away toast crumbs from the island while he revenge tweets, brushing them into her hand and then dumping them into the trash. Which, by the way, looks like it needs to be taken out.

''Uh.'' He sounds cautious. ''Laurel?'' She looks up shortly. He's tucked his phone away for now and he is now staring at her with a mixture of amusement and confusion. ''What are you doing?''

''Cleaning.''

''Yes,'' he agrees.

''But why?''

''I don't know.'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''I'm a mom.''

''You use that excuse a lot.''

''It's not an excuse,'' she says, rinsing out the cloth. ''Parents do a lot of things on reflex. When Mary was two, we were lying in bed and I was half asleep. She threw her stuffed giraffe at me and I laid it down next to me and started rubbing its belly because that's what I do for her. Just last week, I watched Dean cut his brother's dinner into bite-sized pieces because he was distracted and he just did it automatically. He even handed him the fork with the food on it.'' She grabs the trashcan from under the sink and takes out the nearly overflowing bag.

It occurs to her, as she's tying up the bag, that Thea can also be a haphazardly messy person. When she first moved in with them, they had to teach her how to wash dishes both with the dishwasher and by hand, how to do her own laundry, how to separate garbage from recycling and composting, and they were constantly nagging her to pick up after herself.

Another pitfall of waspy parenting. It's not like they're deliberately trying to be lazy. They've just never had to think about these things. They had people for that. The one useful skill they were both taught - courtesy of Raisa - was how to cook. Thea is decently self-sufficient and tidy now because she's had to be but Oliver might still be a work in progress. In his defense, organizational skills probably weren't on the forefront of his mind when he was on a deserted island.

She puts a new bag in the garbage can and places it under the sink. ''You need to take this out,'' she says, holding up the tied up garbage bag. ''Before it starts stinking up the place.'' She turns the tap on to wash her hands and eyes the dirty dishes in the sink. ''And you need to learn to at least put your dishes in the sink to let them soak when you're done with them.''

''You can't tell me what to do,'' he fires back lightly. ''You're not my real mom.''

She throws him a look but can't keep the amused smile from her lips. She locates the dish soap from under the sink and turns the faucet back on to fill the sink. ''Get over here,'' she commands, beckoning him over. ''You can dry.''

''You don't have to do my dishes, Laurel.''

''Yes, I do. It's gonna bug me if I don't.'' She hands him a clean dishtowel as he makes his way over beside her. ''You have a housekeeper, don't you?''

He watches as she fills up the sink with warm, soapy water. ''I gave her the week off because of Thanksgiving.''

She blinks at that. ''It's Thanksgiving already?''

''It's this Thursday.''

She tries not to show her surprise. She hadn't even realized. ''I completely spaced.''

''Thanksgiving isn't your holiday.''

''Yeah,'' she mutters. ''I guess.''

He has a point. It's not a holiday that's normally on her radar but it has never snuck up on her quite like this. Last year was the first time she and Dean had taken advantage of the long weekend to do something family friendly. They'd taken a few trips to Coast City in the past, but last year they took Mary to the Great Wolf Lodge in Grand Mound. It was hectic, crowded, and overwhelming, but Mary loved it. She had the time of her life, splashing around in the pool, eating pizza in a hotel room, all curled up in a fluffy bathrobe, just her and her parents and no one else. They wanted to make that their new tradition. Just the three of them getting out of the city together for a few days. Guess that won't be happening this year.

They could never afford it anyway. She's not even sure they're going to be able to afford much for Christmas. Dean keeps saying it's not a big deal because he spent a lot of money on Mary's birthday and she can handle a lowkey Christmas, but Laurel still feels guilty. It's scary to think about how quickly finances fell apart without her income. Just another reminder of what she did to her family when she died.

''Hey.'' Oliver's voice brings her back and she looks over at him. He's not looking at her, nodding at her hand. ''What's that?''

''What?'' She follows his gaze. ''Oh.'' She looks at the tattoo on the side of her index finger. Three blackbirds in flight. ''My tattoo?''

''Is it new?''

''No.''

''Really? When did you get it?''

''Uh, my 30th birthday?''

He looks baffled. He starts to say something, but stops. Blankly, he accepts the bowl she hands him and starts drying it. She gets started on the other dirty dishes, ignoring his shock. She's not surprised he has never noticed the tattoo. Everyone else commented on it when she first got it. It's not like it's not noticeable. It's on her index finger. It's right there. It was a real bitch to cover up for work. He never said a thing about it. She's never been offended by his silence. It's not his job to notice things about her body. He looks troubled by the oversight. ''I like it,'' he decides after a minute. ''It suits you.''

Yes, she knows. That's why she picked it. ''Thank you.''

''Do you have any other tattoos I haven't seen?''

She looks at him and squints her eyes slightly, trying to figure out if he's serious. When she realizes he is, she raises her eyebrows and gives him what she hopes is a pointed look.

He blushes. ''Right. Not my business.''

She coughs to cover a laugh, keeping her focus on the dishes. They lapse into a companionable quiet. She washes the dishes. He dries them and puts them away. It's nice at first, peaceful, but after a few minutes, a sense of unease settles over her. Doing the dishes is not something she considers to be intimate, but there is something about doing this with Oliver that feels...wrong. Maybe it's just because this is something she normally does with her husband.

Not all the time - they do have a dishwasher, thank god - but after a dinner party, when there are dishes that need to be washed by hand, they have a routine. They tuck Mary into bed and then spend their kid free time washing the dishes. He washes and she dries and there's laughter and she'll sing along with the music he puts on and yeah, it typically ends in canoodling. This is a very different situation, obviously. This is not her kitchen and not her husband. It's the closeness, the simplicity, the ease of the domesticity between them. It's unnerving. It's like a tiny window into what her life could have been.

''I'm sorry I haven't been in touch,'' she blurts out, mostly to fill the silence, anxious to move past this peculiarity.

Oliver looks up from drying a mug. ''Oh, no, that's - Don't worry about it.''

''I did call,'' she says. ''A few times.''

''I - '' He sighs. ''Yes.'' He opens the cupboard to put the mug away. ''You did,'' he says from behind the door. ''I've been busy,'' is all he can come up with once he emerges from his hiding place.

''That's okay,'' she says. ''It's been hectic at my place anyway. Mary's been sick.''

''Nothing serious, I hope.''

''Oh no. Just a head cold. Apparently her fourth bout of sickness since starting preschool.'' She has no idea why she's telling him this. He doesn't care. She's just delaying the inevitable. ''Way easier to deal with than the stomach bug she brought home back in September, according to Dean.''

Oliver laughs a little at that, and then winces. ''I, uh, I actually knew about that one. Thea caught the bug. Then she gave it to me.''

''Oh no, really?'' She cringes in sympathy. ''I'm so sorry. Gotta admit.'' She pauses to hand him another mug. ''Not sorry I missed that one.''

''It wasn't fun,'' he admits. ''But she's okay now?''

''She's still got a nasty cough and she's not exactly the happiest camper.'' That is an understatement. Mary is a terrible patient. Always has been. She is overly clingy and emotional on a good day. Add in an illness and she's a full blown terror. She has been a snotty, whiny, ornery mess for the past week. The fact that neither of her parents have caught her cold so far is something of a miracle given that she has been attached to them 24/7. Laurel literally has to peel her daughter away from Dean when he leaves for work in the morning. She's like an octopus. A really, really obnoxious octopus. ''But she'll be fine,'' she says. ''Kids bounce back quickly.''

''That's good to hear,'' he says.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she hands him another dish. ''What about you?'' She can't help but ask. ''Have you bounced back?''

''What do you - ''

''Oliver.''

There is no need to elaborate.

''I'm fine,'' he tells her. The disbelief must show on her face because he immediately offers her another firm reassurance. ''I'm fine. First few days felt like a bad hangover but I'm good now. Back to normal. I promise.''

She chews on her bottom lip. She finishes up with a few pieces of cutlery and hands them over to him. ''You'll let me know if that changes?''

''I will let you know if that changes,'' he lies. She thinks she's getting better at spotting his lies these days. She didn't used to be able to do that.

She finishes washing the last few dishes and hands them over to him before draining the sink and giving it a rinse.

''So you just came over to check on me?''

She can barely hear his voice over the spray of the faucet. She looks over at him for a second but doesn't respond.

''You can ask me, you know,'' he tells her, once the faucet has been turned off and the last clean dish has been put away.

She snags the towel from him to dry her hands. ''If I do, will you tell me the truth?''

He shoots her a half smile. ''Why don't you ask and find out?''

She moves away from him to take a seat on the other side of the island. He, thankfully, opts not to follow, staying on the other side, hands braced against the counter top. It's almost poetic in a way. At the very least, it is darkly funny. An island in between them. There's always an island.

''Why?'' She finally asks. It's the question she's been waiting to ask for a week now. ''Why did you do this?''

He looks stuck for a minute before he allows a bizarrely lighthearted looking smile to cross his lips. ''What can I say? When a pretty bird calls, I answer.''

Now that's funny.

She has to refrain from rolling her eyes.

He must be able to tell that his joke doesn't land because he sobers, smile faltering. ''I've got your back, Laurel,'' he says. ''Always.''

She looks at him blankly. They're wonderful words. Really, they are. They're not exactly true is the problem. ''That hasn't exactly been my experience, Oliver.''

He winces at the blow, but he doesn't attempt to dispute the fact. ''I know,'' he acknowledges. ''I'm sorry. I'm trying to make up for that. For all the things I've done.''

''Oh.'' She doesn't know why that bothers her so much. She feels like it shouldn't. She feels like that should make her feel better. At least he's trying. ''So this is about absolution.''

''Not absolution,'' he disagrees. ''Penance.''

''I see,'' she says crisply. She should let it go. He's trying. That's all that should matter. It's just... The timing. Is he trying to make up for his mistreatment of her because he's truly sorry or because she died and he feels guilty? She doesn't want to be a project. She doesn't want to be just another stop on one of his many apology tours. She no longer has the patience for that. If they're going to do this, maintain this connection, accept the forever bond, she needs to know he's doing this for a good reason. ''Hitching your wagon to mine is a form of punishment,'' she says, hollow.

He stands up straight, shaking his head. ''That's not what I said.''

''But it's what you meant,'' she pushes. ''My life shouldn't be your punishment.''

''It's not my - '' He stops, breaking off in one of those annoyed, disbelieving scoffs. He looks away from her, shaking his head. ''Laurel,'' he sighs out in that tone of voice that lets her know she's done something wrong. ''You're putting words into my mouth. You always do this. You get defensive and you turn everything into a fight.''

''I turn everything into a fight?''

''I feel like all we've done over the past few years is butt heads.''

''And that's all my fault?''

''I'm not saying it's all your fault,'' he retorts. ''I'm just - Laurel.'' He shakes his head again. She can tell he's getting frustrated by the fidgety movements and the way his voice has deepened. He's trying for soft, she knows, but all he's getting is condescending. ''Do you always have to be the victim?''

She's too stunned to respond to that. She would love to be anything but a victim but she keeps having that choice taken away from her. For the record, she has never considered herself to be his victim. Has she been a victim indirectly because of him? Yes. But she's not his victim. Truthfully, if she laid it all out, everything about their relationship when they were kids, everything about this strained fondness between them since he came back, she's not sure how it would look. She's not sure what conclusions other people would draw from this. But she knows she has never felt like his victim. She doesn't want to give him that kind of power.

''I tried to do something good,'' Oliver goes on, ''and now you're interrogating me so you can assign some dark ulterior motive to it. And you do this, Laurel, you do. You look for any excuse to make me the bad guy in your story.''

She's not sure what the proper response to that is. Briefly, she considers apologizing but she has no idea what she would be apologizing for. She remains rigid and silent in her seat. Whatever he's hoping to get out of her by unleashing on her, she can't give him. She has an urge to ask him if he feels better now, but she's not sure that will help.

''All right,'' she says dully. ''You win. I'll go.'' She hops off the seat and grabs her discarded jacket, shrugging into it. ''I'm glad you're okay. Please let me know if you start feeling sick or fatigued. And just FYI,'' she can't help but add. ''You're not the bad guy in my story, Oliver. You're an asshole, but you're not the bad guy. You never were.''

She's willing to leave it there. It's not what she would call a satisfactory conversation. It's certainly not ending things on a good note. But she doesn't know what he wants from her. She makes it all the way to the front door. She's just opening up the front door when Oliver reappears. He pops up, butting into her space and putting one hand on the door to close it. It startles her more than it should. She grits her teeth.

''Wait,'' he begs. ''Please wait.'' She's not sure why he's bothering to plead when he's got her caged in. ''That wasn't how I wanted that to go.''

''No?'' She keeps her eyes on the door. He is way too close for her comfort right now. ''Because you sure unloaded on me real quick.''

''It's not about punishment,'' he says. ''That's not why I did this. I'm... Okay.'' He sucks in a breath. ''Listen. What I learned when you died - ''

''What you learned?'' She snaps her attention to him. The jolt of movement catches him off guard and he draws his hand back and, thankfully, steps out of her space. ''I didn't realize I was a lesson.''

''Maybe that's the wrong way to put it.''

''No. Please. Tell me what you learned. Tell me what my broken body taught you,'' she spits out. Now it's her turn to be a bitch. This is a completely unfair tangent. She'll own that. She's miffed about before and she's retaliating. That, and...

Do you know he's not the first person to say something like that? To insinuate her death was homework? Her father did that too. He told her what he had learned. Even Sam talked to her about the things Dean had ''learned about himself'' during the months she was gone. People keep acting like her brutal murder was some harsh but necessary life lesson they needed to learn. Something they needed to go through to better themselves.

An arrow went through her lung.

Oliver's arrow. One he fired. She drowned in her own blood. She lost a baby. Her husband watched her convulse and die right in front of him. Her daughter went to sleep one night and woke up the next morning with a dead mom. Her family was traumatized. She was traumatized. One act of violence stole everything from her. She died slow and scared and in pain, stripped of her dignity, reduced to nothing more than a chew toy between men. And these people, mostly men, want to tell her what they learned from it?

Fuck their lessons.

She has violent, terrifyingly vivid nightmares every single night. She knows part of that is the witch who yanked her back; clunking around in her head, sifting through trauma, screaming to be noticed, but part of it is just the aftermath of what happened. These men desperately searching for meaning in her trauma, her blood, her violent murder can take what they have learned and they can choke on it. She sure did.

''Why don't you explain to me,'' she snarls, ''what it was you couldn't understand until I choked on my own blood for you.''

Oliver looks small all of a sudden. He looks like he regrets bringing that up. ''You know, Laurel,'' he tries. ''You did die a hero. I want you to know that.''

''Yeah,'' Laurel swallows a sneer. ''Did I?''

''You died fighting for this city and the people in it,'' he says. ''You earned your place.''

''I guess I thought I had already earned my place,'' she says. How silly of her. She sinks onto a chair in the living room and wonders how he can consistently manage to make her feel so tired. It's ironic that he's the one giving her energy and keeping her alive when historically speaking, it's normally the opposite.

''I was talking about the history books,'' he says. He hesitantly takes a few steps over to her and then stops, unsure. ''You cemented yourself as an unflinchingly loyal and beloved part of this city. Do you know that?'' He takes a seat on the couch across from her so he can meet her eyes. ''What you were,'' he starts. ''What you are... You don't happen twice.'' He gives her a tentative smile. ''You're a legend. Everyone loves you.''

She thinks she can say, with a fair amount of certainty, that Ayden Vale does not love her.

''You earned that love and that trust as Black Canary,'' he continues. ''That's something I've never been able to do. Not the way you did it.'' They're lovely words. They're sweet and warm and kind. It's a glowing review from the OG vigilante himself. Considering how he reacted when she first suited up, his words should mean a lot right now. They don't ring true at all. He's saying these words because he feels guilty and maybe even because he missed her. Not because they're true.

