What Wouldn't I Do

by I've got Rhythm in my Soul

We all know that Slade killed Oliver's mother: we were there, we saw it. But where was Felicity? What would she have done if she'd known? How would it have changed things? ...Since the writers cut out the fact that Felicity, whose home is literally the Foundry, would have probably still been within two feet of a computer, neurotically checking in on her family.

7. Part 7

"There's a reason I said I'd be happy alone. It wasn't 'cause I thought I'd be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It's easier to be alone, because what if you learn that you need love and you don't have it? What if you like it and lean on it? What if you shape your life around it and then it falls apart? Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage. It's like dying. The only difference is… death ends. This? It could go on forever." Meredith Grey

Part 7

'You cannot die until you have suffered the same way that I have suffered, until you have known complete despair.'

'Suffering' wasn't a novel aspect of life for him. He'd gone through five years of it: it no longer scared him. He could deal with it over and over and over again.

…Despair?

This isn't despair. Not for me.

He'd met despair before, on his journey prior to the 'Hood'. The 'Arrow'.

And had discovered that a man's tether to sanity should never be found in just one place. Like an exposed nerve.

It was too dangerous.

For a man like Oliver, it should never reside within a single person. That much focus… It was unaffordable. With the way he lived, with how he'd learned to love it wasn't possible, couldn't be, not ever. Either he made his peace with settling, with appreciating passing comfort and companionship or he travelled down this road, the path of a vigilante expecting and not fearing death, alone.

…Because what if he found that person? What if he started to need her, the one housing his hope? And found that he liked it. That he felt peace in the placement of his heart inside of hers, when she didn't even know that he'd given it to her for safe keeping. When he didn't even realize just how much of himself his heart concealed. And any other remnants of love and affection could be offered, without fear of trauma, to another who could temporarily ease his solitude – who felt just as he did. Though he would wonder, later, why he and Sara bothered to try with one another, knowing they loved or were falling for the touch of another. Why they would suffer heart ache just to avoid the mere idea of something real. Because with the 'real' came something more, something to fail.

'What if?'

They were the most brutal words in the history of the human language.

They made him not want to stop. To stop… touching her shoulders. And he had stopped. From glancing upwards, searching for her in any room and looking away before she saw the truth. He still did that. From dreaming. Sara had muted those dreams – silence but prevented.

Or from simply imagining what it would be like to love and be loved, so completely and utterly. By her. In a way that only she could love, did love. He'd thought he wasn't ready for that. Afraid of it.

Maybe I was wrong.

But… then what if he lost it?

That possibility.

What if it was taken before it had even started? With his heart sealed tightly inside.

How was he supposed to survive that?

'And you will. I promise.'

So no. This wasn't despair. He could deal with despair.

This wasn't even death. Because with death comes an end to the despair, to the suffering.

There was a break somewhere inside him; something shattered and with it, all feeling. It was unmitigated silence. The silence of light. A cold nothing. Nothing but the smooth trail of red down her cheek.

It fit; the red. To him, it fit. Red pen. Red dress. Red lipstick… God, the red lipstick. She'd worn red the previous week and it wasn't Sara's lips he'd thought of that night.

Like pure sunshine her hair spread across his bed, around her head; a golden halo of goodness, even though it wasn't her natural colour.Didn't matter; she suited it. Made it hers.

It was all he could see, her face; the pallid skin and the blood. All he could comprehend.

He'd heard a quote once: 'worse than despair,worse than the bitterness of death, is hope'. Percy Bysshe Shelley. But what was the next step? What came after the death of hope? Did anybody know? Could anybody help or guide him through this… this, nightmare? This hell. Because he was there right now, in that place, the place worse than hope. Worse than an 'end'.

Five years held hostage to the whims of more powerful men and women? A cake walk. He'd gladly go through it all again if it meant what had just happened, wouldn't.

But his mind refused to handle this.

For how could Oliver Queen live in a world without Felicity Smoak? How could the world revolve without Felicity Smoak? It was unthinkable. And though her survival – if, if she lived through it - meant his own, she would be forever not Felicity.

'Five years ago I made a promise. Do you remember? Well I'm here to fulfill it.'

Slade. He'd kept his promise.

'See you around kid.'

He always kept his promises.

Pain

Pain

Pain

Her other eye wept red tears now. She hadn't cried before, when she'd had the most right to: it seemed fitting to do so now. Even if she wasn't aware that she was.

Pain

Pain is relative.

It was why he could no longer fathom reason.

Or sound. Or thought. Or word. Or movement.

Just her. Only her.

Felicity.

