Chapter Two "Shadows Growing in My Mind"

Felicity paces two steps back and forth while her mind runs through all the possible explanations for the situation in which she now finds herself. Surprisingly, she's even too preoccupied to babble. Oliver—if he even is Oliver—watches her with a wide-eyed expression she's never seen before.

"You don't remember me," she finally says matter-of-factly. "Which means you probably don't remember Diggle or Roy."

"Who are they?" Oliver asks.

Felicity holds out her hand to stop him. "Give me a second."

She keeps pacing, filtering variables through her mind as if it's a computer. Somewhere, there's a connection, a reason for all this.

"Unless you're a clone!" Felicity suddenly blurts out.

"I'm not a clone," Oliver insists.

"Exactly what a clone would say." Felicity stops in front of him and stares into his face. He looks too much like the real thing.

"You're... odd," Oliver says, leaning away slightly. "You don't actually think I'm a clone."

"You don't remember the last three years—"

"Eight," he corrects her. "Eight years. I can't remember anything after the shipwreck."

"Wow, that's... oddly specific. Where have you been the last six months?"

"On a mountain. Someone stabbed me, I think, and... I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because you know me. I mean, if you really are Oliver Queen, you know you can trust me. And whatever is going on here is so messed up you're going to need people you can trust."

"I don't know you. And as for trusting you... maybe you're telling the truth, but how should I know?"

Felicity bites her lip. How can he know? If she had forgotten all about him, she probably wouldn't trust him just like that. The very thought sends a shiver through her whole body. Or maybe it's the night air.

"Okay..." Felicity says slowly. "We just have to figure out what happened to you and how to get your memories back. You used to do this meditation thing. Roy could help with that. Hey, how did you survive up there alone anyway?"

"I wasn't alone," Oliver says. "A family friend helped me."

Family friend? What friend of the Queens could possibly have—

Felicity's jaw drops. "Malcolm Merlyn?"

Oliver raises his eyebrows. "You know him?"

It happens before Felicity can even realize she's making a choice. She quickly dismisses any thoughts of telling Oliver the whole truth right now and settles for something innocuous.

"We've met," she says.

"You don't sound happy about it." Oliver may have lost his memory, but he's still perceptive when he wants to be.

"It's a long story."

"So I keep hearing. Nobody wants to tell me anything. Most of my family is dead, my best friend is gone... Is there anything that hasn't gone wrong in the last eight years?"

Felicity has to think about that. She could tell him that he's a hero, that she loves him. But she doesn't know what good that will do. He needs to find out for himself.

"I think it's probably better if we try to bring your memories back," she says. "Instead of just telling you everything because that would take far too long and be incredibly confusing."

"How do you suggest we do that?"

"Like I said, there's a meditation technique you learned in Hong Kong or something."

"Wait, when was I in Hong Kong?"

"I don't know exactly. You were vague on the details. I need to call Roy."

Felicity reaches for her phone, but Oliver's hand shoots out and grabs her wrist before she can dial. Even he seems surprised by this and quickly lets go.

"Sorry," he says. "I just don't..."

"Of course!" Felicity drops her phone back in her purse. "You don't want to talk to more people you don't remember. I'll... take you to see Laurel."

Felicity doesn't realize she's made the offer until the words escape her mouth. Oliver looks like a conflicted mass of hope and terror. He still thinks he's in love with Laurel and that she hates him because of Sara.

"Right, brilliant," Felicity says mostly to herself. "This would have to be much more awkward than it should be."

"Are you sure it's... a good idea?"

"You know what, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. You're the one who makes the decisions around here. Or you were. And I'd talk to the guys about it, but you don't know them, and I'm really trying not to make you feel completely lost in all this, and Laurel seems like the best person to talk to right now. Oh, and that whole thing with—well, you know—that's not such an issue right now. I know the shipwreck was like yesterday for you, but you and Laurel are on—well I won't say good terms because you don't agree about a lot of things—and why haven't you shouted my name to shut me up yet?"

Oliver stares at Felicity like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I don't know your name," he says.

Felicity's heart sinks. She should have known that. For a moment, she had gotten lost and expected him to be the same old Oliver that she knows is in there somewhere.