''They only love me because I'm dead,'' she says. ''And because I'm the first vigilante to be unmasked.''

There is a strange phenomenon that happens when a public figure dies. They become a saint. Suddenly everyone loves them. Their follower count goes up on social media, things they may have said are passed around as inspiration, tributes and condolences pour in from around the globe. People press pause on their hectic daily lives to mourn. Or at least to appear as if they are mourning. It's always been a thing but the existence of social media has egged that behavior on in a big way.

In this current climate, this nonstop 24/7 news cycle, this world of Twitter and Instagram and TMZ and hipsters desperate for validation through likes and retweets, you are either a hero or a villain. Problematic or unproblematic. Pure or trash. Worthy or cancelled.

''People love a tragedy,'' she says. ''They love a spectacle even more.''

Her death and the media storm that followed Oliver's speech at her funeral was nothing if not a spectacle. Her father's forced retirement and the formal press conference held by the SCPD in early June only served to fan those flames. Their exact statement was: ''We believe there is sufficient evidence to tie late Star City ADA Dinah Laurel Lance to numerous crimes committed by the vigilante known as Black Canary.''

They literally used the word ''crimes.'' They publicly labeled her a criminal. Opened an investigation into her family and everything. The internet paid attention, took it all in, and then decided, just like that, ''Nah.'' There were countless articles written about her. There were memorials and defenses and condemnations and love letters and profiles and interviews with anyone they could get to agree to one. Op-eds that used phrases like ''indelible mark'' and ''beloved heroine.''

Law enforcement branded her a criminal.

The internet dubbed her a superhero.

People, especially younger generations and most notably young woman, latched onto her so hungrily it was as if they saw her as some sort of modern day messiah.

Except not a single second of that posthumous notoriety was even remotely real. Not in her opinion anyway.

The world is a scary place and it gets scarier the more you pay attention. They needed someone to look up to and she, being dead and unable to disappoint, was an easy God.

''I'm only popular because they can put a face to the name,'' her voice is flat. ''They can act like I'm the People's Princess of vigilantism because I'm dead. The dead aren't people anymore. They can't make mistakes.'' She smiles wryly. ''They love me because I'm safe and they need that. And that's fine. But...'' She trails off, taking a deep breath. ''None of it is real. None of it matters.''

''I think you're wrong about that,'' Oliver says. ''Just because they need you doesn't make their love for you any less real. You mattered, Laurel. You matter.''

She doesn't want to talk about her ''fame.'' It makes her feel anxious and oddly embarrassed. She made the mistake of googling herself the other night and spent the night tossing and turning, unable to get the newfound pressure off her chest. She never wanted to be a household name. That's why she wore the mask.

''I didn't die a hero,'' she says. ''That's not what happened. I didn't even get to be a person that night. I was just a thing.'' She looks down at her nails, picking away at her cuticles. ''I was a pawn in a game I didn't even know I was playing. I was slaughtered,'' she says. It's the only fitting description she can come up with for what happened to her. It's harsh, blunt, and cruel, but so was her death.

She lifts her eyes back to him. She doesn't add on the part where the only reason it even happened was to make him and her father feel bad. She doesn't tell him that Darhk took everything from her. She doesn't tell him about the baby. She doesn't tell him how scared she was that night. How much it hurt. How she knew she wasn't going to make it home. Even when the doctor said her chances were good, she just knew. Telling him that wouldn't do an ounce of good.

''It was a gruesome display of violence and misogyny,'' she tells him plainly. ''Nothing more. I appreciate what you're trying to do and what you tried to do with that statue, I promise you I do, but you can't make what happened to me beautiful or heroic.''

Oliver looks at her closely for a long time. ''No,'' he finally says. ''I can't. I'm sorry.'' That's all he can give her.

She looks back down at her hands. She can tell he's still looking at her intently, but he's not saying anything. Maybe he doesn't know what to say.

''I needed you to know that when you jump, I'll be there to catch you.'' His voice, when he says this, is solemn and heartfelt. At least for now. She can never be sure if his devotion is permanent or just a fleeting thing. She's learned to be guarded. ''I should've asked before I stepped in,'' he says. ''That's on me. But you needed someone to help you. I wanted to help you. It really is that simple.''

She can't help but narrow her eyes in suspicion. ''Is it?''

''I feel like most people would just say thank you,'' he jokes. ''Send some flowers. A card. Maybe an edible arrangement.''

She allows a small smile to grace her lips as she meets his eyes. ''Thank you, Ollie.''

He gives her a bashful nod. ''You're welcome.'' He smiles back at her and for one brief second, she can almost see the boy she loved looking back at her. It's been so long since she's seen him.

There are a lot of reasons she is still unsure about this connection between them, but she supposes she will take him at his word. She can't fault him for wanting to help. She can't say she wouldn't have done the same thing if the situations had been reversed. In any case, what's done is done. Maybe it doesn't matter why he did it. He did it. There's no going back now. The connection is there now, an invisible red string of fate tying them to each other for the rest of their lives. They're going to have to learn to live with that.

It's not that she's ungrateful. She will forever be in debt to him for this act of selflessness, however unexpected it was, and she knows that. She's just scared.

''I should get going,'' she says at last, offering him another quick smile before she rises to her feet. ''I have to get back to Mary and you probably want to get back to your lazy Sunday.''

''Yeah, my lazy Sunday full of paperwork,'' he says, following her suit and getting to his feet. ''You're interrupting a real party here.''

She plasters a grin on her face as he steps closer to her and hopes he doesn't notice how apprehensive it looks. She's trying to decide if she should hug him or not. She's not one to shy away from hugs, but this is strange situation they've gotten themselves into. She wonders how long it will take for the awkwardness to fade. ''Thank you again,'' she says sincerely. She still doesn't hug him. ''I'm sure I'll see you soon. I'll probably call to check on you a lot. You're going to get sick of me.''

''Somehow,'' he says quietly, ''I doubt that.''

''Watch that charm of yours now,'' she says lightly, slipping her sunglasses back over her eyes. ''We'll call you if there are any leads, but I think the next few days should be fairly chill. It's a holiday, maybe this witch will ease up for once.'' She assumes that's it. They've cleared the air as much as they can. Now it's time to move on. She doesn't even make it to the door. She only takes a few steps away from him before he speaks up again.

''I missed you.''

She stops. She doesn't turn around, too hesitant to face him, something about the tone of his voice giving her pause.

''I miss you,'' he says. ''I think I'll miss you for the rest of my life.''

Slowly, she turns around.

He looks tired. He didn't before, just a few seconds ago, but he does now. The kind of tired you feel when you're scared. ''What I did...'' He stops and frowns, clearly struggling. He doesn't look like he wants to be saying these things, but here they are. ''I know there could be consequences. I understand the risks. I know all this - magic and witches and spells...'' He shakes his head, brows furrowing momentarily. ''It's not my world.''

When he pauses again, Laurel has this flash. This brief static interruption, jagged pieces of a hazy memory of...something. She remembers every second of every moment before she was stabbed. She remembers how that day went. How completely and utterly normal it was, until it wasn't. She remembers the prison riot. She remembers Darhk. She remembers the arrow. After, not so much. Just bits and pieces. Shock must have set in immediately. Perhaps she should be grateful for that.

She remembers the pain and how much blood there was and the taste of it and the smell of it and how it felt when she tried to breathe and all she could do was choke on all that blood. And Oliver. She remembers Oliver. He applied pressure to her wound the entire way to the hospital. She couldn't hear any of the things he was saying to her and her vision was fuzzy around the edges so she couldn't really see his face, but she could tell his hands were shaking. She thinks, now, that might have been the moment she understood the gravity of the situation. His hands did not normally shake.

She could tell just by the way he held her that she was not going to be going home to her daughter that night. She remembers that. Even bleeding out in his arms, she can still read him like a book.

''I just couldn't watch you die again,'' Oliver says. ''I couldn't do it. You deserve better.''

She takes off her sunglasses. She would love nothing more than to hide behind them, but she thinks it's best to have this conversation face to face. ''Ollie.''

''What Hanna said about that emptiness...'' He takes a small step in her direction. ''It's nothing new. There's been an emptiness inside of me for almost a decade.''

She is feeling increasingly unsettled with the way this conversation is going.

He doesn't exactly look that comfortable either. He looks, with every word, like he's regretting opening his mouth, but he's in too deep now. He can't stop. He can't take any of it back. ''I know it's my fault,'' he says. ''I know I'm the one who ruined us. I know you could never love me again, but...'' He stops, and she watches a nervous, fleeting smile flicker on his lips. She hasn't seen that smile in nearly a decade. ''It's you, Laurel.'' It's the most confident she's heard him in a long time. He's sounds unwavering, unflinching, and, for a brief moment in time, unafraid. ''It's still you.''

All she can do is stand there, feeling both ambushed and completely unsurprised at the same time. It should not be so surprising that he feels this way. It's not like she wasn't aware of how he felt when he first came back home. She knows he was hoping she would be waiting for him. He's never had even the slightest bit of closure in regards to their relationship. To him, she's still that girl running down to the docks to send him off with a picture of her. To him, their relationship is something frozen in time. It never really ended for him. Coming home to find her pregnant and married must have been quite a shock. She can sympathize with how he must have felt. It's not that strange that he would see them as something unfinished.

She doesn't. Closure, for her, happened the second Moira Queen, pale and barely able to keep herself composed long enough to get the words out, walked into her home and broke the news that Sara was on that boat. Their relationship ended, for her, the moment the reason her sister was on that boat clicked in her mind.

Ten years ago, back when she was that girl, she would have melted if he gave her a speech like this. She would have given anything for him to say anything like this. This is all she wanted. She wanted to be it for him. She wanted her love to mean something. She wanted that happy ending and she wanted it with him. He was all she knew.

It is not ten years ago. Here and now, in the present day, this is not what she wants. What she wants is waiting for her back at home in their cozy house in the suburbs.

''I - I don't know what to say,'' she stammers.

''You don't have to say anything,'' he says immediately, gentle and reassuring. He doesn't even attempt to take another step closer. ''I just wanted you to know,'' he tells her. ''I love you.'' He says that like it's something so simple. A given. The most obvious thing in the world. ''I want you to live. I want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me.''

She can't decide if this is him being noble or selfish. She knows this isn't her problem. She knows it's not her job to fix this. She tries anyway. ''I'm sorry I can't love you the way you want me to.''

''You don't have to be sorry. I understand.''

She shifts from foot to foot, trying to figure out where to go from here. ''I do love you.'' She's not sure if that makes it better or worse. ''You're one of my oldest friends.''

''And you're one of mine,'' he nods. ''You and Thea...'' He looks, without warning, older than he is. Weighed down. They're all so weighed down these days. She loves this city but sometimes it feels like shackles. ''You're the only ones who know...''

''Ollie,'' she finishes.

''Yeah.'' He smiles, looking nostalgic. ''That guy. Kinda miss that idiot sometimes. He was funny.''

A burst of laughter pushes through her lips. ''He certainly thought he was.''

''I'm sorry he could never get his shit together,'' he offers softly. He looks away from her, lips pulled down into frown. She recognizes that look of contrition on his face. It's gotten a lot of mileage over the years. ''I wasn't good to you,'' he says, as if this is somehow brand new information. ''Before the island.''

She fiddles with her sunglasses nervously. ''No.''

''I haven't been very good to you since I got back either.''

''You try,'' she says. ''You try more than you used to.''

''But I still fail.''

She sighs softly, sympathetically, and looks around the loft. The sparse, cold space is void of any personal touches, any family photos, any real clutter that says someone lives here. She thinks to herself how strange that is. How unlike him it is. This isn't anything like his bedroom in the Queen manor. This concrete, unbeating heart of a home. It's not who he is. So much of what he chooses to be now is so unlike Oliver Queen. He's tried so hard to scrub himself of the person he was, step out of Ollie's skin and into someone else's, but this new skin has never fit him right. He never laughs anymore. Sometimes she misses his laugh.

She cautiously moves back over to him, slipping her sunglasses back into her pocket and taking a seat on the chair across from the couch. ''Why do you think that is?''

He smiles. She thinks he's going for cocky or jokey but it looks more self-deprecating and forlorn. ''Maybe I'm too broken.''

''Oh, don't give me that bullshit,'' she says shortly, wiping that self-pitying smile right off his face. ''You're not broken. You're...'' She tilts her head to the side and tries to decide between treading carefully or going with blunt honesty. ''Thoughtless,'' she decides on. ''And you're scared. I guess we could blame your parents for that. Maybe they could have done better at teaching you how to interact with people without acting like you're above them. You're charming, handsome, you can maintain eye contact and smile, mingle with the best of them, but it's no secret you've always had trouble forming and maintaining relationships. That's never been your strong suit. But it's not your parents.'' She leans forward, elbows on her knees. ''Oliver, what happened to you...''

This is the part where she needs to be careful. He's already clammed up, torn his eyes away from her, body tense.

''You have a monster inside of you that you keep trying to kill all by yourself and you refuse to understand that in order to slay this particular dragon, you need help.''

''I didn't know there was a dragon inside of me,'' he tries to joke.

She's not joking. ''I know you have PTSD.''

His whole body goes rigid.

''I know you've refused treatment,'' she adds.

''How - ''

''Your mother.''

''My...'' He inhales sharply and closes his eyes. ''Of course.''

''She came to see me after you got back,'' she says. ''She asked for my help. I think she thought you would open up to me.'' She searches his expression. ''I'm not sure she was right about that.'' She sits back, crossing one leg over the other. ''You don't go to therapy,'' she states. ''No meds. No support groups. She told me she was looking into getting you a service dog to help you with your nightmares but when she brought the idea to you, you laughed in her face.''

Even now he scoffs at the idea. ''I don't need a service dog.''

''Maybe not,'' she accepts. ''But you do need something.'' A brief silence settles between them. He doesn't say anything. ''What do you need?'' She asks, and he looks like the question just completely flattens him. ''It's okay if you don't know,'' she says calmly. ''These things take time. But don't you think you owe it to yourself to figure it out?''

Oliver swallows. ''I'm not sure how to do that.''

Well, she can certainly understand that.

''It's hard to live with mental illness,'' she tells him, somewhat reflexively. She almost stops when he lifts his head sharply. She almost chickens out and retreats to safety because she knows this could get messy. She has learned to never bring up mental illness with Oliver. Especially not hers. Even her sobriety isn't brought up around him. She's not ashamed of these things. They are a part of her. It's just not safe for her to talk about them with him. Around him, they become weapons. Things to hurl at her when he needs to knock her down a peg. They make her weak and vulnerable and unlovable and unfit and unworthy and -

Her entire body tenses and her lips part in surprise as realization slowly seeps into her.

Oh.

Wait a minute.

This is fear.

He is so afraid of his own pain that he has turned his terror into revulsion and ableism. He tries so hard to pretend his pain doesn't exist and there she is, open and honest about her struggles, feeling out loud instead of bottling it up and shoving it down. No wonder he resents her.

She wishes she had realized this sooner. It would have saved her a lot of grief. It's an odd feeling. On the one hand, it's an overwhelming relief to know it was never about her. To know, once and for all, that she doesn't deserve it. One the other hand, she feels unbearably sad for him.

''It's a fight. Every day, it's a fight. I go to war with mine every single day,'' she says, quietly, but without fear. ''I probably will for the rest of my life. But,'' she leans forward again. ''Every day, despite that, I smile and I'm grateful. It's part of my life but it's not my whole life. My pain is not all I am. Your pain isn't all you are either.''