In the space of a second, a single numeral that lasted forever, a part of him wished for the very first time, a part of him begged – the part that wasn't drowning – that he could go back. Go back in time. Not to 'back before the island', not to before all the mistakes he'd made, all the failures piled up. Not to before Tommy. Just to a couple of months ago. To the day of his mother's rally.

The same day he'd slept with Sara in the Foundry.

After his speech, instead of just walking away and letting her do the same he would follow. He would arrive at her door. And ask her to let him in. In every way. If she did, if she said 'yes', then he would touch her, would hold her close. He would say all the words without saying anything at all. Before kissing her. Tasting her. Inhaling her sounds. Before worshipping her. Before letting his fingers do the walking and the talking for him. He would imprint in his mind how she would look in her underwear as he lost the shackles of his own clothes. He would allow himself to fall to his knees and to travel the hidden places of her body. Her hands and touch, each gasp and whisper of his name would mark him for life.

He would kiss her feet, feet that took the brunt of a full work day and night at the Foundry in heels that did amazing things for her legs as he took off her shoes. Would cup her toned calves as her shins stroked fire across his biceps, his mouth busy caressing her thighs, her fingers in his hair...

He knew, he knew, instinctively that the press of his naked chest against hers would feel like love. That the sweep of her hair against his forearms would be as stimulating as her tongue on him. That sliding into her, because he wouldn't be able to help it as he held her aloft in his arms, would feel like home. Knowing that each movement she'd make would be the right one for him. He'd imagined it – of course he had - fantasized it, what it would be like, how she'd look, how much he'd give of himself. That each thrust would feel like breaking, but breaking of the best kind. And when they would inevitably climax it would leave them so exhausted, so satisfied, so comforted that they would descend to the ground together to sleep – naked and entwined – behind the couch.

With the morning would come pancakes – he'd make them for her, still naked with her watching him in wonder. The same way he'd be watching her. And they wouldn't find it in themselves to leave each other.

Could he just do that? Please?

The perfect night. The perfect day. The perfect life. The right girl.

All he ever wanted.

Everything he would never get.

It was understandable really that as the picture, the dream, left him his mind did too.

---

He isn't moving.

It was from a place of horror that Diggle watched, feeling so emotionally overwhelmed that he wondered how he could even wonder about anything at all, as Oliver just… knelt there.

Not moving.

Other things were blaring alarm bells in his skull; things like, oh I don't know – how about, what the hell are we going to do?! They'd have ten times the luck they'd usually scored when Roy had been administered with Mirakuru and truth be told Diggle was still very wary of the lad. The kid had a good heart but was reckless, impulsive and passionate. Add a miracle drug which enhances every powerful emotion, which in someone like Roy meant the dangerous enhancement of his aggression and his fear, and you had a powder keg waiting to go off.

He couldn't even try to imagine Felicity on the stuff.

But what was killing him was the fact that there was a 70% chance that she was already dead.

And he didn't possess the courage to check her pulse right now.

The moment he'd seen the blood he'd spun on Oliver, a resounding 'why' screaming through his brain and hoping ridiculously that the man would have some sort of answer, some kind of plan or at least an explanation. All he could hear was white noise, which was alien for him. Afghanistan had taught him how to rationalize, compartmentalize and how to move forwards with a level of calm deficient for most individuals present in hostile environments.

But now he felt so very inadequate to the task. His only thought was that the bottle blonde IT sweetheart, one of the three closest people to him on the planet, could now be dead.

He felt it all: the blazing anger, the painful sorrow, and the worst kind of hope – hope that she'd be okay and that they'd find a way through all this, together and intact.

And Oliver. Wasn't. Doing. Anything.

"Oliver." Having stumbled away from Felicity in the general horror of the moment Dig hadn't yet moved closer than the clear foot of space between him and the bed. "How did she get dosed? We had eyes on her the whole time!" Not the whole time. Not close enough.

And now there she lay. The same bed Oliver hadn't left yet, still rooted in place. With one knee resting between her thighs, a foot on the floor, body leaning over hers, and both hands braced beside her head and he just… stared down at her face.

John couldn't even hear him breathe and realized, after looking hard enough, that Oliver wasn't breathing. Come on man; I need you here. Hovering over her like he was, no one else would have seen or felt it, but Diggle knew that to touch him right now would end badly. "Oliver…"

"No." It was a hoarse whisper and even less of a surprise to Dig then him finding Oliver with his hands down Felicity's (Oliver's, before she lay claim to it) hoodie with the intention to not cop a feel.