"It was the first thing you ever said to me," she says absently. "You walked into my office and—" Felicity shakes her head. "Doesn't matter. We should go. I'll drive."

Felicity doesn't wait for a reply. She can't look into his eyes anymore and know that he's not really seeing her. Not like he used to. She gets into the driver's seat of her car and stares straight ahead as Oliver follows and sits beside her. Thankfully, he doesn't ask any more questions. Felicity doesn't think she would be able to speak without crying. She's just hoping to make it through this drive and praying that there's a way to get her Oliver back.

~oOo~

The cramped passenger seat of a strange woman's car isn't exactly where Oliver expected to be tonight. He still doesn't know her name, and for some reason, she seems reluctant to tell him. Or she's just that distracted. She keeps her gaze forward, to the point of not checking her mirrors when she probably should. As late as it is, there's hardly any traffic, so Oliver figures he can let it slide without the threat of dying in a fiery crash.

He tries not to squirm in his seat and create further awkwardness. This is made more difficult by the fact that the seat is too far forward, but it's been a few minutes, and he doesn't want to adjust it now. This also tells him that he doesn't ride in her car a lot.

The more time that passes, the more Oliver begins to feel as though he's going to explode. He doesn't like being confined like this. It makes him nervous, though he's not sure why. He keeps looking over his shoulder and out the window as if he expects something dangerous out there.

Eventually the silence becomes too much. The girl driving the car is far too tense, and Oliver thinks she might actually rip the steering wheel from its column if her knuckles get any whiter.

"Are you okay?" he asks. He's always been soft spoken, and it's an advantage now since he doesn't want to startle her.

She does jump slightly before glancing over at him and making fish-like motions with her mouth for a moment. "I... no," she says with the kind of honesty in her voice that Oliver is sure he's never heard before from anyone. "I'm really not. I thought you were dead, and now you're here, but you're not... you. I'm not sure which is worse—I mean, not that it would be better if you were dead. Of course not, but you're still... gone."

"Who are you to me?" The words slip out before Oliver has the chance to think about their implication. He sees the pain in her eyes when he asks, and he wishes he hadn't said anything.

"I'm your friend," she says.

But there are tears in her voice. Somehow, this is more important than just friendship. At least, the kind of friendships Oliver used to have. There's something else between them, some shared secrets or hardships that she can't talk about. Oliver mentally kicks himself for hurting her. It seems like that's all he ever does—hurt people.

They finally come to a stop outside of a modest apartment building. It's a nice place, but nowhere near the extravagance of Thea's loft. The stranger gets out of the car and leads the way to the front door. She has her phone out and is texting someone as the approach.

"The doors will be locked this late," she explains. "I'm letting Laurel know to come let us in."

"She won't be sleeping?"

The girl shrugs. "Maybe. She'll want to see you sooner rather than later."

"See, I don't get that. You... you know what I did, don't you?"

"Yes. Like I said, it's not really an issue anymore. You've both moved past it."

"How am I supposed to do that? I haven't had time—"

The lights in the lobby come on, distracting Oliver, and he sees Laurel coming toward the glass doors. She looks different than the last time he saw her. She's thinner and she walks like she owns the world. When she sees Oliver, her eyes widen, and she hurries to open the door.

"Ollie," she gasps and throws her arms around his neck. She's much stronger than he remembers. "He told us you were dead."

She's happy to see him. Oliver can feel her pulse beating rapidly where her neck is pressed against his, and he doesn't know why he notices that. She pulls back, holding him by his shoulders and searching his face as if for a sign that he's still in there.

"Who told you?" Oliver asks.

"Merlyn. He found the sword—"

The other girl coughs and Laurel looks over at her questioningly.

"Oliver doesn't remember anything after the shipwreck," she says bluntly.

Laurel turns back to Oliver with a new look in her eyes. It's a lot like pity. "Ollie... what happened?"

"I woke up with a hole in my side," he says. "Malcolm was there. He saved my life. Why would he tell you I'm dead?"

Now Laurel looks worried. "This can't be right," she says. "What's his game?"