He looks discombobulated by her speech. ''Laurel - ''

''You think acknowledging your hurt means admitting defeat,'' she cuts in. ''It doesn't. I promise you it doesn't.'' She doesn't mean to make him all twitchy. That's not her goal. Her goal is to make him understand. She may not be able to love him back the way he wants her to, but she still wants to help. Oliver lives a solitary life. He is surrounded by people, by all this love and friendship and family, and he's still all alone. It's a feeling she can understand. She wants him to know he doesn't have to live this way. She wants him to know there's more.

When you cut yourself off from pain, you cut yourself off from everything. You lose everything. Humor, love, happiness. Ollie was so joyful once. She knows he is trying to grow and mature, but she doesn't know why he thinks life has to be completely devoid of joy to mean anything. There has to be a balance between the boy who got on that boat and the man who came home from that island. He has to allow every piece of him to exist.

''There is hope, Ollie,'' she tells him. ''There is light. You just have to let it in. And if you can't do that by yourself, you have to ask for help. It'll be hard, maybe one of the hardest things you've ever had to do, but you have to take that first step.''

He looks overwhelmed, rising to his feet abruptly and releasing a breath. ''So you're saying - what? I should go to therapy?''

''If you're ready for that, I think that would be great,'' she says patiently. ''If you're not, that's okay too. There are other steps you could - ''

''A therapist isn't going to help me,'' he says firmly.

Yes, she seems to remember her PTSD-riddled husband saying something like that once upon a time.

''I've made peace with what happened to me,'' he says. ''I don't need a shrink or meds or a service dog.'' He tries to laugh it off. ''What helps me is what I do as the Green Arrow. Righting wrongs is - ''

''A band aid to cover the wound.''

''I'm fine,'' he tells her after a second. She's not sure if he's trying to convince her or himself. Either way, he is unsuccessful. ''I'm fine.''

''Really? Because two minutes ago you referred to yourself as broken.''

He stops his mindless pacing behind the couch, fingers digging into the leather.

''You're not broken,'' she says, standing. ''You're just a little bruised.'' She's hesitant about moving closer to him, but she does anyway. ''And you know what bruises do?'' She lays a hand on his arm. ''They heal.'' She tries to meet his eyes, tries to catch him before he can look away. The boy she loved is in there somewhere. He's gotten so lost over the years and she can't blame him for that, but he is there. Maybe that's part of why it's so hard to look at him sometimes.

She doesn't typically bother with what ifs when it comes to the two of them anymore. She doesn't think about what would have happened if she had been single when he came back. What would have happened if he had never gotten on that boat or what would have happened if she had gotten on with him. She doesn't have a reason to. She moved on. She found her happy ending. Met the real love of her life. She didn't want to look back. Now, here, looking at the lost boy on the boat, she wonders. Mostly she wonders if she could have helped him. It's not her responsibility, of course, but she wonders.

It's not about love, not in the romantic sense of the word anyway. It's about mercy. She wishes they could have ended on a better note. She wishes he could have had a better life. Less pain, less violence, less loss.

''I called you from the island,'' he blurts out.

She pulls her hand back to stare up at him. ''What?''

''I called you from the island,'' he repeats. ''I didn't say anything, but I called you.''

She just stares, stunned. ''H- How?''

''It - '' He grimaces. ''It's a long story. It was - I don't know - maybe a year in. Or six months? It's…hard to put the timeline together sometimes. I'd been there for awhile anyway. I could've called anyone. I could've called for help. But I called you.''

''Why?''

''I just needed to hear your voice, I guess,'' he says. ''I'm not sure.'' He closes his eyes briefly. ''I was tired. Hearing your voice made me want to keep going. I had to get back to you.''

She's not sure why that, out of all the things he has said to her, gets to her the most but there are tears burning in her eyes the second she hears him say those words. ''Ollie,'' she gets out. Her voice sounds shaky. She tries to smile for him but it's unsteady. She brings a hand to his face instead. Cups his cheek tenderly and murmurs out a soft, ''My beautiful Robin Hood.'' He doesn't lean into her touch the way Dean does, hungry and searching, but he doesn't seem any less affected by the gentleness. His breath catches when she touches him. ''You're still on that island. I know you are,'' she whispers. ''Please don't stay all alone in the dark forever. Please come home.''

Please come home. It's the same plea she used to whisper to the ocean. For at least a year after he and Sara ''died,'' she would beg for them to come home. Even when she hated him, she loved him. That hasn't changed. How she loves him has changed, but not the fact of that love. He's Ollie. He was her first everything. She'll always love him in some way. It's an inevitability. He's always going to have a corner of her heart. She wants him to be happy and at peace with the life he lives. She knows the man he could be, the happiness he could have, and she wants that for him so badly.

''You could have a beautiful life,'' she says, taking his hands in hers. ''You do have a future, Oliver. You are alive. I hope you can find the courage to live and to love the way you want to.''

He looks floored, honestly. It's not as if this is the first time he's heard such a speech. She knows it's not the first time someone has tried to tell him this. But he looks like he's hearing these words for the first time and he has no idea what to do with them. ''Laurel...''

''I can't be the one to give you that life,'' she decides to add, as gently as possible.

''No, I know.'' He looks down at her hands holding his. When he looks back at her, there's a rueful smile on his face. ''In another life.''

''Maybe,'' she allows. She lets go of his hands, slipping out of his grasp. ''You weren't the greatest boyfriend,'' she says. ''And you haven't always been the best friend. But this...'' She brings a hand up to the necklace around her neck. The simple Saint Christopher medallion. The tangible evidence of the link that now exists between them. What you're doing right now for me and my family...'' It seems impossible to find the right words for this. ''This is real.'' She's not sure if she wants to call it a clean slate or a fresh start because the truth is, there is no fresh start. Not for them. Their past will always be the island in between them. But this is still something. Maybe it could at least be a bridge. ''Because of you, I get to stay,'' she settles on. ''I get to spend time with my daughter. Time I wouldn't have had if not for you. However this ends, I want to thank you for helping me stay with my girl for as long as I can.''

He smiles, but it looks worn and haunted. ''At least one of us gets to be with their kid, right?''

Her heart drops at that and she just reacts, stepping into his space and wrapping her arms around him.

He hugs her back instantly, arms curling around her, face buried in her hair. ''I did mean what I said,'' he says after a second. ''I want you to be happy.''

''I want you to be happy too,'' she says, around the sudden lump in her throat.

She is the one who pulls away from the hug first, stepping back and nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ''Maybe that's something we both need to work on,'' she suggests. ''I know that's easier said than done, but...'' She smiles. It feels weak. ''We're not bad people. We deserve to be happy.''

''I want that,'' he says. She can tell by the faint, wistful tone of his voice that he means it. ''I do. I guess I'm still trying to figure out what makes me happy.''

''That's okay,'' she assures him. ''It takes time. What matters is that you try.'' She reaches out to give his arm one last squeeze. ''I really should get home. Mary's been a holy terror today.'' She tries for a laugh. ''Can't leave Dean all alone in the trenches for too long.''

''Right.'' He sounds distracted, maybe even disappointed that she's leaving, but then he brightens up. ''Have you had lunch yet?''

''Um, well, I had like half a family pack of Oreos for breakfast,'' she says, which doesn't sound as great as it was. It sounds a little sad actually. In her defense... Who doesn't love Oreos? ''Does that count?''

''No.'' He starts looking around the room for something. ''I'm taking you out for lunch.''

''I can't be seen in public.''

''We'll figure something out.''

''Remember two seconds ago when I said I had to get back to Mary?''

''We won't be long.'' He finally locates what he's looking for, plucking his leather jacket from the floor behind the chair. He shakes it out and then slips it on. ''I know you're hungry.''

''That's not fair. I'm always hungry.''

''The new restaurant across the street is New Orleans themed,'' he entices. ''We'll get Mary some beignets. My treat. It's fried dough in powdered sugar. It'll cheer her right up.''

''Dean lived in New Orleans for two months back in 2005 and now he's super picky about beignets.''

''Laurel.'' The corners of his lips tick up for a fraction of a second before he stubbornly forces an exasperated look. ''Come on. I'm offering you free food. I snapped at you earlier. I want to make it up to you.''

''And you think free food is the way to do that?''

''With you? Generally speaking, yeah.''

He has a point there. She swallows a laugh. ''Do you think they have gumbo?'

''Yes.''

''What about jambalaya?''

''Probably.''

''Crawfish étouffée?''

''Maybe.''

''Muffuletta?''

''Okay, you made that one up.''

''I did not. It's a sandwich. What about oysters rockefeller? Po' boys? Red beans and rice?''

''Why do you know so much about New Orleans food?''

''I told you. Dean - ''

''Visited there for less than two months nearly ten years ago.'' He doesn't look convinced. ''Does he really talk about it that much?''

''Well, no, but I...'' She crosses her arms. ''He mentioned once that he ate a lot of jambalaya while he was there so I googled it because I was going to try making it for his birthday one year. I wound up reading the entire Wikipedia page about New Orleans cuisine.''

He looks half fascinated and half suspicious. ''Did you successfully make the jambalaya?''

''I...'' She pauses, trying courageously to ignore the heat creeping up her neck all the way to her ears. ''Not relevant.'' Another pause. ''...There may have been a small kitchen fire.''

He laughs, although it looks like he is trying hard not to. ''It's the thought that counts,'' he says. ''Remember that godawful chili you used to make all the time?''

She gasps, eyes widening as she points an accusing finger at him. ''You said you loved that chili!''

''I didn't want to hurt your feelings.''

''But... I made that all the time,'' she says. ''And you ate it every time. Sometimes you had seconds.''

He shrugs. ''It made you happy.''

She laughs, shaking her head. ''That's actually really sweet.''

''I'm a sweet guy,'' he says, before offering her his arm. ''Let's get going. Now I need to know what muffuletta is.''

''I told you. It's a sandwich. Named after the bread, I think.'' She tilts her head at him to look at him curiously. ''You're paying, right?''

''I am.''

''Well then.'' She grins and takes his arm. ''I'm in.'' She fixes her sunglasses over her eyes. ''Be prepared for me to order the most expensive thing on the menu.''

''Oh yeah.'' He pats her arm. ''That'll teach me.''

.

.

.

August, 2012

Laurel groans as she eases herself into her desk chair, leaning back with a grimace. This stupid chair has awful lumbar support. She rests both hands atop her mountain of a stomach and stares up at the ceiling with a huff. Being pregnant and working full time is not easy. It is the most exhausting thing she has ever done.

She will grudgingly admit that there is a possibility she might be making it harder on herself than it needs to be. On any given day, she is doing the work of about ten people, so busy she rarely sits down and often forgets to eat. She usually tells herself that this is the cost of running a legal aid clinic and sucks it up. That doesn't exactly fly when you're pregnant. ...It's kind of annoying. This whole baby thing is really getting in the way of her work.

She does try to take it easier nowadays. She makes sure she's hydrated. She takes her Zofran. She attempts to sit down more. She even stopped wearing her beloved heels. Joanna is constantly reminding her to eat something. It's just not in her nature to slow down. That seems unnatural to her.

Listen, she is cognizant of the fact that she is a perfectionist. CNRI is a fully-fledged business with plenty of employees and she is still stuck in the ''if I didn't do it then it wasn't done right'' mindset. The only other person she trusts is Joanna, and she has her own unmanageable workload to deal with.

How is she ever supposed to leave this place for six to eight weeks? That sounds like torture. Yeah, yeah, she knows she'll have a baby and stuff but this place will always be her first baby. And it's so young! It still needs her all the time!

She absently rubs the spot on her abdomen where a tiny foot is pressing into her. ''It's nothing against you,'' she says. ''I just don't know you that well yet. I'm sure we'll get there.'' With a sigh, she sits up straight and looks over at her computer and the stack of work she needs to get done today.

All right, five minute break over.

''This would go a lot faster if you weren't using my bladder as a trampoline,'' she mumbles.

Right on cue, about five minutes into working on the prep for the Martinez deposition, she has to take yet another bathroom break.

When she returns, waddling back over to her desk, grumbling under her breath, there is a bottle of Gatorade and a muffin waiting for her.

''It's carrot,'' Joanna says from where she's spinning around in Paloma's desk chair. ''Your favourite. You need to eat something.''

''I've eaten,'' Laurel protests weakly, sinking back down into her chair.

Joanna eyes her suspiciously. ''You had a handful of grapes.''

''And a granola bar!'' Laurel yelps defensively. ''And breakfast. I had a big breakfast.''

''You had avocado toast and you puked it up as soon as you got here.''

Laurel wrinkles her nose. ''How do you know that?'' She looks down at herself, patting down her clothing. ''Am I bugged? Did you bug me?''

''Please,'' Joanna scoffs. ''You're not interesting enough to bug. I just know your routine. Eat your muffin,'' she advises, pointing a pen at Laurel. ''Take a break for more than three minutes. You've been running around all day. I'm exhausted just looking at you.''

''Thanks, I think you look great too.''

Joanna rolls the chair over to her. ''Come on,'' she tries. ''Are you really telling me you're not hungry?''

Starving, actually. She's getting a headache too. And she's currently getting the shit kicked out of her by a fetus. But everything's fine.

''I'll eat the muffin,'' Laurel says. ''But I don't have time to take a break.''

''I call bullshit on that one,'' says Joanna. ''And I'm a lawyer. I deal in bullshit.''

''Jo, I have to prep for the Martinez deposition. It's next week and I've got next to nothing ready for it because I've been so busy digging into Adam Hunt.''

Joanna pushes the muffin over to Laurel and waits until she obediently tears off a piece of the muffin and eats it before speaking. ''So let someone else take over the Martinez case. Kelsey can do it.''

''No, they're my clients - ''

''Our clients.''

''I can't let them down.''

Joanna sighs at the declaration, but softens slightly. She opens her mouth, undoubtedly to continue insisting Laurel take a break, but she is cut off by the shrill sound of Laurel's cell ringing. Laurel makes an attempt to reach for it, but Joanna's faster, leaping to her feet, snatching it up and answering with a bright and cheery, ''Hello?'' Immediately, her eyes light up. ''Dean!'' She throws Laurel a triumphant grin, obviously feeling victorious that she's got someone who will most likely be on her side. ''So nice to hear from you! How's life? How's work? Are you on your lunch break?'' Predictably, she doesn't actually give him time to answer these questions. ''Please distract your wife for at least ten minutes so she will finally take a break.'' Then she thrusts the phone at Laurel and spins on her heel to go back to work.

''It's not my fault I have to get up to pee every five minutes!'' Laurel calls after her. She heaves a sigh and holds the phone to her ear. ''Dean?''

''Are you stressing Joanna out again?'' His voice crackles over the line in a slow, amused drawl. ''You're going to give her an ulcer. You know she's afraid you're going to go into labor at work and she'll have to deliver the baby.''

''I'm not due until October,'' she says, rolling her eyes. She gives Paloma's chair a shove, sending it rolling back over to her desk. ''Also, why would she have to deliver the baby? They don't just shoot out.''

''Seriously, babe,'' he says. ''Are you overworking yourself?''

''No more than usual.''

There's silence on the other line. ''You can see how that's not at all comforting, right?''

''Everything is fine,'' she huffs. ''I promise. I'm hydrated, I'm doing the appropriate amount of work, and I'm sitting right now. Eating a muffin.'' To illustrate this, she takes another piece of muffin and pops it in her mouth. ''So everything is fine and people can stop coddling me. I'm pregnant, not crippled.''

Dean, being Dean, sails right on past the whole thing and doesn't poke the pregnant beast any further because he is a smart man. ''Okay, well, what time are you off work tonight?''

''Um, today should be about seven-ish. Why?'' She pulls her chair closer to her desk, resting the phone between her ear and shoulder to pull her notes back out. He can stay on the line as long as he wants but that doesn't mean she's not going to work.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Joanna throw her arms out in exasperation.

''I told Cas we'd take him out to dinner to cheer him up.''