As if his body finally remembered it needed breath, Oliver choked on the end of a word that didn't quite make it to the surface. He shuddered and what Diggle could see of his face, his expression was tight, the muscles in his jaw and cheekbones laced with anguish. Eyes that had been wide and unblinking were now closed; shut tightly against the wave of feeling Dig figured had to be hurting him.

No, this is not the time for you to fall apart. Do you see me closing off? Not here partner, not now. Clenched in his bed sheets, Oliver's knuckles were white.

There was a whimper, something Dig wouldn't have ever imagined using to describe Oliver in any particular way. A garbled clatter that sounded despairingly close to, please… And then everything just stopped for Dig.

Because he could see a solitary wet drop of liquid slowly travelling down Oliver's face. And a noise suddenly tearing free from Oliver that could only be described as inhuman, made him flinch.

Not a roar of anger or a growl. It was closer to a scream. A back bending, claw into your own scalp and tear off your skin, scream. It pushed out of him like a punch and hit john straight in the chest: Oliver screaming. Not yelling vehemently or shouting in frustration. A scream of blinding misery. Like the howl of a dying wolf. A howl; that fit better.

Dig didn't need to see Oliver's face to understand this. And that was when he figured it all out:

If Felicity died, or if she was already dead, then John was completely screwed.

A shudder shot through Oliver and Dig was surprised that it didn't shatter him into little pieces with how tightly he clung to the duvet, with how taught and tense every muscle in his body obviously was. As if locked in place by his personal demons. I know what that's like. Fingers that had dealt death blows now loosened as Oliver's hands travelled inwards, sliding through blonde hair and folding into the locks. A great gasp of air had Oliver falling forwards, bowing, as if in slow motion. As if he were being pulled and was subsequently trying to hold back, until his forehead pressed against Felicity's neck.

Oliver…

Brown eyes took in the Arrow as he tried as hard as he possibly could to keep it together, to not fall further.

Why didn't you just tell her?

He had originally thought that Oliver had no clue to just how much he cared for his Girl Wednesday and Friday, that maybe his feelings for a certain pretty bird had blinded him to something great and meaningful. But now it was obvious, tragically so. Unbelievably clear. Oliver dating Sara had never been about needing to be near the one who held his heart, had never been about falling in love and staying close to a woman who could potentially be 'home'. It had been about creating a shield against the mere possibility of a full life.

He'd settled.

To a man like Oliver, nothing was as terrifying as gaining everything and all that entailed, only to lose it. And as young as he is, he had lost a great deal already. His father. His best friend. His innocence. Nothing was more perilous or as permanent as allowing himself to freely fall into the right 'someone' and entrusting her with all that he is. Choosing to live.

Sara Lance was a warrior; an assassin created to last. She could handle brute force, could take a beating and dish it in excess. But she was the safe bet. And she kept secrets. She hid things and she viewed the world in a fashion even more dismal than Oliver ever had. And it allowed the pair to be close, yet remain at arm's length. It made Dig remember a short conversation several weeks before…

He huffed and parked his behind. Standing and stitching weren't talents handled well when the cut being stitched was on his own thigh.

But maybe it helped being on a lower level. With Oliver twirling both kali sticks as he cooled down it was easy for the man to miss that he was being watched. Or at least it was to Dig's wishful thinking.

"You're staring."

Damn. A smile broke free of its own accord. The man wasn't even looking at him. "Eyes on a swivel."

"Yep."

"So…" Looking him over, John alternated between talking and suturing. "Are you going to tell me?"

As Oliver finally turned to him, Dig saw him frown. "Tell you what?"

"Why the super-fast hook up with a certain Canary."

Sure, it was taking advantage of the empty lair, a precedent he'd missed of late seeing as how it had been jam packed with bodies from Roy to Sara, him, Felicity and Oliver. Three wasn't a crowd: three was perfect. Three was a trinity of trust and it was taking longer than Dig would like to admit for him to get used to the change in dynamics.

And there had definitely been a change.

The resulting silence wasn't suffocating or telling, nor was the way Oliver contemplated – sucking in his lower lip as he placed the sticks on the med table. He inhaled and quirked his head. "Super-fast?"

Seriously? "Like a bull man."

"You think so?"

Dig just looked at him and waited.

A deep exhale from Oliver followed and he looked away, back down towards the sticks. "Right place, right time."

That got an eyebrow raise. Really? "That's it?"

"Expecting something else?" Oliver's tone was curiously passive.

A profound declaration of intent to love, honour and keep her…? No, that would be asking way too much. "Maybe something more."

The breathy laugh that left his friend sounded more resigned than anything else. "Me and Sara…" Oliver shook his head. "It isn't complicated."