The question is directed back at the other girl, and Oliver is feeling distinctly out of the loop.

"Maybe we should talk inside," the girl says.

Oliver really needs to come up with something other than "the girl" to call her until he figures out her name.

"Good idea," Laurel agrees.

She ushers them inside and up a few flights of stairs before they reach her apartment. Along the way, the two women talk about people Oliver doesn't know. He's heard the names several times now, but he still has no clue who Roy and Diggle are. Laurel mentions her father a few times, and Oliver doesn't know what help he could possibly be. Aside from maybe putting Oliver out of his misery perhaps. Just because Laurel seems to have no lingering issues about Sara doesn't mean her father is going to feel the same way.

Once they're inside, the stranger goes into the kitchen to "make tea and phone calls" while Laurel shows Oliver into the living room.

"Did you just get back?" she asks as she sits down.

"Yeah." Oliver stands by the window, looking out into the dark. "I saw Thea, and... I got restless I guess."

"You ran into Felicity at your old house?"

Felicity. Her name is Felicity. It seems... right somehow.

Oliver merely nods in confirmation.

"When we thought you were dead, she... didn't take it well."

Oliver turns to face Laurel. "I can't imagine why. I'd think most people would be glad to be rid of me."

Laurel looks angry for the briefest of moments. "That's because you don't know who you are. Who you became. You're different, Oliver. You're not that selfish kid who left on that boat."

"Who am I then? No one seems to want to tell me that."

Laurel leans forward with her hands on her knees. "You're a good person. You help the city instead of leeching off it like your parents and so many others did. I don't think I can explain it in a way you'll understand except to say that you've changed lives. Everyone who knows you will say the same."

"Everyone? What about Tommy? He's dead right?" Oliver knows he shouldn't be so combative, but he's tired and frustrated, and Laurel is the only one who can seem to give him any answers.

At the mention of Tommy, she takes a shaky breath. "He may be gone," she says. "But you've honored his memory in a way that would make him proud."

"You're right," Oliver says, turning back toward the window. "I don't understand."

The girl—Felicity comes back into the room and sets three teacups on the table. "I sent Roy over to pick up the bike. I thought maybe we should wait until tomorrow to try retrieving your memories. So you can get some rest."

"He should probably see a doctor," Laurel adds. "He could have some kind of head trauma."

"My head feels fine," Oliver says, a little annoyed that they're talking about him like he's not there, like he doesn't get a say.

"It's still worth getting checked out."

"I said I'm fine."

"Oliver?" Felicity's voice comes across like a gentle push. "We just want you to be yourself again. We want you to be okay."

Oliver looks at her and he finally sees something he didn't notice before in the dark. She has the bluest eyes. The way she's looking at him, he can't help feeling that he does know her. It's there at the edge of his consciousness like the dreams he can never quite remember. He tries to grasp at the memory, but the sensation fades as quickly as it came.

"I think the truth would be a good start," Oliver says. He knows there's more they aren't telling him.

"Then maybe you should sit down," Laurel says, picking up one of the cups of tea. "'Cause it's a really long story."

~oOo~

It's not really a conscious choice, not something they talked about before hand, but Laurel and Felicity share the unspoken agreement that they aren't going to tell Oliver about the Arrow just yet. Explaining Malcolm's attack on the city, how Tommy and Moira died, and all the other personal tragedies Oliver had faced since he came back from the island seems like more than enough.

Laurel isn't sure she can explain Oliver's reasons for becoming the Arrow when she doesn't fully understand them herself. It's almost funny to think that all of Oliver's secrets are now a mystery to him as well.

By the time they're through telling the simpler parts of the story, it's almost dawn. Oliver finally stopped pacing a couple of hours ago, and is now sitting in a chair across from the couch. He looks exhausted as he props his hands up under his chin, lost in thought. Felicity has just finished telling him about Malcolm being Thea's father and all that entails.

For a long time, Oliver doesn't say anything. He's got so much to process, Laurel really doesn't expect him to respond. His eyes are fixed somewhere in the middle distance, and not for the first time, Laurel wishes she knew how to pull him out of this. But it's been a long time and a lot of mistakes since she's been able to get through to him.