''Oh, sure, that should be fine. Just pick me up and we'll go straight to dinner.'' She stops what she's doing, hands hovering over the keyboard. ''Wait. Why does he need cheering up? What happened?''

''He got fired.''

''He got fired?'' She blinks a couple times. ''He...had a job?''

''Today was his first day.''

''They fired him on the first day?'' A surge of protectiveness races through her. ''What was the job?''

''Barista.''

She narrows her eyes. She's not sure if this is pregnancy rage or some weird maternal instinct thing but none of what he's saying is sitting right with her. ''Okay, no,'' she says flatly. ''Nope. Not happening. They can't fire him on his first day. That is egregious.''

''Jesus Christ, Merriam-Webster.''

''Being a barista requires extensive training,'' she goes on. ''They can't expect him to be perfect on his first day. If he screwed up, it's on them to train him correctly.''

''Honey - ''

''No,'' she insists. ''No, he shouldn't be punished for their laziness.'' She feels like maybe hormones could be playing a part in her boiling rage, but she is feeling very indignant about this.

She and Cas have gotten close during her pregnancy. He's still adjusting to being human, baffled by the mechanics of his new body, and she has been totally upended by this pregnancy, so they commiserate. Complain to each other about their aching backs and sore muscles. Plus, he's so very sweet to her. He brings her flowers. She loves flowers. Every time he comes over, he greets her and then he greets the baby. It's really cute. And he's trying so hard at this whole 'being human' thing. The thought of someone making him feel bad when he's doing the best he can is unacceptable to her.

''What coffee shop was this?'' She demands, grabbing a pen and rummaging through the various folders and papers on her desk for a notepad. ''I need a name, a phone number, and an address.''

''He gave away seventy nine dollars worth of free coffee and spent over an hour counseling some chick through her breakup while he was on the clock.''

She is quiet for a long time. Then she puts the pen down. ''...Maybe being a barista isn't for him.''

''Not so much, no.''

She hesitates for a minute and then formulates a plan. ''When's his rent due?''

''Thursday.''

''Does he have any money at all?''

''Some. Not enough. He still needs - ''

''Pay it.''

There's a pause before he asks, ''You sure?''

''I'm sure. Pay it.''

''We can never tell him about this, you know that, right?''

''I know,'' she says. ''He would kill us.'' She pulls up her online banking info to check her balance just to make sure they can afford to pay Cas' rent, but she doesn't foresee it being a problem. It wasn't last month. It's not sustainable long term, but until he gets on his feet, she doesn't have an issue with this solution. ''Talk to his landlord and make sure he knows not to let Cas know we paid his rent.''

''Will do.'' Then, ''So how's your day going?''

She exits out of her bank account info and leans back in her chair, grabbing the muffin. ''I have an alien inside of me.''

''A cute alien,'' he reminds her. ''Baby shaped.''

''I'm basically a host body for a parasite,'' she continues bluntly. ''I'm sweaty and she's kicking the crap out of me and everything is sore.'' She pauses, considering. ''But my hair looks great.''

''It does look great,'' he agrees.

''We're still one and done,'' she says. ''Have I mentioned that lately? One and done, Winchester. Good hair is not enough.''

''Understood.''

''Unless you somehow become a seahorse,'' she allows. ''Then it would be up to you.''

''...What?''

''Male seahorses carry the eggs.''

''Oh.'' A beat. ''I'm sorry, are you saying you'd fuck a seahorse?''

She closes her eyes briefly. ''Dean.''

''Kinda sounds like you're saying you would fuck a seahorse.''

''Obviously in this scenario we're both seahorses.'' She must say this a little too loudly because Eric, making his way back to his desk with his coffee, actually stops in his tracks to give her a strange look.

Eric's new.

''Right,'' Dean says as she shoos Eric away. ''And what scenario is this exactly?''

''The one where we're both turned into seahorses.''

He considers this. ''Honestly, I've seen so much weird shit that if we were both turned into seahorses, it would be just another Tuesday for me. Have I ever told you about the suicidal teddy bear?''

She tries not to smile. ''Many times.''

''Okay, good, just checking. What about the fairies?''

''You sprinted up three flights of stairs and burst into the apartment like Kramer just to tell me about being abducted by fairies,'' she confirms.

''Huh,'' he says. ''Well. It was weird.''

She shakes her head and reaches for the Martinez file again.

''Hey,'' he says. ''Question.''

''Hmm?''

''How are you really? Good hair notwithstanding. Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?''

She stops what she's doing, but only for a second. Then she snorts out a laugh and gets back to work. ''I would be perfectly fine if your daughter could calm her tiny shit for a hot minute. It feels like she's doing somersaults in there. And I'm so done with throwing up my breakfast every day. And I have a headache.''

''Drink some coffee,'' is his immediate advice. She's not sure if that's his advice because caffeine generally helps her with her headaches or because he just thinks coffee is the answer to all of life's problems. It could be either or with him.

''Would that require getting up?''

''Laurel,'' he sighs. She thinks he's going for disgruntled but he mostly sounds fond. ''Do you want me to bring you some coffee?''

She checks her watch. It is almost three and he is off at 2:30 on Mondays, so... ''Aww, you don't have to do that.''

''Hot or cold?''

''I would like to state, for the record, that I am not forcing you to bring me anything.''

''Noted. Hot or cold?''

''Medium iced latte please. Oh!'' She perks up. ''You know what else would be great right about now? Those parmesan, garlic, and rosemary waffle fries from Tony's. Also, before you say anything let me just remind you that I'm growing a person.''

He's already laughing. ''Waffle fries it is. Anything else?''

''Yes, do you think you can address me as Queen of the Universe from now on?''

He doesn't miss a beat. ''Nah, that's too far, Laur. Who do you think you are? Beyoncé?''

She laughs. She's still chuckling when she looks up and spots an anxious Hollie, their receptionist, leading someone over to her. It takes her a second to realize that the woman being brought over to her is Moira Queen. ''Holy shit,'' she blurts. ''Uh, Dean, I gotta go.'' She flips the Martinez file closed. ''Hurry up with that coffee,'' she adds. ''I think I'm really going to need it.'' She ends the call before he has a chance to react and leaps to her feet with a speed she did not know she still possessed just as Hollie and Moira reach her desk. ''Mrs. Queen,'' she greets, startled. ''Hi!''

Moira, as poised and elegant as always, gives her a smile. ''Hello, Laurel.''

''Laurel, I'm so sorry to interrupt,'' Hollie says nervously. ''I know you said no meetings with clients today - ''

''It's fine,'' Laurel assures her, resting a hand on her shoulder. ''I always have time for a Queen.''

Holly still looks nervous, but she ducks away the second she can. She makes a beeline for Joanna straight away and the two instantly start whispering.

Laurel looks back to Moira. ''It's nice to see you, Mrs. Queen,'' she says politely.

''It's nice to see you too, dear,'' Moira says. ''It's been too long. We miss having you around the house.''

Laurel smiles. ''That's very kind of you to say.''

''I believe I owe you a long overdue congratulations. My daughter told me you'd gotten married. And I see you're expecting,'' Moira says, gesturing to Laurel's swollen belly. ''Congratulations.'' She...sounds like she means it? Sometimes it's hard to tell with Moira Queen.

Laurel still accepts it warmly. ''Thank you.''

''When are you due?''

''October,'' Laurel says. ''October 22nd.''

''You and your husband must be excited.''

''We are, yes. Nervous, mostly.''

Moira laughs. ''Yes, I remember the nerves.''

This is strange, right? She feels like this is strange. It's strange for Moira Queen to show up here, in the Glades, all by herself, without warning. It's strange that she's making awkward small talk with her dead son's ex-girlfriend. And her demeanor is way off. She is still calm, confident, and unruffled on the outside, perfectly polite and pleasant, but there is a nervous energy radiating from her. It's evident in her eyes and only if you look closely. Or if you know her. Laurel knows her. Once upon a time, she even considered her to be like family. It's extremely unusual to see this particular woman vibrating with anxiety. Moira Queen is never nervous. Especially not in public. It is simply not done.

''I apologize for not sending you a wedding gift,'' Moira says.

''That - That's really not necessary, Mrs - '' Laurel stops. Is she even Mrs. Queen anymore? She'd heard about Moira and Walter Steele's marriage. Maybe she's Mrs. Steele now? Her eyes flick over Moira's shoulder to Hollie and Joanna, both standing there openly staring, looking deeply interested in – and undeniably confused by - whatever they're watching unfold in front of them. ''Um.'' Laurel turns her attention back to Moira. ''May I ask...'' She licks her lips. ''Is everything all right? Is Thea okay?''

''She's fine,'' Moira says with a nod. ''A handful like her brother.''

''I'm sure.'' Laurel's trying not to show it, but she's completely baffled by this whole thing. ''Is there something I can help you with?''

The smile on Moira's face vanishes. ''I...'' She looks around, no doubt noticing the prying eyes. ''I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment. In private. I realize you have your hands full, but...'' There's that nervousness again. ''Something's happened,'' she says. ''I think you need to hear this from me.''

Laurel tenses. The first thing that pops into her head is Sara and Oliver. Or, rather, their bodies. As far as she knows, there is no search currently ongoing. Most of the searches ended years ago. But, then again, the Queen family is richer than God. For all she knows, Moira has been financing her own private searches this whole time. ''Right,'' she says, trying her best to maintain her composure. ''Yes, of course.'' She glances over her shoulder to see if their one tiny conference room is free. ''Right this way.'' She ushers Moira into the glass-paneled room and when she looks behind her, she catches Joanna's eye.

Joanna mouths, ''What is going on?''

All Laurel can do is shrug.

''Can I get you anything?'' She asks, closing the door behind her to shut out the noise. ''Some water? Coffee? Tea?''

''No,'' Moira waves it off with a polite smile. ''I'm all right. Thank you.''

Laurel takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to quell her growing nausea. She wishes she had thought to grab one of those ginger candies from her purse. ''Does... Does this have anything to do with - ''

''Oliver,'' Moira says. She seems unsure. ''Yes. It does.''

Laurel tries to prepare herself. She tries not to think about what five years at the bottom of the ocean would do to a body. She tries not to think about those vivid nightmares she's been having lately of her sister's angry waterlogged corpse. What would even come home if they've found them?

''I received a call this morning from the Chinese authorities informing me that - '' Moira has to stop to take a breath. She straightens her already impeccable posture and squares her shoulders, soldiering on. ''That a man had been found.''

That's what makes the air around her thin. Laurel's mouth falls open, but she doesn't say anything. Not for a long time. She has no idea what to say. A man. Not a body. A man. And not Sara. Her fingers grip the back of the leather chair tightly.

''He's alive, Laurel,'' Moira breathes out. ''Oliver's alive.''

''He's...'' Laurel has to swallow. She doesn't know if what's rising in her throat is a cry or a laugh or, more likely, bile. Her first reaction, above all else, is shock. Beyond that... Later, she'll be ashamed of this, she will feel guilty for even daring to think it, but in this moment, a mix of emotions swirling around in her head, all she can think is, Of fucking course he is. Yet another consequence he has wormed his way out of. It's such a terrible, bitter thing to think and she flinches the second it crosses her mind, but it's there. ''How?''

''I don't know.'' Moira shakes her head. ''I don't know.'' She looks like she doesn't want to think about it too much. ''He was found on an island in the North China sea,'' she explains. ''They're not certain but it appears he has been there this whole time.''

''The whole time?''

''Yes. Five years,'' Moira whispers. ''All alone.'' She looks sick. ''I can't even imagine what he must have...'' She can't go on. She almost, for just a second, looks like she's going to cry. But she doesn't. She's Moira Queen. She would never allow herself to cry in public.

Laurel thinks she should say something. Reach out and comfort her somehow. ''Have you spoken to him?''

''I have,'' Moira lights up. ''He sounded...'' A tiny, unbelievably relieved smile crosses her lips. ''Like my boy,'' she finishes. ''He sounded like my Oliver.''

Laurel nods slowly. Then she smiles. It's a brittle smile and she knows her hands are shaking, but it's all she can offer right now. ''That's amazing, Mrs. Queen.''

Something in Moira's expression shifts at the tone of Laurel's voice. It's clear that she is trying very hard not to appear overjoyed by this news in Laurel's presence. There is no pity in her eyes, merely sympathy and apology. ''Laurel,'' she says. Her voice is gentle and warm, but careful. For a brief moment, she looks like she wants to touch Laurel, maybe even hug her, but she doesn't. ''I understand my son has caused you and your family profound grief and for that I am truly sorry,'' she says, genuine. ''But you did love him once. I thought you deserved to know. I wanted to tell you in person before...'' She clasps her hands in front of her. ''Well.'' Her mouth twists into a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. ''The press - They're going to have a field day with this. We'll be issuing a statement shortly and I have no doubt it will be all over the evening news. I couldn't let you find out about this from Channel 52. I owed you this much.'' She looks hesitant for a second. ''I'm sorry if I've upset you.''

''No,'' Laurel rushes to assure her. ''No, this is - '' She tries for a brighter smile this time. ''Thank you,'' she says, and she honestly does mean it. ''Thank you for telling me. It means a lot that you would come all the way down here.''

''You were family, Laurel,'' Moira says simply. ''Of course I came.''

Five years ago, that would have meant the world to her. ''I'm very happy for you and Thea,'' Laurel tells her. It's a half truth. ''You must feel like you can finally breathe again.''

Moira's eyes water at that. It's probably the most vulnerable Laurel has ever seen her. ''It's a miracle,'' Moira agrees. ''He's my miracle.''

Laurel can't hold that against her. She wouldn't dare. Despite the swollen ankles, the never-ending morning sickness, and the huge bump, she does not yet think of herself as a mother. She will be a mother, yes, but she doesn't feel like one now. Sure, she does everything she can to give this little life growing inside of her her best shot - she doesn't drink, she eats clean, she exercises as much as she can, she tries not to work herself to the bone - and she does feel protective of the baby, but that's about it. She has made plans and wept over ultrasounds and set up the nursery. Sometimes she even manages to feel some genuine excitement. The second trimester energy burst was best for that. But the truth is, her emotions regarding this pregnancy have been complicated from the beginning, fraught with fear and anxiety and even, at times, some resentment. The emotional connection she has to this baby is tenuous and fragile at best.

She can't relate to Moira's grief and she certainly can't relate to her joy. She has no idea how her parents and Moira Queen have felt over these past five years. Can't even imagine. Losing a sister is not the same as losing a child. Not really. Laurel doesn't have the tools to comprehend that kind of agony. She has no idea what it must feel like to lose a child and she has no idea how it feels to get that child back. Judging by that look on Moira's face, it is something incredibly powerful. Something there's not even a name for. It's such a huge, towering emotion, visibly enveloping Moira like a wave. It makes Laurel feels small somehow. It also makes her feel guilty for what she's about to ask next.

''I - I'm sorry,'' she starts, ''but I have to ask. Was... Was anyone else found with him?''

Moira's face says it all. She doesn't look surprised by the question, but she doesn't look like she has good news. ''No,'' she says, quiet and regretful. This time, she does reach out and lay a hand on Laurel's arm. ''I'm so sorry.''

It's not unexpected. Surely if Sara had been found, Moira would have opened with that. Nonetheless, it feels like a blow. A sucker punch. Laurel inhales, abruptly feeling heavy with grief. She tries to smile. ''It's not your fault,'' she croaks out. ''You shouldn't be sorry. Your son is coming home. That's wonderful news.''

Moira smiles at her again, a very soft smile and then, unexpectedly, she steps closer and brings Laurel in for a hug.

Laurel hugs her back because she's pregnant and hormonal and she misses her sister and she misses her mom and Moira has always been kind and welcoming to her. Like a mom should be.

The next thought that slams into her is - oh, god. Her dad.