Dig frowned. "Simplicity isn't all it's cooked up to be."

Picking up a stick Oliver flipped it, examining the texture. "I don't exactly have a lot of choice."

Wow, romantic. "Is that something you're telling yourself to keep you from doing something else… or from going after someone else?"

Taking the other stick – obviously Oliver found them really interesting, an affair between Oliver and his stick - Oliver moved to place them back in their plastic holders. "Something you're trying to ask Dig?" He asked over his shoulder.

"Just surprised is all." And a little disappointed. Tying off the thread Dig pressed a sanitised rag to the bleeding, but now closed wound: it was always the smallest ones that bled the most. "I didn't think you'd wander back down the path of another Lance sister after deciding the first one was off the board."

"Would you rather I be alone?"

Loaded. Watching Oliver move about the foundry, confusingly energetic yet listless as he touched and prodded an arrow head here, a cabinet there Dig sighed. "Are you happy?"

With how wide Oliver's eyes became as quickly looked up, Dig figured he hadn't expected that response at all. "Happy?"

John just blinked. "With Sara."

His mouth opened, an 'oh' on his lips. "…Yeah." He let out another breath, eyes travelling somewhere away from the foundry. "I missed her. It's good. Nice."

Nice.

Nice?

John wanted to stare. Sara and 'nice' weren't exactly words Diggle could associate with the leather clad badass. Sexy maybe. Gorgeous. Looks and personality that made you're eyes follow her around the room. Enticing. Amazing. Lyla was John's 'be-all and end-all' but that didn't mean he didn't have a pair of eyes on him. Dig knew what he really wanted to hear from his friend and he had a feeling that no matter how hard he pushed he wouldn't' get it.

Oliver wasn't ready.

Not for the word 'perfect'.

For John, Lyla was perfect. Sara didn't equal perfect for Oliver.

She was another Helena. Another Roy. Another 'attempt'.

But maybe this attempt would help the man grow instead of returning back once again to the hapless vigilante he'd been for months prior to his re-return from Lian Yu. "Right."

"Right." Oliver only looked more confused, part of him understanding that he'd completely missed the pointed meaning hidden in Dig's words.

And he'd continued to. At the time Oliver either hadn't understood or he hadn't wanted to.

Admittedly his relationship with Sara Lance was a healthier alternative to the purely toxic mess he'd gone through with Laurel. It was better than the bloody road Helena almost led him on, one he almost let himself be dragged down. Better than the fake relationship he'd shared with Officer McKenna or the quick fling – yes he'd known about it and had decided that demonic possession was the only excuse he'd take as to why it had happened at all – he'd fallen into with Isabel.

Their boy was learning. His training of Roy, his relationship with Sara, they were symbols.

Signs of taking chances. But as much as he'd grown he still held steadfast to his overall assumption that he only deserved a particular type of life. A hopeful Oliver that tried as hard as he could to not be hopeful. The boy had serious issues.

Being male and in a healthy relationship himself had helped Diggle to also see that Oliver hadn't trusted any of the women he'd slept with. His list of female accomplishments was like a résumé of bad choices.

If he'd loved and trusted Laurel the way he'd been lying to himself that he had, he'd have told her. Everything. From the very start. But something inside him had warned him off. Which was good seeing as how swiftly the woman, up until a couple of months ago, had managed to make Oliver the cornerstone of blame for everything in her life.

He'd tried to trust Helena, because they were similar. But he'd shared too much of himself and the consequences had been severe.

His only mistake with McKenna was getting involved with her in the first place; a woman whose job was to hunt him down. A woman who only recently had managed to walk without aid.

Isabel. Enough said.

And Oliver didn't trust Sara.

Not really. Not in the way you're supposed to trust the woman you're with. Even if it's only a little at a time. True they shared every physical part of themselves, from the scars and the sparing, to the sex. But that stuff, the surface level stuff… the satisfaction with that didn't last long. Oliver Queen was a man of deeper waters than most realised. John knew him and therefore knew exactly what Oliver wanted.

He wanted to go to a woman who loved him completely and feel at home, simply by being near her. By standing next to her. By being 'found' inside her orbit and by seeing that she too was pulled into his. That she needed and wanted him there. Just because. Gravity.

Love, trust, hope, and belief. No expectations. No pedestals. They were the requirements that Oliver needed and didn't quite get with Sara. Nor she with him. Their arguments concerning Roy, concerning Helena, concerning Slade – the way they constantly seemed to backtrack to Sara's overriding instinct to kill and how she didn't approve of 'Ollie's' reserve. A reserve she should have respected given that it was created in honour of a dead man. And in honour of a living person.