She turns to Felicity as if expecting to find some kind of answer there. But Felicity is watching Oliver with a look of quiet agony in her eyes. She can't reach him any better than Laurel can because Oliver doesn't remember her.

Oliver rubs his eyes, and as his hands run down his face, Laurel can see that he's trying to make sense of everything and failing. None of them can help him there. The more they ask themselves why all these horrible things happen, the more the silence grows. There are no answers.

Laurel stands and collects the empty cups off the coffee table. She feels like she should be keeping busy even though it's four-something in the morning. Oliver's presence in her living room makes it feel like all the fighting she's been doing for the past six months has been for nothing.

Felicity follows Laurel into the kitchen. "I need to go talk to the others," she says. "I know I haven't been all that involved lately—"

"I'm sure we could use all the help we can get," Laurel replies. "It's just been me and Roy."

Laurel puts the cups in the sink and turns on the faucet. She hadn't meant to sound so pathetic, but she's tired and more than a little out of her depth.

Felicity hands her the dish soap. "I shouldn't have left," she says softly. "I should have known he'd be back."

Laurel shakes her head, focusing on the foaming suds as she rinses off the cups. She doesn't want to confess that she knows why Felicity had to go. She understands. But part of her still doesn't want it to be true. It's not that Laurel is still in love with Oliver, but she was once, and the thought of someone else being the most important person in his life stings. It's like an old wound that only hurts when the weather changes.

"You should take him home," Felicity continues. "It's probably better for him to be around somebody he knows right now."

Laurel sets the clean cups in the other side of the sink and reaches for a towel. She glances over at Felicity and sees a tiny reflection in the corner of her eye. Laurel doesn't need to ask to know that Felicity is torn up about this. She remembers vividly when Oliver stopped loving her. Except in her case, there was no memory loss involved. Felicity still has a chance if they can fix this thing.

"Right," Laurel agrees, drying off her hands. "I'll meet you back at Verdant later."

Felicity nods and heads for the door. Laurel doesn't watch her go, but she can imagine the slow steps and slumped shoulders. The image doesn't leave her head after the door closes and Felicity's footsteps fade down the hallway.

Laurel puts the towel away and returns to the living room to find Oliver exactly where she left him. He has his fingers peaked in front of his mouth, and he doesn't move as she walks toward him except to look up at her.

"I'm going to take you home, okay?" Laurel says.

Oliver gives her a miniscule nod, but makes no move to leave. Laurel wishes Felicity hadn't left yet. She would know how to snap him out of this. Laurel takes a few more steps and puts her hand on Oliver's shoulder.

"Come on," she says. "You should get some sleep, and Thea will be worried."

That seemed to do the trick because Oliver got that cold, hard look in his eyes that he seemed to have most of the time before he disappeared. He stands, and even the way he walks is different. He isn't the confused, insecure boy who walked in a few hours ago. Laurel knows he's still lost on the inside, but he exudes an emotionless detachment. As if he has to be strong now and bury everything else inside.

Laurel wants to tell him he doesn't have to be like that, but she doesn't know how or if he would even listen. It's been a long time since she's been able to influence him the way she used to. So she leads him out the door in silence. They walk out together, but Laurel feels as if he's miles away, as if he never came back at all.

~oOo~

Her training, if that's the right word, has left Thea a very light sleeper. Sometimes, Malcolm would get her up in the middle of the night to spar, even attacking while she was sleeping. So, when the front door opens and closes, Thea is instantly alert. Oliver should be in bed, and Malcolm wouldn't be sloppy enough to let her hear him come in.

Thea throws back the covers and hops out of bed, landing lightly on her bare feet. She knows where the wood floor creaks and avoids those spots as she makes her way out into the hall and toward the stairs. She's surprised when she hears voices, and even more so when she notices that they belong to Oliver and Laurel.

Thea huffs and gives up on stealth, making more noise than she needs to as she descends the stairs.

"What the hell is going on?" she asks. "I thought somebody broke in for a second."

Oliver turns to face her, and he's got that same look he had before when he came back—like he doesn't know her. He masks it quickly, but he doesn't remember how to be a good enough liar to hide it completely.