She's going to have to tell her dad. She knows Moira will offer to tell him, but it needs to come from her. He's spent the past five years cursing Oliver's name, cursing the Queen family, cursing Laurel for bringing them into their lives, and it will not go well if Moira is the one to tell him that Oliver's alive. It has to be Laurel. He's going to be angry. He's going to be so angry. She's going to wind up peeling him off the dirty floor of some sketchy bar tonight. There's no doubt in her mind. He's been doing okay lately. He hasn't been as angry. He's been drinking less. He's even been civil to Dean. He's excited to be a grandfather. He's been using her pregnancy as a reason to stay sober. But this... The baby won't be enough anymore.

Then there's Tommy. If he already knows, there is no way he's not on his way here right now. He'll be flustered and concerned about how she's taking it and he'll be sweet and comforting, but he'll be overjoyed. More than anything, he will be so happy and so grateful because this is Oliver they're talking about. This is their Ollie. His best friend. He looked for him for years. Longer than anyone else. He threw himself into searching for his best friend. Spent millions of dollars. Almost got himself killed. And now Ollie's back. He's going to be over the moon, and he should be. He deserves this happiness. She just doesn't know if she can deal with that right now.

And then there's Dean. She's going to have to tell him too. She has no idea how he's going to take it. He'll be worried, probably. He's never met Oliver, will never meet Oliver if she can help it, but he knows the story. He knows the damage.

Laurel closes her eyes and swallows down the lump in her throat. She tries to find it in her to be grateful. Someone she once loved did not die a horrible death. One of her oldest friends now has a second chance at the life everyone thought was stolen. That's good news. That should be good news.

Oliver Queen, alive and well and coming home. What a miracle.

All she can think of is the mess.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Laurel arrives home with a bag full of beignets, a belly full of gumbo, and a tray of hot drinks. She's hoping that bringing home treats will make up for the fact that she was gone for so long. When she left the house earlier, she said she was going to be two hours at the most and yet here she is, four hours later. She's sure Dean and Mary are perfectly fine, but she still feels bad.

Before all this, back when she was working full time, she wouldn't have given it a second thought. She was gone for hours and hours nearly every day. Things are different now. It was an adjustment at first, but she thinks she's getting used to being at home with Mary every day.

Dean is still much better at being a stay at home parent than she is and he can undoubtedly handle things by himself for a measly four hours, but she has grown attached to the extra time she's gotten to spend with her husband and daughter. When she finally pulls into the driveway, a sweet relief washes over her. She wants to spend as much time with them as possible. Especially if she's just going to wind up leaving them again. She's glad to have things squared away with Oliver, but she missed her people.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn't even get all the way inside before she hears Mary's tear-filled screech of, ''Go away! I want a new daddy!''

Record scratch.

Laurel freezes, half in the house, half out. ''Aw, geez.''

Can...Can she just leave?

No, that's probably not fair. She does briefly consider making a hasty exit, she won't lie, but she decides against it. It doesn't exactly seem like Mary is all that receptive to Dean right now so he could probably use the backup. She drops her keys and sunglasses into the bowl by the door, drops the food and drinks off on the dining room table, and hurries down the hall.

In her bedroom, Mary is seated on the floor, rubbing at her eyes and sobbing hysterically. Her cheeks are flushed red with what appears to be a great amount of anger and frustration, all these big emotions exploding out of her little body through her gulping miserable sobs.

Laurel takes one look at her and is instantly ready to give her anything she wants just to make her feel better the second she sees her.

Dean looks unmoved.

This is why he is better with the tantrums.

He's sitting on the floor with Mary, gently but firmly urging her to breathe, assuring her that she's okay, everything's okay. ''Mary,'' he says. ''Pumpkin, you need to calm down before you make yourself sick.''

In response to that, Mary snaps her head up to send him a withering glare. ''I won't,'' she sobs. ''I won't, don't say that!'' When he reaches for her, she swats at him, shrieks, ''No, no, I don't want you, go away'' at the top of her lungs and then, naturally, ends up in a coughing fit because she is just getting over a cold. The uncontrollable coughing fit seems to scare her because as soon as she's able to catch her breath, she throws herself into his arms.

This all happens, by the way, in the span of about a minute.

Laurel hasn't even said hello yet.

She contemplates ducking out and letting Dean handle this, but that seems cowardly. When he blindly reaches behind him, groping around for Mary's sippy cup on the dresser, Laurel steps in and hands it to him. She enters cautiously, the way one would enter a lion's den. ''Uh, hi there,'' she greets. ''How's everyone doing in here?''

Mary coughs wetly into Dean's neck and he grimaces. She pulls away from him, guzzles at the water, and then turns her tear streaked gaze to Laurel. ''Daddy's being mean,'' she chokes out, betrayed.

Dean, again, seems completely unfazed by that.

''He is?'' Laurel bends down and reaches a hand out to cup Mary's cheek briefly, mostly to check for a fever. ''That doesn't sound like him.''

Mary, who, despite the harsh allegations, remains all cuddled up in Dean's arms, nods pitifully. ''He says I'm too little for Harry Potter,'' she explains woefully before shoving her first three fingers into her mouth.

Ah, all right, well now Laurel understands why Dean looks like he's having a hard time keeping a straight face. ''I see.'' She nods seriously. ''Well, I'm sorry to hear you're so upset, little bird.''

Mary looks disappointed by the reaction. She'd clearly been hoping Mom would swoop in and overrule Dad's outrageous decision. She lets out a grumpy huff and jumps to her feet, practically throwing her sippy cup at Dean and rushing over to tug at Laurel's jacket. ''But I'm not too little,'' she whines, peering at her with big puppy dog eyes. ''I'm not, right? Mommy, right?''

Honestly, Laurel had no idea Harry Potter was that big of a deal to Mary. She didn't even think Mary knew who that was. ''Mary...''

''Mary,'' Dean cuts in, very calm. ''Do you think you need some Chill Out Time?''

She pulls back just enough to send him a dirty look. ''I'm chill, Daddy!'' She chokes on a sob and cries out, ''I'M CHILL ALL THE TIME!''

''You seem it,'' he nods. ''Listen.'' He hands Laurel the sippy cup and stands. He gently extracts Mary from her jacket, lifting her up and depositing her on her bed. ''I think you could use a few minutes to yourself.''

She slouches, grouchily folding her arms. ''You're ruining my liiiiife.''

Laurel, torn between laughing and being too stunned to have a reaction, can only weakly admonish her. ''Mary, that's not nice.''

Dean handles it better. The way he is visibly having trouble keeping his amusement at bay tells her this is not the first time he has heard that particular turn of phrase. ''I'm sorry you feel that way.''

Mary must be able to sense she's not going to be getting the reaction she was hoping for because she starts crying again. ''I want to play with you,'' she cries. She looks up at Dean with her teary eyes, bottom lip jutted out, perfectly pitiful, one fist rubbing at her eye. ''Don't leave.''

''We can all play together in a few minutes,'' Laurel suggests. ''But you're upset right now and I think you could use a few minutes to calm down. It's okay to be upset but you're saying hurtful things.''

Mary ignores that. Mary completely and totally ignores every part of that. She doesn't even look at her mother. Doesn't even glance in her direction. ''I wanna play now,'' she whimpers, looking up at Dean. If her goal is to break a parent with her puppy dog eyes, she's looking at the wrong parent. ''Daddy, we gotta make Mommy a bracelet.''

''We'll make her one in a little while,'' he says patiently. ''Everything's okay, honeybee. Look, you've got Sharkie and Mommy Barbie.'' He makes sure to tuck the Black Canary Barbie into her arm. ''And all your books. You're all set. Your mom and I will be in the kitchen when you're ready to stop screaming at me, okay?''

Unwilling to accept defeat, Mary, still hiccupping with cries, harrumphs and crosses her arms. She hunches over like a tiny grumpy old man sitting out on his front porch in a folding lawn chair just waiting to yell at kids to get off his lawn.

''Do you want your water?'' He asks, holding out the cup as a last ditch peace offering. ''Or do you want me to put it on your bedside table?''

She looks up at him with narrowed, furious eyes. She jolts forward, snatches the sippy cup out of his hand...and throws it on the floor. The tiniest act of rebellion. The plastic cup bounces once and then rolls, finally coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Laurel's a little quicker on the uptake this time. ''Mary Beatrice.''

''Really don't understand how that helped your case,'' says Dean, ''but you do you, kid.''

Mary huffs again and stuffs her fingers into her mouth.

''All right.'' He leans in to kiss her forehead. ''We'll see you in a few minutes.'' He draws away from her and when she looks up at him for a minute, he signs, I love you. Then he turns and walks out of the room without a backwards glance.

For a second, Mary's irrational rage softens. She squirms on the bed like she is trying to physically keep herself from running after him or calling him to come back. But then she remembers she's supposed to be angry and she scowls.

Laurel sighs, bending down to retrieve the cup. Her first instinct in these situations is to fix the problem. She desperately wants to give in and do whatever it takes to make her smile. She has never been particularly good at this part of parenting. ''Are you still mad?''

Mary doesn't bother to take her fingers out of her mouth, but she nods, free hand moving up to her hair.

''Here.'' Laurel grabs one of the pillows from the bed and puts it in Mary's lap. ''I know it hurts to be mad and not be able to get it out anywhere. It's scary, isn't it?'' She waits for Mary to nod once before she crouches down and gently takes her daughter's hand out of her mouth. ''Try giving this pillow a few good whacks,'' she advises. ''Punch it as hard as you can. It's a much better way of getting all that mad out, don't you think? I think it's definitely better than being mean to your dad.''

For the first time, Mary does look mildly dismayed by the idea of being mean to her beloved BFF.

''We'll be right in the kitchen if you need us,'' Laurel promises, leaning in to kiss Mary's cheek. ''I love you lots,'' she says, and then she heads out of the room, leaving Mary to her Chill Out Time.

Which is really, unbeknownst to the girl, a time out.

Laurel has a lot of questions on the tip of her tongue. Like, for instance, was that really about Harry Potter? Because that seemed like a rather colossal reaction for a fictional wizard. The questions die on her lips the second she pushes through the kitchen door and nearly runs right into Dean.

He's just standing there, looking back and forth between the fridge and the stove.

She's a little thrown off by it. ''What are you doing?''

''Trying to decide if I should stick my head in the freezer or the oven.''

''Right.'' She frowns curiously. ''What would the freezer do?''

''Cool me off.''

''What would the oven do?''

''Put me out of my misery.''

''Are you making dinner tonight?''

''I am.''

''In the oven?''

''Yes.''

''Best not to dirty it then.''

She pats him on the shoulder and then brushes past him, moving farther into the kitchen. He doesn't stick his head in the freezer. He doesn't stick his head in the oven either. He chuckles at her joke and then he starts cleaning up the dishes left on the kitchen table, presumably from lunch.

Laurel does try to help, but he waves her away as soon as he sees her coming. She lifts herself up onto the kitchen counter. ''What's this about a bracelet?''

He shifts the dishes into one hand to show her the bracelet now adorning his wrist. It's a simple leather cord with a little tree of life charm on it that Laurel recognizes from one of her broken necklaces. ''She made it,'' he says. ''And by she made it, I mean she stole the charm from your dresser, handed it to me, and told me we were making bracelets. I'm supposed to braid one for her and make one that has something to do with a bird for you.''

''Something to do with a bird?''

''Boss's orders,'' he says.

''She seems particularly pissed off today,'' she points out. ''Has she been like this since I left?''

He pops open the dishwasher. ''Off and on.''

''Just because you said she's too little for Harry Potter?''

''Oh no,'' he says. ''That's just the tip of the iceberg. I've committed a laundry list of crimes today. Want to hear my rap sheet?''

''Yes. Unburden yourself,'' she says. ''Tell me your sins.''

He puts the dishes in the dishwasher and the clicks it shut, turning to face her. ''I denied her Harry Potter,'' he begins, ticking each item off on his fingers. ''I wouldn't let her draw on the curtains, I wouldn't let her mix all the shampoos and conditioners together, I said no to a bearded dragon again, I couldn't make Auntie Sara pick up her phone, we're out of Oreos, and I'm allergic to cats so we can never get a cat.''

''You're a real bastard,'' she jokes, ''aren't you?''

''I'm Joan Crawford,'' he agrees. ''You should hear me when I get going about wire hangers.''

''You have thwarted her at every turn.''

''I might be her arch nemesis now.''

She laughs and grabs at his hand when he tries to pass by her, pulling him over to her. ''Bright side,'' she offers cheerfully. ''You might be doing her a favor. Everyone needs an arch nemesis. It builds character. Mine is that one barista from the Starbucks next to the courthouse. She skimps on the foam every time and no matter how perfect my enunciation is, she always writes my name as Lauren instead of Laurel. Feels very passive aggressive.'' She tugs at his shirt, bringing him closer to her, inches away. She grins when she notices his eyes have immediately gone to her lips. ''Hello,'' she murmurs.

His hands move to the counter on either side of her hips. ''Hello,'' he says, and then he leans in to kiss her. It's a perfectly nice, warm, loving kiss, but it's over much too quickly for her taste.

''Hey,'' she whines when he pulls away. ''Wait. What am I? Your grandmother?'' She gives him a challenging smile. ''Come on,'' she goads. ''Kiss me like you miss me, Winchester.''

There is a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. ''Like I missed you, huh?''

''Damn straight.'' She decides to barrel right past the loaded meaning in that. ''Really put your back into it. I want to see stars here. I want to - ''

The rest of her sentence is transformed into a surprised shriek of laughter as he lifts her up off the counter, puts her on her feet, and then dips her over, covering her mouth with his in a searing kiss. In all honesty, it's somewhat of a dicey kiss at first because she's basically laughing into his mouth, but she gets the hang of it pretty quick, securing an arm around his neck and allowing him to deepen the kiss. She kisses him back with fervor, parting her lips slightly let his tongue slip in to explore her mouth.

It's good - comforting, even - to know that even six and a half years into their relationship, he still makes her weak in the knees and his kiss is still a whole body experience. It still sends tingles all the way up to the top of her head and all the way down to her toes. He's the only one who can do that. No one else.

He's the one who eventually pulls away first, leaving her dazed and breathless, with laughter still caught in her throat. He sets her upright, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ''You taste like Oliver,'' he quips.

She's alarmed by the comment for about 0.2 seconds and then she bursts into laughter. ''Dean!'' She tries to swat at his arm, but he dodges her. ''That's not funny!''

''It's a little funny.'' He curls a finger into the belt loop of her jeans and tugs her back over to him, pecking her on the lips once more before he moves away.

She leans back against the counter and watches him go for the coffee pot. That's when she remembers - ''Oh, hey!'' She pushes off the counter. ''I brought you guys home some goodies.'' She rushes back out into the dining room to grab the beignets and the tray of drinks. ''Coffee, beignets, and a kiddie cappuccino for Mary,'' she declares as she pushes back into the kitchen.

Dean looks at her in confusion. ''The hell is a kiddie cappuccino?''

''Um, it's...'' She turns the drink in the tray to read the side of it where the ingredients are written. ''Steamed milk with vanilla bean steeped into it, a few drops of agave sweetener, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cocoa powder sprinkled on top.''

''You paid for that?''

''No.'' She puts the tray and the bag of beignets on the counter. ''Oliver did.'' She hands him the extra large black coffee she got him. ''He took me out to lunch and I took advantage of him.''

''So you really did taste like him.''

She points a warning finger at him. ''Stop that.'' She takes the kiddie cappuccino out of the tray. ''Also, how would you know what Oliver tastes like? This joke is all over the place.'' She ignores his laughter and takes a sip of the drink. That is...surprisingly good. Like, weirdly so. She glances at the list of ingredients and then holds the cup out to Dean. ''You have to try this.''

