Happy Valentine's day! This chapter is anything but lovey-dovey. But does anyone really mind that? ;) Thank you so much for the reviews y'all left on my latest chapters! I may not respond to everyone, but I see each of them and just know that they always brighten my day and make me smile. So in order to spread some joy, here's another chapter that's anything but joyous lol. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nah, I don't own this. Otherwise Crisis on Infinite Earths would have been full of fun and adventure instead of tears and well, ya' know.

The elevator wasn't even entirely open before Oliver was calling Caitlin's name, a bleeding Barry lying limply in his arms.

He only hoped people would actually be here, considering how early it was.

But knowing Caitlin, he knew she would be.

"Caitlin! Felicity!" He yelled, rushing further into the building. Barry's head lolled to the side, despite Oliver's hurried attempts at positioning him against his
shoulder.

A door slammed open, a disheveled Caitlin hurrying into the room, while Felicity came out of a different room looking just as abruptly woken.

But as soon as their eyes laid on Barry, all color drained from their faces as they rushed forward.

"Oh my God,"

"Bring him in here!" He followed Caitlin into the room he'd been in once already, but that was when he knew Barry was dead and before he-

"Set him there," She instructed, gesturing towards the table.

A brief memory of Barrry lying broken abd bloody on the table flashed to the forefront of Oliver's mind and he had to swallow down the nausea building in his stomach.

He laid Barry onto the table/makeshift hospital bed, stepping back as Caitlin moved in.

"What's going on?" He heard Dig's baritone as he entered the room. Oliver turned at the voice, not surprised by John's stunned expression at his presence.

"John, I need you to help me-" Diggle was moving forward as Caitlin spoke, and the room was filled with the scent of Barrys blood, both present and past and-

Oliver stepped back, shaking his head.

"-ver?" He vaguely heard Felicity call his name, the room spinning and twisting before him.

He recoiled back at the touch on his arm, distantly aware that it was Felicity, but all he could see was Barry lying on that table, Barry choking on his own blood as Oliver shot him, and Barry collapsing in his arms, bleeding and dying-

He barely made it to the door, almost losing his footing in his haste, and slammed it behind him. He knew nobody would follow him.

Barry needed all the help he could get.

You should be in there to do that.

You're the reason he's even in there in the first place.

He choked on something, whether it was the tightness in his throat or because he couldn't get that damn smell away from him-

His fingers were fumbling at his shirt as he stumbled to the side, yanking and pulling until the fabric stretched beneath his touch. After several moments of struggle, he managed to get the shirt off, nearly gagging at all of the blood on it.

Barry's blood.

He threw it into the corner, already heading to a sink to wash away the stains on his hands.

But nothing could ever wash away what you did to Barry-

He refused to look in the mirror, unwilling to see what Barry saw moments before he tried to kill him-

His mind went back to his shirt, and how that was that second outfit of Oliver's in only a few days that was ruined by Barry's blood.

He couldn't care less about the clothes but somehow knowing that on two separate occasions Oliver had been the cause of Barry bbleeding enough to ruin two articles of clothing was enough to have Oliver on his knees once more, dry heaving.

Distantly, he knew he should be begging for forgiveness while down on his knees.

Too bad it wouldn't do a damned thing.

Oliver didn't know how long he'd been in there, but he knew he needed out.

He needed out of the building, hell, maybe even out of the city.

You can never go far enough to escape what you've done.

He rose to his feet, opening the door and closing it with a quiet click behind him. Moving forward in the barely lit room, he remembered he didn't have his shirt, but
honestly couldn't find it in himself to care enough to get another one.

He had nearly made it to the elevator, when he heard the door open behind him.

"Where are you going?" He sighed, stopping in his attempt to leave.

"Out." He declared, turning to face the man he considered his friend.

But didn't deserve to.

John looked at him, crossing his arms, and Oliver felt like a child under the scrutinizing gaze.

"You can't run from this, Oliver."

"Who said I was?"

"Because you've done it once before already. Listen, man, I get it-"

"John. If you're here to lecture me or try to make me feel better, you can stop it. Nothing you say will change the fact that I beat my friend to within an inch of
his life. So don't even try." Oliver declared, and there was an iciness to his voice that surprised even him.

Maybe it wasn't really that surprising that you were capable of almost killing your friend.

"But it wasn't you, Oliver! I know that, Barry knows that, and you should, too." Oliver scoffed. "No amount of distance you put between you and him will change anything. You can't run from this. From us-"

"Watch me." He declared.

John's jaw ticked, before he looked down and nodded. He looked back up.

"Fine. But don't you think you should at least talk to Barry? It's the least you could do."

Ouch.

Oliver clenched his jaw.

"The last thing Barry needs from me right now is a chat. What the hell do you expect me to say? 'Hey, sorry about how I tried to kill you'?"

"Yeah," Oliver shook his head in frustrated exasperation.

"I'm not gonna' do that, John! I tried to kill him! And I-" He stopped abruptly, not wanting to admit the very thing that made him sick to his stomach every time he
thought of it.

"You what, Oliver?"

He shook his head, voice quieting to a dull, lifeless whisper but there was so much regret and disdain in it that he struggled through the words.

"And I liked it." The words were like acid on his tongue. "I liked it, John." He looked up, expecting anger, disgust, hell, hatred even.

But he wasn't expecting to see what looked like compassion.

"That wasn't you." He scoffed.

"God, John, then who was it? Because maybe Crystal was controlling me but whose hands was it that shot those arrows? Huh?" His voice lowered to a dangerous tone.

"I did this. And nothing I can do will ever fix it." Oliver turned to leave, done with this conversation and feeling the rise of anger bubbling beneath the surface.

But he knew it wasn't anger towards John.

No, that simmering hatred was directed straight to himself.

"Oliver, don't do this. Talk to him, man." He shook his head, hand raised to press the elevator button. "You know he's just going to find you," He stopped at those words, hand hovering in place. "Look how well that turned out last time," Dig remarked, and Oliver turned to look at him, debating his options.

Finally, his hand lowered. He sighed.

"What am I supposed to do here, John?" There was such a raw vulnerability in his voice that it shocked them both.

"Just talk to him, Oliver. You know how Barry is. When he woke up all he cared about was finding you. Why do you think he snuck out this morning to find you?" John patted him on the back, leaving him to think about those words.

He sighed tiredly, and sunk into the nearest chair, running a hand through his hair.

He was still going to leave.

But first, he'd talk with Barry.

God knows Oliver owed him at least that much.

Ahh! The plot thickens. Don't forget to leave review! It seriously means the world to me when ya' do. Love y'all!