"Sorry," he says. "I just... had to get out."

"You should have said something."

"And you would have argued with me. Like this." A faint smirk touches Oliver's lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Thea gives up. "You know what... Never mind. You should get some sleep."

For Thea this is the end of the conversation, and Oliver seems to pick up on the fact that he's being dismissed. He looks like he might resist, but he just nods and heads upstairs. Thea doesn't make the mistake of thinking she's gotten through to him. She knows how he gets when he just doesn't want to bother arguing.

Laurel lingers in the doorway still, and Thea isn't sure why. "Thanks for bringing him back," she says. "I guess he told you about what happened."

"What, that he can't remember the past eight years?" Laurel replies. "Yeah, I got that."

Thea doesn't know why Laurel has such an antagonistic tone, and she's not sure she wants to. She'd rather end this conversation and go back to bed.

"Listen," Laurel says more quietly, "I know he's your father, but you can't trust Malcolm when it comes to Oliver."

Thea wants to be angry at Laurel for sticking her nose into things, but she's learned how to control and bury such messy emotions. "Why would you think that?" she asks instead. "Malcolm cares about Oliver because he's my brother."

Laurel shakes her head. "I can't explain it, but you have to believe me. Malcolm isn't Oliver's friend, and if you want to help your brother, you're going to have to see that sooner or later."

Laurel turns and walks out the door, closing it harder than she probably needs to. Thea stands there in the entryway for a moment, thinking about what Laurel said. She knows that Malcolm's only redeeming quality is that he loves her. For her that's enough, and up until now, she has believed it is enough for Oliver too. She isn't sure what she believes anymore, but it's going to take a lot more than Laurel's vague warning to change Thea's mind.

With a sigh, Thea ascends the stairs again. She can hear Oliver in his room, so she doesn't worry that he's going to run off again. There's a faint light coming through the windows in her room as the sun starts to break the horizon. A few minutes ago, all Thea wanted was to go back to bed. Now, she doesn't think she will be getting any more sleep. She has to consider the possibility that Malcolm has ulterior motives.

Which is hard to do when he's standing across the room. He must have gotten in while she was downstairs.

"Did you follow him?" Thea asks, trying to keep the hint of accusation out of her voice.

"I tried," Malcolm replies. "He's surprisingly slippery."

"Why?"

"Because he's not well. He shouldn't be out on his own."

"He's still a capable adult. I don't see how—"

"Of course you don't. Has it ever occurred to you to wonder why Oliver was gone for six months? What happened to him out there? There are dangerous people who want to hurt him, and he won't be able to protect himself."

"Why do you care?" Thea knows how it sounds, but she's nothing if not blunt.

Malcolm makes a show of looking hurt, and Thea doesn't know whether to believe it or not. "Oliver is like a son to me," he says.

It's too much. "A son?" Thea scoffs. "We all know what happened to your son."

Malcolm's expression hardens. "Just keep closer watch over him. And be careful about his friends. They may not be so friendly."

~oOo~

Eventful doesn't begin to describe Tommy's night. As he sips tepid coffee and watches his father leaving Thea's apartment building, he starts to wonder when any of these people sleep. Malcolm looks around once before getting into the waiting car as if he knows someone is watching him. Tommy will have to be more careful. He wasn't caught this time, but he can't afford to be sloppy.

The car pulls away and any inclination to follow it evaporates as Tommy gazes at the building across the street. He knows he can't go there yet. Oliver isn't ready, and Thea is still a risk. After six months of waiting, Tommy should be used to it, but he has to fight back the urge to drop in on Oliver now. He tells himself it will only be a little longer.

Tossing his coffee cup into a nearby trash can, Tommy turns and walks away from the building. He has to sleep and plan his next move. At the back of his mind, he worries about what his father might be up to. Whatever it is, it can't be good, and Tommy intends to find out sooner rather than later.

I'm so grateful for the positive response to this story. I promise some action soon. Probably in the next chapter. I've got a better idea of where things are going now, and I'll probably be using a bit of what's going on in the show, but in my own way. Let me know what you think.