He still looks skeptical, but he takes the drink from her and tries a small sip. Then he just sort of stares at it for a minute. ''Why is this so good?''

''Right?'' She lets him take another sip of the drink, but when he goes for another, she steals it back. ''You can't drink all of it. It's for Mary.''

''Mary's being a pain,'' he says. ''We can't reward bad behavior.'' He makes another grab for it but she holds it out of his reach.

''Drink your coffee,'' she orders. ''I think there's chicory in it.''

He narrows his eyes at her, suspicious, but does take an experimental drink. ''Hmm.''

''Good, right? You think there's chicory in it?''

''There's definitely chicory. It tastes like the coffee I used to get in - ''

''New Orleans?'' She grins. ''There's a new restaurant across the street from Ollie's place. It's called The Creole Kitchen. It's authentic New Orleans cuisine and you know what that means?'' She beams at him and holds up the bag of sweet treats, dangling it in front of his face. ''Authentic beignets.''

''Authentic,'' he grumbles. He does not seem at all impressed. ''We'll see,'' he says, even as he chugs down the coffee with enthusiasm. Even after all these years, she still has no idea how he can just drink black coffee like that. ''I bet those fried frauds taste like cardboard.''

She rolls her eyes fondly. She pokes her head out the door briefly, listening for Mary. There's no audible sounds of sobbing or ominous crashes coming from her room. Probably a good sign. ''Do you really think she's too little for Harry Potter?'' She asks, letting the door shut.

He gives her a look.

She holds her hands up. ''I'm just saying.'' She reaches for her own cup of earl grey tea. ''If we're talking about the movies, the first one isn't that bad. I think she'd like it.''

''Now you sound like Charlie.''

''Well, she is a genius.''

He doesn't laugh. He puts his coffee down on the counter and turns his back to her, heading over to the fridge. ''I just think we should put some distance between her and what happened to you before we let her watch things with dead parents.'' He opens the fridge, takes a critical look at the contents, and then shuts the door. ''Remember when you let her watch Bambi and she had nightmares every night for a week?'' He opens the up the cupboard above the sink and grabs a mixing bowl. ''And then her nightmare came true.''

He has a point there. Mary is a...sensitive child. She feels everything. Takes everything personally. Sometimes Laurel wonders if she and Dean are making things worse. Indulging her too much. Coddling her. Dean has tried so hard to give Mary a childhood free of the fear he felt as a kid. He has shielded her from so much in an effort to keep her from pain that she is, in all honesty, a little sheltered. And Laurel's just a disaster. She gives into tantrums because she doesn't want Mary to be sad and she avoids the more serious aspects of parenting because she can't handle it and focuses too much on fun and treats too much because she's constantly trying to make up for being both mentally and physically absent.

''That's a lot of movies she can't watch then,'' she says mildly. She puts her tea on the table and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard. ''Dead parents is the only dramatic plot point Disney knows.''

''I think she's doing fine with Paw Patrol.''

''Dean.''

''Look, I know,'' he says. ''I know I can't protect her forever. But she's four. I can protect her for now.''

''Protect her from what? Any negative emotion ever?''

He turns to face her. ''Don't act like you don't do the same thing.''

She pours her tea out of the to-go cup and into the mug and then sticks it in the microwave to heat it up. She thinks, as she presses the start button, that she can actually hear her grandmother rolling in her grave right now. Even Dean, who drinks tea like once a year under protest and complains the whole time, sends her a slightly disparaging look. Nobody with their shit together puts tea in the microwave. That was a lesson instilled in her from birth. But she most certainly does not have her shit together. So it's fine. ''Well, maybe that's something we both need to work on,'' she says.

He doesn't respond to that. Most likely because he's going to pretend it never happened. For now, she opts to let it go. She grabs a spoon from the drawer and the honey from by the toaster before taking a seat at the breakfast nook. When the microwave beeps, he's the one who retrieves her tea for her, which hopefully means he's not mad at her for bringing it up.

It's not like she doesn't understand where he's coming from. She wants to protect their daughter too. She doesn't want Mary to be unhappy. She doesn't want her to feel sad or scared or upset. She doesn't want her to feel nothing either. She stirs honey into her tea and watches him as he takes a bowl of something out of the fridge and puts it on the counter. ''I know she's always a little off after an illness,'' she starts, ''but this new attitude she's had recently...'' She bites her bottom lip, already feeling guilty. ''It's not just her getting over a cold, is it?''

Dean stops what he's doing, standing there frozen with a paring knife in his hand. After a beat, he puts down the knife and turns to face her. ''No,'' he admits. ''I don't think so. There's been a lot going on lately.''

She cringes.

''None of it is your fault,'' he rushes to assure her. ''You know that, right?''

''Yeah, I know.'' Doesn't make her feel any better. She takes a few sips of her tea. ''You know what bothers me?''

''Socks with sandals?''

''If we were anyone else, if this was some kind of normal upheaval, we could get her into counseling. We could help her. But we're not anyone else and this is not a normal situation.'' She frowns down into her tea. ''There's no therapist out there who is even remotely qualified to deal with this.''

Dean leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. ''We can still help her.''

''Can we do it without screwing her up in the process?''

He pauses for a second and then turns back around to peel the plastic off the bowl. ''All parents screw up their kids in some way,'' he says, staring down into the bowl. ''It's like a parenting right of passage.'' Then he grabs the bowl, turns around, and holds it out to her. ''You want an egg?''

She stills with the mug halfway to her lips. Completely baffled, she puts her mug down and leans over to peek at the contents of the bowl. ''Uh.'' It's just a bowl full of peeled hardboiled eggs. ''What?''

Also, he knows she hates hardboiled eggs.

''Mary wanted deviled eggs for lunch,'' he explains. ''She's been picking at her food since the cold hit so I was just excited she wanted to eat something.'' He looks down at the eggs for a second and then back at her. ''I may have overdone it. By the time the eggs were boiled, she had changed her mind and wanted a cheese sandwich. Now I've just got a bowl full of eggs.''

She looks back and forth between him and the bowl of eggs several times. So many questions. She finally settles on, ''Does she like deviled eggs?''

''I don't know. She's never had one.''

''Why would she request that in the first place? Does she even know what a deviled egg is?''

''No idea.''

''But... Like...'' Laurel is still frowning in complete and utter confusion. ''Did she get the idea from a show?''

''Laurel,'' he huffs, shaking the bowl at her. ''I've got a bowl full of hardboiled eggs that I don't know what to do with.''

She bursts into laughter. ''I'm sorry,'' she gets out when she hears him release a put upon sigh. ''I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh at you.'' To make up for it, she dutifully accepts one of the eggs. Even though she hates hardboiled eggs. Something about the texture is extremely off putting to her. It makes her gag every time. Back when she was training, Ted recommended eating hardboiled eggs for the protein before a workout. He seriously got on her about those damn eggs. Right up until he saw her attempt to eat one. Then he just mumbled something in Spanish that sounded exasperated and told her to try a smoothie instead.

Abandoning his apparent mission to make deviled eggs, Dean takes a seat across from her, still staring down into the bowl as if the eggs are his personal arch nemesis.

To appease him, Laurel even takes a bite out of the egg. That's how much she loves him.

She lasts about two seconds. One single bite into the egg and that's it for her. ''Nope,'' she manages, and then starts gagging.

Even love is not enough for this.

Dean, always quick on his feet in a crisis, clearly anticipating her retching, calmly hands her a napkin and wordlessly takes the egg out of her hand.

''Can't do it,'' she says, once she has managed to spit the egg into the napkin. ''I tried.''

''You know,'' he says, voice light. ''Even our four year old doesn't react to food she doesn't like that way.''

''It's the texture,'' she says, reaching for her tea. ''Eggs shouldn't be gelatinous. It's not natural.''

Without getting up from his seat, he scoots over to the edge of his seat, leans over to open the fridge, and snatches up a bottle of hot sauce. ''You hate hardboiled eggs. Why did you even take it?''

''I ate the egg because I love you.''

The corners of his lips curl up into an amused grin. ''Maybe I ate the egg because I love you will be our always.''

She almost chokes on her tea. ''Do you even know the origin of that?''

''Course I do,'' he grins, slathering an obscene amount of hot sauce onto her rejected hardboiled egg. ''You're the one who made me watch that movie, remember?'' He takes a small bite of the egg, chews thoughtfully, and then pulls a face. ''This is an astonishly boring snack.''

''So,'' she peers into the bowl. ''What's the plan? Are we just going to sit here and eat this entire bowl of eggs?''

''Well, you're certainly not.''

''Because that's not a normal thing to do, Dean. In fact, I'd even go so far as to label it slightly unhinged.''

He laughs and takes a swig of his chicory coffee, only to immediately make a face. ''Coffee and hardboiled eggs do not go together.''

''No,'' she agrees. ''But do you know what goes perfectly with a cup of coffee?'' He looks at her for a minute and she can tell he's trying to appear aloof but he can't quite manage it. Finally, he lets out a permissive sounding grunt and waves her off. She leaps to her feet, hurrying to grab the bag of beignets from the counter along with a few extra napkins.

Dean is already grumbling about the ''alleged authenticity'' of the sweet treats.

Laurel picks out the best looking beignet from the bag and places it on a napkin, sliding it over to him. ''They're fresh too,'' she entices. ''Still warm and everything.''

He looks at it for a long time. ''I haven't had a good beignet since 2005.''

''That's sad for you,'' she chirps, plucking her own sugary goodness out of the bag.

''I've had beignets,'' he goes on. ''Lots of 'em. But none of them even came close to the ones made fresh from Café du Monde in New Orleans.''

''Sounds like you've had a real rough go of things on the beignet front.'' She licks powdered sugar off her finger and then sinks her teeth into the fried dough. Her immediate response is to let out a pleasured sounding moan. That had been her response earlier too. Oliver was very uncomfortable.

Dean just looks at her with this filthy looking smirk and then, after a moment or two of contemplation and self-reflection, he takes a bite. She can tell just from the look on his face that he's having a similar mind blowing orgasmic experience. She also knows he will never admit that. He swallows down the bite of beignet, takes a sip of his coffee, and then says, ''I guess it's acceptable.''

She snickers and reaches for her tea. ''Have you heard from Sam and Sara at all?''

''Not since their flight landed this morning. But,'' he checks his watch. ''There's no way they're not at Faye's property yet. I'm sure they'll call soon.''

Laurel nods and tries not to let her concern for Sara and Sam ruin her beignet.

Sara had been the one to suggest taking a trip out to Faye's property in Amnesty Bay. Just to check and make sure Bo really did take care of Hazel's ashes and there's no chance that this could somehow be her from beyond the grave. As soon as they're sure the ashes are good and buried, they'll be on a plane home. Laurel has been on edge about it ever since Sara brought the idea to her. Sam and Sara are both more than capable of taking care of themselves - and each other if need be - but regardless of their capabilities, they are still on the other side of the country. They're not the only ones who have strayed from the pack either.

Charlie's in Lebanon, Kansas, stationed temporarily at the Men of Letters bunker while she searches for more info on soul eaters in the archives. She is, thankfully, not alone, with both Jody and Donna there to help her. She should be back in a few days. Maybe even less.

Nyssa, deeply distrusting of witches, has temporarily resumed her search for the other Lazarus Pit(s). She promised she wouldn't be long, but she had a lead that needed to be followed up on.

With Laurel's condition stabilized, at least for the time being, life has resumed for the people around her.

Cas is back at the Farmer's Market, selling his honey and his beeswax candles and taking orders for homemade furniture or whatever it is he does there to make an income. Oliver and his team have gone back to their normal nightly patrols. Her father is reluctantly coming out of retirement to take on the position of the Deputy Mayor. Work and preschool are back on for Dean and Mary. Normal life has returned to normal. As it should.

But it's making her nervous. She's on edge. If everyone is scattered around, she can't protect them. It's only a matter of time until Alice - if that is who this witch is - makes her next move.

She looks back to Dean. He is very focused on pretending he's not impressed by the delicious beignet. She can only hope that means he doesn't notice the flicker of worry in her eyes.

''So how did it go?'' He asks, taking another bite of the beignet.

For a moment, she forgets. ''What?''

''Your lunch date with your other husband,'' he says, before popping the last piece of beignet into his mouth.

She tries not to frown. Chances are, that was a joke but sometimes it's hard to tell with him. He deflects a lot with humor. ''He's not - '' She presses her lips together. ''That's not what this is.''

''I know.'' He washes the sugary confection down with a swig of coffee. ''I'm teasing you.''

She wraps both hands around her mug and stares down into her tea. ''It went okay,'' she decides on. ''I think everything's been cleared up.''

''Oh, yeah? That's good.''

''Hey,'' she says after a second or two. ''Can I ask you a question?''

''Shoot.''

She hesitates, and then looks back up at him. ''Do you think I play the victim a lot? With Oliver? I mean, do you think I...try too hard to make him the bad guy in my story?''

Dean stills, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. After a beat of strange silence, he lowers the cup and looks at her. He looks like he is trying to appear calm, but she can see the way his jaw is ticking with annoyance and the way his eyes have darkened. ''Is that what he said to you?''

''It doesn't matter,'' she says. ''I just want to know if you think I - ''

''You're not his victim,'' he spits out fiercely. ''You're not anyone's victim.''

''Yes, well, that's not exactly true,'' she says, ''is it? And,'' she adds on, cutting him off when he starts to open his mouth to argue, ''you didn't answer the question.''

''No,'' he says it immediately, no hesitation. ''You don't play the victim. He's not the bad guy in your story.'' If possible, he looks even more offended by that then the victim thing. ''Christ, Laurel, he doesn't get to have that much power over you. He's not that important to your story. You know that, right?''

''Except,'' she tries to hide a small wince. ''He kind of is now, isn't he?'' She gestures to the chain around her neck. ''We're connected through this spell. Even when it breaks, we'll still be tethered for the rest of - ''

''I know,'' he cuts in gruffly. ''I know,'' he says again, softer. ''And you know what? He did a good thing when he stepped in there. I'm grateful. I am. It means you're okay and that's all that matters. But that doesn't mean you owe him. What he did was a choice he made. No one forced it on him. You didn't force it on him. You don't have to let him talk to you like - ''

''Dean.'' She reaches across the table to grasp his hands and tries to meet his eyes. ''Sweetheart,'' she says, offering him a smile. ''I'm not a pushover. Just because he did this thing for me doesn't mean he gets to treat me like this. I know that. I love you for having my back, but I do know my worth.''

He relaxes, smiling lightly, squeezing her hands. ''You better.''

Reluctantly, she lets go of his hands and settles back in her seat. ''So, um, speaking of Oliver,'' she starts, trying and failing not to sound tense. She really doesn't want to tell him this next part. She doesn't want to keep this from him. She just doesn't know how he's going to take this. ''He and my dad are going out to the safe house to bring the Moretti kids some groceries either tonight or tomorrow,'' she says, which is not actually what she needs to tell him. ''He said he'll check in with me after. Let me know how it went. If Hanna's made any progress with the resurrection seal.''

He nods. ''Okay.''

''And, uh, apparently Johnny and Lyla are thinking about changing Baby Sara's name. Or - well, not changing it but they're thinking they might start calling her by her middle name to avoid confusion now that Adult Sara is alive and well.''

''Hmm.''

''And also Oliver's in love with me.''

There is a solid 30 seconds of silence.

She bites her lip nervously. ''Dean,'' she pleads. ''Say something.''

He looks up at her, head cocked to the side curiously. ''What's Baby Sara's middle name?''

She can't quite manage to hide her surprise at that. ''...Jacqueline.''

''Huh. Jacqueline.'' He looks thoughtful. ''You think she'd go by Jacqueline or Jackie? I like the sound of Jackie Diggle. It's got a nice ring to it. It flows.''

