Okay let's have honest time: I'm sorry that this doesn't get updated in a timely manner. I have a really bad comprehension of time passing. I promise I'm not done with these two (three) although I'm pretty sure they wish I was. I have everything mapped out and now that I am finished with my other WIP, this is my current only open fic. So buckle up kids. Because it's about to get bumpy.
The song for this chapter is Talking To The Moon by Bruno Mars.
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Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own Arrow or its characters.
Chapter Thirteen: Talking To The Moon
Oliver slammed his shot glass down on the table, swallowing the harsh liquid quickly with a grimace. He normally didn't drink unless he was with his mob associates. He needed to stay sharp and be alert. That was the only way to survive being so deep in the Bratva without being caught. But today…
Today was Norah's first birthday.
And he wasn't there.
Feeling like he abandon Felicity and Norah had definitely been the hardest trial to overcome and that was saying something since he was currently passing a devoted Captain in the Bratva. Every day that passed he wondered what he was missing. She had to be walking by now, maybe even talking. She was undoubtedly transitioning from a baby into a toddler and he was missing all of it. Felicity was left to raise her alone and he felt like a failure, like he was going back on all the promises he had made her about being there for the both of them.
But he was saving them. He was trying to keep them safe.
His justifications did little to ease the pain of separation and self loathing.
"What did you do for your birthday, baby girl," he asked quietly, moving to the window to stare out at the sleeping city and bright moon. He often did this when things got harder for him to handle. He swept his apartment for bugs everytime he got home and he hadn't yet had to worry about anyone overhearing his one sided conversations. "I bet you're just so big now. You're probably running instead of walking. And I bet you can say all kinds of words. What was your first word? Mama? I know it wasn't Dada. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I've failed you. You won't even know who I am when I… if I get back." Tears clouded his eyes and didn't bother to wipe them away, instead grabbing the vodka bottle and pouring himself another shot. He sat at the table in his tiny, dingy apartment and conjured up the image of Felicity sitting across from him. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, her pristine, bright clothes making her blue eyes sparkle.
"I've been working so hard, Felicity. I'm doing everything I can to try and keep you safe and to get back home to you but this is so hard," he whispered, voice breaking at the end. "I've taken lives. I keep telling myself they're bad people, that they deserve it but I can feel their blood on my hands. What is one life in the balance of a whole city? But if the Bratva wants them dead, are they actually bad? Would you even know who I am if I came home? I don't recognize myself. I stare in the mirror and I feel like a stranger in my own head. I've become the worst version of myself and every time I pull the trigger, I feel like more and more of me is slipping away. Maybe it would be better if I didn't come back. I'm not the kind of man you want around Norah anymore. I can only teach her violence and depravity." He was aware that he had entered a state of self deprecation and wallowing but he couldn't fight it. Not tonight. All these months away was chipping away at him, hardening him into a man he thought he'd left behind a long time ago.
"We miss you so much, Oliver," his imaginary Felicity said. "Come home to us," she pleaded. He closed his eyes as tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I don't know if I can," he whispered. "I'm not the man who kissed you goodbye all those months ago." He gave up on his shot glass and favored swigs straight from the bottle at this point, hissing at the icy liquid as burned in his throat. His vision was starting to blur and double and he just wanted to lay down and pass out.
There was a bang on his door and he jumped up, going for the gun on the counter. Before he could get there, the door was thrown open and men surged in, shouting in Russian at him. They grabbed him roughly and he managed to hit two of them and drive them back before he felt a prick at his neck and his vision started to go black. He grunted in pain as someone knocked his knees out from under him and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the blurry face of his Bratva commander shaking his head in disappointment, eyes burning with anger.
"You haven't been honest with me," he admonished and then Oliver's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, darkness taking him.