This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Barry rushes out in blinding flash of light leaving behind a crackling of live static that makes the air shiver and feel heavy. It reminds Oliver of storms… but that's not why every hair on Oliver's arms is raised. (That one empty chair is the reason; the way her absence seems to create a vacuum, sucking every noise out. It leaves the kind of silence behind that drums in his head, louder than anything. He can hardly think for its persistent echo)
Words have left him completely. Whatever is going on inside him is untranslatable. It goes silent in transit[1].
One moment she was fine. Aching and grouchy, hands wringing and trying to keep on a brave face, and the next one she just… She just stopped.
Stopped speaking, stopped answering.
Stopped breathing.
Oliver feels the feathery turning of that malign thing inside him; familiar rage without direction with rows and rows of sharp teeth, like sharks. The frenzy makes him burn from the inside out, heavier than blood and harder than bone[2].
He can feel Diggle's stare pounding against the side of his head but doesn't dare move. If he does, if he doesn't control every moment, every breath and movement, every word, Oliver is sure that he'll explode and destroy anything that he gets his hands on. Or fall apart.
Either…
Both.
So he just stands there, resolutely not looking at her empty chair and feeling the burn of it like a brad at the back of his neck, trying to bottle things up, trying to breathe. Having no idea what to do. Clenching and unclenching his fists, wishing to spark a fire between his hands with the strength to burn the whole fucking world down.
What was happening exactly? The world was either spinning too fast or not moving at all.
Was there even any difference?
When Barry blasts his way into the foundry again, Oliver flinches.
"Alright, who's first?"
oOo
He plans on staying behind.
John knows him too well for his own good and makes him go first. Oliver is not sure if he is thankful for it, or if he hates that he has people that can predict him now. Thankful that there are steel cables binding him to earth and the present, or if he hates them and wants to tear at them until his hands are bloody and just floats away.
He stops wondering. There are some questions Oliver would still rather not answer, because he knows he'll get them wrong.
There are some things that won't ever change.
[1] Anne Carson, Variations on the Right to Remain Silent
[2] VàZaki Nada