She stares at him. ''Is... Is that all you're going to comment on?''

''What else is there to comment on?'' His lips pull back into a slow grin. After a few seconds, he does take pity on her. ''Honey, what page are you on? 'Cause I already got there.''

''You knew?''

''You didn't?''

''Of course not!''

She does, in the back of her mind, realize that she shouldn't be surprised. Of course he knew. Dean is a ridiculously good judge of character like 90% of the time. He sees a lot of things that other people don't. He's had to. His ''job'' for so long was to protect people from supernatural entities and stay alive in the process. To do that, you have to be a keen observer of your surroundings. You have to know everything and everyone around you. You have to anticipate everything. It makes sense that he was able to see right through Oliver. He knew he was the vigilante right away. He may have let Laurel live in her denial and opted not to prod her too much about it, but he knew immediately just from the similarities in Oliver and The Hood's body language. Of course he would see all the other stuff too.

''Does anyone else know?'' She asks tentatively.

Dean is careful with his response. ''I can't be sure.'' Which sounds like it means, Yes, of course everyone knows because everyone we know has been gifted with the power of sight. ''The guy did erect a statue of you,'' he says, which, you know, fair point. ''You think he'd do that for just anyone?''

''I don't know. I thought he was just feeling guilty.''

''I'm sure that was part of it.''

She looks at him closely. She's waiting for the other shoe to drop. She's waiting for the anger. The frustration and the jealousy and the cursing. She's waiting for the insecurity. She gets none of it. She wonders, somewhat glumly, if the only reason she was expecting that is because there's a small part of her that feels that way. It's not like she can begrudge Oliver for his feelings. His feelings are his feelings and he's allowed to have them. She's not mad at him. She's mad at herself. She should have known.

She should have seen it. She never should have joined his team. She never should have flaunted her marriage in front of Oliver and she never should have flaunted her partnership with Ollie in front of Dean. She shouldn't have put any of them in that position. ''Why didn't I know?''

Dean's response to that is quick, easy. ''Why didn't you figure out he was Arrow Guy sooner?'' He is still completely calm. ''You didn't want to know.''

Well, can you blame her?

It's been almost ten years. This coming May will mark the ten year anniversary of the Gambit's sinking. She could lie and say it feels like it was just yesterday, but it doesn't. Not for her. She felt those ten years. Every moment taking her farther away from Ollie and the mess they used to make of each other. She's a different person now. She used those ten years to learn, to grow, and to move on. Her mistake was in thinking he had done the same.

She is a whole new person now. She has a different body, a different skin full of scars and stretch marks and tattoos. She is now officially a place where Oliver has never been before. But he still loves her. Still thinks of her as home. At least he thinks he does.

''Ugh.'' She drops her head down onto the table with a groan. ''He just keeps making my life harder,'' she moans. ''I feel bad saying that because it's not like he can help how he feels but uggghh oh my god.''

She can feel Dean moving her hair away from her mug of tea and the dusting of powdered sugar on the table. When she lifts her head up, with a great reluctance, he's smiling at her.

''I don't love him,'' she says, even though she knows it's unnecessary to say that out loud. ''I need you to know that.''

''I do.''

''I'm serious,'' she insists. ''This doesn't change anything.''

He still looks pretty chill, peeling the lid off of his to go cup to check how much coffee he has left. ''What would it change?''

''I just don't want you to worry.''

''What's there to worry about? You leaving me to go running back to your shithead of an ex?'' He actually laughs at that. ''That would never happen.'' He sobers, looking at her seriously. ''I trust you, Laurel,'' he offers. ''I don't trust him. Not a chance. But I trust you.'' It's a big thing for him. Trust. It's precious and he keeps it close to his chest at all times. He's only given it to people who earn it. She has always been so honored and touched that it's something he has given her. Maybe that's why the whole Oliver thing worries her so much. She doesn't want to jeopardize that trust or let him down in any way. She's let so many people down in her life. She doesn't want to do that to Dean.

He grabs the bag of beignets, reaching in to grab another one. She lifts her mug to her lips and smiles into her tea. She doesn't say anything else about Oliver. Just as she's reaching for the beignets, the kitchen door opens and Mary comes strolling into the room.

Both parents react instantly.

Dean quickly turns away, shoveling the rest of the beignet into his mouth before Mary can see what he's eating. Laurel grabs the bag, crumples it up, and throws it onto the kitchen counter, out of Mary's reach. ''Hi there,'' she greets warmly. ''You feeling better?''

Mary nods hesitantly. She does look better. There are still dried tear tracks on her face and she looks flushed, but she appears to be calm now, standing there clutching her Barbie.

Dean doesn't miss a beat. As soon as he's swallowed the beignet, he grabs the bowl of hardboiled eggs, holds it out to her, and asks, completely serious, ''Egg?''

Mary looks at him like he has lost his marbles.

She stares at him for a few seconds, blinking, hopelessly confused as to why on earth her father is offering her an egg, and then she cocks her head to the side, wrinkles her nose and asks, ''What's on your face?''

That's when he falters. ''Uh...'' With a deer caught in the headlights look on his face, he hastily wipes the powdered sugar off his face. ''...Cocaine.''

''Dean!'' Laurel covers her face with both hands, trying desperately to stifle her laughter. ''You can't say that! What if she repeats it?''

''Who would she repeat it to?''

''I don't know. Someone at school?''

''How would that even come up? You think her teacher walks around asking the kids hey, any of your folks do cocaine?''

''My teacher's name is Miss Daisy!''

They both turn to look at her.

She's nodding her head at them, eyes widened slightly, looking very serious. ''That's a flower,'' she informs them. ''But Miss Daisy's not a flower. She's a person.'' She pauses to wipe her nose on her sleeve. ''She sits with me when we have snack 'cause nobody wants to be my friend.''

Wow.

What a casual way to drive a knife right into her parents' hearts.

''Mary,'' Laurel tries.

Mary sails right past that, turning her attention back to Dean. ''What's cocaine?''

''It's nothing, kiddo,'' he says.

''Daddy's just being silly,'' Laurel says.

Mary looks in between her parents for a second and then accepts it with a shrug. Moving right onto her next issue, she thrusts her hand out to present them with her Black Canary Barbie, now dressed in a classy looking blue dress. It looks unnervingly similar to a dress the real, living, breathing Laurel Lance owns. ''I lost Mommy Barbie's shoe,'' Mary says sadly. ''But she needs to go to work. Can she wear boots at court?'' She opens up her fist to show Laurel the two tiny black boots that go along with the Black Canary outfit. ''Will she get in trouble?''

Laurel leans over to inspect the shoes. ''I think she'll be all right.''

'' 'Kay.'' She puts the doll and the shoes on the table. ''Can you put 'em on her feet please?''

''Sure, honey.'' Laurel can't help but think, as she's jamming the plastic choking hazards onto the doll's plastic feet, that they're not at all authentic. They're heeled boots. Stylish, perhaps, but not realistic. She never wore heels out in the field. They're a liability. She wore combat boots. Practical, comfortable, and as a nice added bonus, they looked badass. If she wore boots like this out on the streets, she would break her neck. You can't do on foot chases in heels and you certainly can't jump off buildings in them. Plus, they can negatively affect balance and limit your movements and it's best to be as grounded as possible and as fluid as possible when you engage in hand to hand combat.

She inspects the Barbie with critical eyes. She's never seen this thing in anything other than her tiny BC suit. Other than the unrealistic and overly perky breasts, she supposes it's not the worst likeness she's ever seen. It's a fairly accurate depiction of what she would wear to court. She even has a little plastic briefcase. Except... She narrows her eyes and zeroes in on the doll's head. Either her contacts are screwy or - ''Have I had a lobotomy?''

Dean looks up from helping Mary climb up next to him. ''What?''

She turns the Barbie around to face him. ''There are holes in the sides of her head.''

''That's for the mask,'' he says. ''It snaps into place.''

Mary reaches out to take the doll. ''Mommy Barbie keeps her mask in her briefcase.'' She clicks open the briefcase and produces the mask with a flourish. ''See?''

''Very convenient.''

''Yeah.'' Mary snaps the mask into place to demonstrate how it works, making sure to check that Laurel is watching her. ''But she can't wear her mask to court,'' she says, shaking her head. ''I gotta put it away now.'' She puts the mask back in the briefcase, spends what looks like a frustrating minute trying to get the doll to stand up on her own, and then gives up with a heavy sigh. ''Daddy?'' She turns to look at him. ''Can I have some juice?''

''We don't have any juice.''

Her face falls. Sadly, she drops her head onto the table with an audible thud and declares, despairingly, ''This is the worst day of my life.''

Dean pats her back and continues drinking his coffee.

Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''It's good to know what happened in April didn't traumatize her too much.''

''How about some nice cold water?'' Dean suggests.

''I don't want water,'' Mary grouses.

''Milk?''

''No, I hate milk.''

''No, you don't.''

''Yes, I do. I hate it.''

''Since when do you hate milk?''

''Since now. I decideded it.''

''Even almond milk? You love almond milk.''

''I hate almonds!''

''What did almonds ever do to you?''

''They're not juice!''

''Oh, okay.'' He nudges at her shoulder gently and when she looks up, he holds out his cup to her. ''Want some of my coffee?''

Mary looks so horrified by this that it's hard not to laugh. ''I can't drink coffee!''

''What about this?'' Laurel, who has already gotten to her feet to snatch up the kiddie cappuccino from the counter, places it in front of her daughter. She pointedly does not mention that it's milk.

Mary turns her nose up at it, but still looks intrigued. ''What is it?''

''It's a special drink just for kids.''

''Hey!'' Mary gapes at Laurel, eyes boggling out of her head in amazement. ''I'm a kid!''

''What?!'' Dean puts a flabbergasted look on his face. ''You are?!''

She turns to him, nodding happily. ''Yeah!''

''No way! I thought you were just a really short adult.''

She erupts into giggles. ''No, Daddy, I'm a kid.''

He feigns shock. ''Well, how about that. I thought you were a petite 42 year old accountant.''

''I'm four,'' she laughs.

''Four? Wow, I was way off then.''

Laurel doesn't bother to hide the grin on her face. It's still hard to swallow that she missed out on seven months of this, but she is so incredibly grateful to be here now. Permanent or not. She is bound and determined not to waste even a millisecond of this second chance she has been given. She grabs a mug from the cupboard and sits back down at the table. She pops the lid off the take out cup, pours the drink into the mug, and slides it over to Mary. ''Try a sip.''

Mary peers down into the mug. ''Foamy.'' She picks up the mug and takes a tentative sip of the drink.

Laurel asks, ''You like it?''

Mary smiles at her with her milk mustache. ''It's yummy. It's for me?''

''All yours.''

''Mom got that just for you,'' Dean says. ''What do you say?''

''Thank you,'' Mary chirps, and takes another gulp.

''Anytime, sweetie.'' Laurel rests her chin in the palm of her hand and watches her daughter slurp up the drink happily. ''Is it warm enough?''

''Uh-huh.''

''You sure? You don't need it heated up?''

''Uh-uh.'' Mary takes another noisy drink. ''I like this,'' she announces. ''It tastes like Christmas.''

Laurel beams, triumphant. ''I'm happy to hear that.''

Reaching for her Barbie, Mary is momentarily distracted by Dean wiping the milk off her face with a napkin. It barely slows her down.

''So,'' Dean says. ''What's the verdict?''

Mary looks at him, puzzled.

''You still want a new dad?'' He elaborates. ''Have I been voted off the island? Am I being recast? Because I bet Oliver Queen would be more than happy to audition.''

Laurel rolls her eyes.

He smirks back at her.

''No.'' Mary is shaking her head adamantly. ''No, he's not my daddy. You're my daddy.''

''Oh, good,'' he says. ''I'm not fired?''

''You think maybe you were a little hard on your dad earlier?'' Laurel asks.

Mary pretends not to know what she's talking about, mumbling out, ''Dunno.''

''Mary,'' Laurel prompts. ''What do we say when we hurt people's feelings?''

Mary thinks about that for a second, clutching her doll to her chest. She looks at Laurel and signs, I'm sorry.

''Don't tell me,'' Laurel says, signing along. ''Tell Dad.''

Mary looks up at him with her big green eyes. ''I'm sorry, Daddy.'' For good measure, she signs it too. ''I don't wanna be mean.''

''I know you don't.'' He leans in to kiss her nose. ''Thank you for apologizing.''

''I don't want a new daddy.''

''That's a relief,'' he says. ''I really didn't want to have to move. It's such a hassle.''

She nods as if she, too, understands the headache of a move. Then, ''Can we have McDonalds for dinner?''

Dean, once he has stopped laughing, lets her down gently. ''No, we're having pot roast.''

She contemplates this, thinking long and hard about whether or not she considers this to be an acceptable dinner. She hems and haws about the acceptability of pot roast, trying to decide how she feels about meat on this particular day. Finally, she furrows her brow and looks up at him. ''With garlic mashed potatoes?''

''Lots of garlic mashed potatoes,'' he confirms. ''And honey glazed carrots.''

Laurel perks up. ''And French bread to sop up the gravy?''

He points at something on the counter. A loaf of bread wrapped neatly in brown paper. ''Fresh from the Farmer's Market,'' he says. ''Cas brought it over earlier.''

''Score.''

With that, Mary makes her decision. ''Yeah, score!'' She grins down into her mug. ''I like gravy,'' she tells her foamy drink. ''And honey carrots.'' She stands up in her seat and instead of lifting her mug up to take a sip, she tries to just put her whole face in the mug in what looks like a botched attempt to lap it up like a puppy.

Dean lets it go on for a few seconds before he sighs and says, ''Mary, that's weird.''

She doesn't react.

He moves a hand to her back and she whips her head up with a mouth and nose full of foam. She swivels her head around to face him and then says, ''Huh?''

''Don't say huh,'' Laurel says.

He's still trying not to laugh at Mary's face. ''Please drink your drink like a human and not a puppy.''

''I'm not a puppy,'' Mary says. ''I'm a Mary.'' She wipes at her face with her hand before he can get at her with a napkin. An attempt is made to wipe what's on her hand on his shirt, but he's faster than her, intercepting her with the napkin. ''Aida's a puppy,'' she says brightly, struggling to look over at her mother while her dad wipes at her face again. ''I miss Aida.''

Aida - back in Kansas with Charlie - has been gone for less than 48 hours. They should really get this kid a puppy when all this is over.

''Can I...'' Mary pauses, letting out a huff, but patiently allows Dean to keep wiping at her sticky face until he's mopped up enough of the mess. ''Can I take my drink in the living room?''

''Only if you don't drink it with your face.''

Mary looks at him for several seconds, squinting in confusion. She brings her hands to her mouth and then moves them around, feeling up her face. She looks down at her hands, then back up at him. She looks hopelessly lost. ''I gotta use my hands?''

''No, don't use your hands,'' he shakes his head adamantly. ''Please, please do not use your hands.''

''Honey, just drink it normally,'' Laurel chimes in. ''And be careful.''

''Oh, okay,'' Mary nods. ''I'm careful, Mommy.''

Dean rises to his feet to let her out, but looks highly reluctant to let her carry the mug into the living room herself. Probably because he has noticed which mug it is. He has to relent when she grabs for it, handing it over to her with extreme trepidation. ''Do you want me to carry it out there for you?''

''No, no, no, I got it.''

''Are you sure?''

''I got it, Daddy,'' she says. ''I'm careful.'' She takes exactly two steps before she stumbles, tripping over her own feet. ''Oopsie.'' She looks down at the ground to make sure nothing has sloshed over the rim and then turns to look back up at him. ''It's okay,'' she reassures him. ''I'm careful like a bunny.''

Mary makes it a few steps away while Dean tries to figure that one out before he remembers that he is a helicopter parent and rushes to hold open the door for her. ''Walk slow,'' he calls out after her. He waits until she is safely in the living room before allowing the door to shut, turning back to Laurel, perplexed. ''Are bunnies...particularly careful animals?''

''I think she was thinking of quick like a bunny,'' she says. ''My dad says that.''

''Did you give her the 'if Britney survived 2007 you can make it through today' mug?''

''She's had a rough day,'' she says. ''I thought she could use it.'' She pauses to take a drink of her tea. ''...She's going to spill that, isn't she?''

''She better not break that mug,'' he says. ''That's my favourite mug.''

''Technically it's my mug,'' she reminds him. ''Tommy gave it to me when I was pregnant.'' She rises to her feet, grabbing the clean napkins left on the table and Mary's Barbie. ''But don't worry your pretty little head about it. I'll go supervise. You make your deviled eggs.''

''I will make my deviled eggs.''

''I support you,'' she laughs, winking as she passes. She is still laughing to herself as she makes her way into the living room.

Mary has managed to avoid spilling her drink or breaking the beloved mug so far. Although it is just sitting in the middle of the living room floor. Despite her proclamations of love, Mary has abandoned the drink in favor of standing in front of the glass cabinet over in the corner. She's got her fingers stuffed into her mouth and her nose is practically pressed against the glass. She looks over her shoulder briefly, eyes lighting up when she sees Laurel. ''Mommy!'' She pulls her fingers out of her mouth to speak. ''Mommy, I want that!'' She points at something in the cabinet and then, before Laurel has a chance to warn her to be careful, she reaches out and presses a slobbery hand to the glass.

''Mary - Oh, shit.'' In her attempt to rush over to her daughter, Laurel nearly trips over the damn mug. She stops to pick it up and puts it, along with the Barbie and the napkins, on the coffee table. By the time she reaches Mary, there are two handprints on the glass. ''Sweetie,'' she sighs, gently pulling her hand back.

Mary doesn't even notice. ''Mommy, I want that,'' she repeats, pointing. ''Let's do that!''

Laurel glances at what she's pointing at. The record player. ''You want to listen to music?''

''Uh-huh!'' Mary bobs her head up and down enthusiastically. ''Music!'' She wipes her hand on her shirt. Completely over the moon about her brilliant idea, she makes an attempt to lunge forward toward the cabinet.

''Whoa, whoa, whoa, slobber hands.'' Laurel reacts quickly, catching her before she can leave a third handprint and swooping her up into her arms. ''All right.'' She settles her on her hip. ''We can listen to music,'' she agrees. ''But you have to let me set it up, okay?'' She deposits the little girl on the couch. ''You sit right here and drink your drink. Sound good?''

''Good, good!'' Mary slides off the couch and opts to sit on the floor instead, wrapping her hands around the mug. ''What're we gonna listen to?''

Laurel opens up the cabinet and opens the drawer at the bottom to take out a stack of records. ''How about you pick?'' She puts the records on the coffee table. She turns away for about three seconds, realizes her mistake, and whirls back around. ''Don't take them out of their cases.''

Mary freezes with one of her tiny hands shoved in a Beatles album, the record halfway out of the cardboard sleeve. She blinks a few times and then hurriedly pushes the record back in and puts it down.

Laurel eyes her for an extra minute and then reluctantly turns away again. Mary does not take any more of the records out of their sleeves, but by the time Laurel has the record player out and all set up, Mary has every single album strewn out on the floor. She's looking at each and every one of them and then discarding them, seemingly dissatisfied with her options.

''Mary,'' Laurel warns, and when Mary turns to look at her, she signs, Please be careful. She settles herself next to her daughter, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Mary picks through a few more albums and then selects one from the bottom of the pile. ''Who's this?''

Laurel leans over to check the cover, smiling softly when she sees which one it is. ''That's Etta James.'' She takes the record from Mary's hands, looking down at the worn cover. ''Do you remember your Nana Bea?''

''Nana Bea,'' Mary parrots with a nod. She points to something over Laurel's finger to the framed picture on the desk. The picture in the frame is from November of 2012, the first time Beatrice Drake met little Mary Beatrice. She had been so happy to meet her great granddaughter. It was the first real smile Laurel had seen on her face since Grandpa died.

Laurel looks back down at the Etta James album. ''This used to belong to Nana Bea,'' she says. ''It has her favourite song on it. When your dad and I got married, we danced to - ''

''Hey, look!''

Um, okay then.

Moment over.

Mary bulldozes right past her mother's moment of sentimentality, holding up another album with a big grin on her face. ''Daddy's music!''

Laurel doesn't bother to tell her that the Led Zeppelin album in her hand actually used to belong to her Grandma Dinah. ''Yep, that's Daddy's music all right,'' she agrees. ''You want to listen to that?''

''Yes!'' Mary bounces on the spot, thrusting the record at Laurel. ''Yes please! I like Led Zeppelin!''

''You certainly are your father's daughter, aren't you?'' Laurel takes the record out of the sleeve and puts it on the turntable, carefully placing the needle on the vinyl. She turns up the volume, mostly so Mary will be able to hear it as best as she can, but also so Dean will be able to hear it in the kitchen.

Within thirty seconds of Dazed and Confused, he pokes his head out of the kitchen. ''Is that Zeppelin?''

''This is what your daughter wanted to listen to,'' Laurel says.

''That's my girl,'' he calls out, and then retreats.

Mary looks incredibly pleased with herself.

Laurel laughs lightly, leaning in to tuck a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. ''If I leave the room for a minute, can you be a good girl for me?''

Mary looks up at her innocently. ''Mommy, I'm always a good girl.''

''Right.'' Laurel gets to her feet. ''Just please don't touch that,'' she gestures to the record player. ''Deal?''

No touching, Mary signs obediently.

''Thank you.'' Laurel ruffles Mary's hair and then heads down the hall to the laundry room.

The laundry room in their house is a narrow, cramped room beside the bathroom, just big enough to fit the washer, dryer, a sink, a bit of shelving on the wall, and a hamper or two. A glorified closet. She slips into the small, always oddly quiet room and flicks on the light, searching for Windex to clean Mary's handprint off the glass door of the cabinet. She finds the bottle of cleaner under the sink, but fumbles around for a few minutes trying to find a clean sponge or cloth.

From the laundry room, she can still hear the music playing in the living room and even Dean moving around in the kitchen. As she searches around under the sink, another noise filters through the suddenly and inexplicably chilly room. It's like...a knocking sound. A tapping. Like someone is tapping on a window.

There are no windows in this room.

Laurel stands straight, tightening her lips when the overhead light flickers. She doesn't remember it ever doing that before. She pokes her head out the door and looks down the hallway toward the sliding glass door to the backyard. Nothing. There is no one there. She ducks back into the laundry room and looks around for some kind of exposed pipe or something that could explain the noise. She already knows there's nothing.

She swallows hard and tries to ignore the knot forming in her chest. The tapping gets louder. It's more like a banging now. Other noises slowly join in, creating a bewildering and unsettling cacophony of thumps and banging and scratching. It hits her then that no one else is hearing this. This is just for her. She doesn't know how she knows that, she just does.

The noises grow louder; they multiply until they are coming from every direction, from everywhere, until she can feel it vibrating in her bones. Unexplained noises, especially knocking and scratching, are typically symptoms of a poltergeist infestation. A haunted house. Only this house isn't the one that's haunted. She is.

This is her. This is the witch. That's all this is. It's a scare tactic. It's not real. She wants Laurel on her knees.

A creeping, unendurable cold begins to spread throughout her body as the noise surrounds her, trapping her in the enclosed space. She looks down at the floor, still clutching the bottle of Windex, and it is covered in cockroaches. They're skittering across the tiles, streaming out of cracks in the walls that hadn't been there before, spilling out from under the sink, so many of them that they're practically on top of each other. There is a tickling, scratching feeling on her back, her neck, skittering across her spine, and she jerks away, batting at the cockroach crawling up the side of her face. She whirls around to go for the door, but there is no door.

She wants to scream, she tries, but nothing comes out. She is, without warning, voiceless. The knocking persists, grows louder and louder until it is the only thing she can hear; a deafening, violent noise meant only for her. The bugs keep crawling, keep squirming, keep scratching. Something is pulling at her insides, tugging, trying to drag her somewhere else, away from this place.

Her numb fingers can no longer hold onto the bottle of cleaner. It slips from her weak grasp and goes falling into the sea of cockroaches. They crawl over it, covering it like ivy. None of this is real. None of this is happening. There are no bugs, there is no knocking, and there is no voice in her head, asking, Did you really think your homecoming was permanent? Did you not know? The voice is raspy and hard to understand, full of rage and hatred, so twisted up and mangled that it barely sounds human.

Somehow, beyond all of that, it is recognizable. Laurel swears - she swears - she has heard this voice somewhere before. But she can't speak. She can't ask questions, she can't plead, she can't make it stop.

No, the voice says. You knew. You knew from that very first day, didn't you? The earth was never going to let you go.

That's when the floor cracks.

She never even has the chance to run. The ground cracks and splits beneath her feet and the next thing she knows, the floor falls away and the ground opens up and she is swallowed whole.

She lands in pitch black nothingness, on something hard but cushioned. It smells faintly of wood and dirt and she realizes, all too quickly, where she is. This is somewhere she has been before. It's somewhere that's been chasing her ever since she left it, a place she will have to go back to someday, whether she wants to or not. This is her grave. Her casket.

She tries to get away from it. She wants to stand up and scream and scratch at the dirt walls of the six foot deep hole she's fallen into, but she can't. She's powerless, again, voiceless in the dark, suffocation of her grave.

It's time to come home, Laurel, the cruel voice in her head whispers. The dirt wants you back.

The lid of the casket slams shut and then there is darkness, only darkness.

The panic sets in immediately, bringing petrified tears to her eyes. On the verge of hyperventilating, she pounds at the roof of the casket and tries to find her voice. She can't even whimper. All that comes out are these pathetic gasping noises. When she tries to form words, there's nothing there. She bangs and pounds at the heavy wood, tears at the fabric lining, claws at the wood until her nails are worn down and bloody, but it's no use. She can't make it out of here a second time, and no one is coming to save her. No one is coming to save her.

She does try. She tries and she keeps trying, pounding and clawing, trying to punch through the wood the way she did before, but she can't. It's no use. And then there is just silence. There is just her, the quiet darkness, and the tears rolling down her cheeks.

It happens quietly.

Aside from the muffled, faraway sound of Led Zeppelin, there is only silence. A deep, unnerving silence. Exhausted, sweating and trapped, she lets her bloodied hands fall to her sides, takes in a few breaths of the thinning air, and then she closes her eyes and she gives up.

Then, and only then, does she open her eyes and find herself back in the laundry room. There is no grave, no casket, no suffocating darkness. There never was. She was only ever here. Standing frozen in her laundry room, holding onto a bottle of Windex while Babe I'm Gonna Leave You plays in the living room.

Reality comes crashing back and she gasps for air that she still cannot seem to find. She is safe here. There is no knocking, no bugs, no flickering lights, no splits in the world. Suddenly, viciously, as if she has been punched in the gut, Laurel feels winded and woozy. The world tips sideways, leaving her feeling off balance and nauseated. The bottle of Windex clatters to the ground and she doubles over with her hands on her knees, vision blurring. She has to grit her teeth against the rolling nausea.

This is going to keep happening, she realizes. This is going to keep happening as long as she has this witch in her head. She's like a toxin in her blood. Like a poison trying to turn her inside out, traumatize her, ruin her so badly that there's nothing left for her but to... To what? Give into her? Hand herself over to be made into one of those soulless dolls?

Laurel laughs. It sounds more like a breathless gasp. She can hear Led Zeppelin coming from the living room. She can hear her little girl coughing. She can hear her husband moving around in the kitchen, a shout away if she needs him. ''Is that it?'' She mocks, grinding the words out through her teeth. ''Is that all you've got for me?'' She manages to stand up straight. ''A hallucination? Please,'' she sneers. ''Been there, done that. Gonna take a hell of a lot more than that to hurt me. It didn't work for Count Vertigo and it's not going to work for you, American Horror Story.''

Despite her bravado, it takes her a minute to catch her breath and even longer for her heart rate to slow down. She closes her eyes tightly and reaches out a hand to grab onto the dryer. Her body still remembers the casket. Vividly. Her muscles feel stiff and tight from being stuffed into the cramped box. Her hands still sting and throb from clawing at the roof of a casket that wasn't even there. None of it was real, none of it happened, but her body does not appear to have gotten that memo.

She takes in a few hungry gulps of air and works hard to stay here instead of getting lost in a panic attack. She only gets a few seconds to herself before she hears the front door open, followed by Mary's excited shriek of, ''Grandpa!''

Laurel breathes out. She opens her eyes. She lets go of the dryer. She can't stay in here forever. She gives it a few more minutes, listening to her father and Mary, to Dean when he comes out to greet Dad, all the familiar voices that calm the rising storm in her chest. She forgets the Windex when she leaves. Forgets why she even needed it. She's too focused on making sure there's no trace of what just happened on her face. She puts on her best smile and hopes she doesn't look too pale or shaken. She hopes her father won't notice that it's unsteady.

Her father's attention is mostly on Mary. When she makes it down the hall, Dean is just heading back into the kitchen and Mary is beaming up at her grandfather, babbling about Mommy Barbie's missing shoe and her special drink that's just for her. He's listening attentively, crouched in front of her, and he looks so happy and peaceful that Laurel almost doesn't want to interrupt.

He looks at the drink Mary's showing him and asks, jokingly, ''You drinkin' coffee now, pumpkin?''

Mary laughs and laughs and says, ''No, Grandpa, I can't have coffee! I'm too little!''

He starts laughing and stands, swooping her up into his arms. ''Clever girl.''

Laurel hangs back for a minute or two, trying to forget whatever the hell just happened.

''Do you like the music?'' Mary asks, winding her arms around his neck. ''This is my daddy's music.'' Before he has a chance to respond, she catches sight of Laurel. ''Mommy! Look! Grandpa's here!''

Laurel tries for a chuckle. ''I see that,'' she says. ''Hi, Daddy.''

He turns to smile at her. ''Hey, sweetheart. I thought I'd drop in and see how my girls are doing.'' He makes, predictably, no mention of Dean. They've been getting along a lot better since her return, but she can only do so much.

''We're good,'' she says, moving over to kiss his cheek. ''We're always happy to see you.''

''Yeah,'' Mary echoes. ''Always, always.''

He laughs. He looks lighter than he did when she first got back. ''Well, I'm always happy to be here with you two.''

Laurel brings a hand up to play with the chain around her neck. ''So, how do you feel about pot roast with garlic mashed potatoes?''

He doesn't answer. Something about his expression has changed. The smile has dropped off his lips and he looks pale all of a sudden. ''Laurel,'' he says. There's something off about the tone of his voice.

''Mommy,'' Mary cuts in. She doesn't look nearly as shaken as he does, but there is a spark of concern in her big eyes and she's frowning. ''What happened to your hands?''

Laurel looks down at her hands, and the world flickers. For a split second, she is back in that grave, clawing and clawing and clawing. Then, in a snap, she's home again, standing in her living room with her horrified father and confused daughter. She stares down at her bruised and bloody hands, her torn nails, wounds full of splinters and the remnants of dirt.

It's time to come home, Laurel, she hears again, a faraway echo of that hissing voice. The dirt wants you back.

.

.

.

end part ten

---

AN: ''My beautiful Robin Hood'' and ''When a pretty bird calls, I answer'' are both Dinah/Ollie quotes from the comics. Also, the chili. The chili is a Dinah/Ollie comic reference. I couldn't help myself.

Some of the dialogue from the February, 2014 flashback were taken directly from episode 2x14 of Arrow from the infamous hallway scene.