A friend.

A woman who once told him that he could be better, not because he was already worse and needed to improve, but because he was already doing good things… and had the potential to be great. To be more. To be something else. Because she believed.

A woman called Felicity Smoak.

A woman who Oliver had maintained a safe distance from since they'd all returned from Moscow. It was ridiculous to Diggle that Oliver thought he wouldn't notice. Wouldn't see the shift in behaviour. Even the way he looked at her had changed, had intensified and, as if he'd realised just before something could happen, Oliver had backed off. Had given in to Sara.

Moron.

But seeing this, seeing Oliver literally break down and cry into her chest, his ear now against her heart… if she died, if she was dead…

John wouldn't be able to lift Oliver back up again. He'd fall. He'd want to fall. And if Diggle stood in his way Oliver would kill him, conscience be damned. He knew because in a theoretical scenario, if Oliver stood in his way, tried to stop him from wrecking retribution on the person responsible for taking Lyla away from him, he'd put a bullet in his brain.

Then he'd get his vengeance. It would end with his gun his own mouth, thinking of thick brown hair, soft sky blue eyes and a heart shaped face.

But the difference between me and Oliver? A lot more people would die in between. There'd be no stopping him.

"…Dig."

Brought back to the here and now Diggle blinked, sucking in a breath when the reality of what was happened hit him full in the stomach. Felicity. Mirakuru. Oliver.

"John."

It hadn't been shouted it like he had done downstairs; it was quiet. But the way Oliver hissed his name made every hair on Dig's arms stand to attention. His brows furrowed in concern, he swallowed. "What is it?"

Slowly, so slowly, Oliver raised his head, eyes focused down on Felicity's sleeping face. Taking him in John would be surprised if anyone on the planet, mother and sister included, could guess that he spent his night shooting Arrows in bad people. He looked haggard, eyes red raw but that was nothing compared to the absolute desolation marring the muscle structure of his face.

Then he whispered four words that made John want to throw up.

"Her heart just stopped."

---

I'm begging you.

"Felicity."

In the past, having three adults – including himself, a vital element - alone in his bedroom, would have been the perfect segue, one to not so innocent ventures for Oliver. But years later, in the here and now; sex, Sara and Tommy were the furthest things from his mind.

I don't care. I don't care anymore. About any of it. Playboy, stealer, saint, sinner, vigilante; who gives a fuck?

Because Felicity was technically dead, had been technically dead in his arms and all he'd managed to do was stare at her.

In a fight, in battle, I can't help but react at a speed almost supernatural to my foes. And yet now, when it counts I freeze. What a joke.

"COME ON!"

Wake up.

"What do we do? Oliver?!"

Press. Press. Press. "I-I… I don't- I don't know what…" Words were escaping him and he didn't know why. Didn't know their point.

It isn't working. I'm trying and nothing's happening.

Hands overlapped, his fingers knotted together so tightly his knuckles felt bruised, he pushed and pushed; the muscles in his arms exerting, pumping energy though him and into her as he hoped, prayed, that one of the shoves would open her eyes. He put all of himself into that focus.

Dig was faring only a little better than him.

Elbows leaning on top of the mattress, Diggle was holding Felicity's head steady. Watching it shift with each of Oliver's firm presses had hurt to watch. "Come on Felicity." He gently kissed her forehead.

Hearing the words 'her heart just stopped' had caused him to momentarily loose his own head. After bustling and making his way closer to her, anxiously checking her heart beat - checking the flow of air through her nostrils and coming up frighteningly empty - he'd raced into Oliver's bathroom, pathetically searching for a non-existent miracle cure. Knowing there was nothing he could do. Eventually he'd simply fallen to the floor beside her prone form, watching Oliver, who'd started trying to save her life with relentless resolve the moment Dig jumped up, do his work. What else could he do?

Oliver couldn't look at him. Didn't want to see the turmoil there. The resignation. She was going to live. She had to. She must.

So he dug deep, pushing harder.

Work with me.

The muscles in Dug's face stiffened, eyebrows furrowing together in worry and fear; the expensive four poster bed was actually starting to creak from the strain. "Oliver, maybe-"

"No."

"Oliver-"

"It won't matter if she dies." Oliver's voice didn't even sound familiar anymore: short, abrupt, quiet, fragile. "And if she lives she'll heal fast." He moved faster. Wide eyes looked into brown as if trying to convince him. "She'll be fine."

She'll be fine.

Something inside Dig was starting to hurt, like a part of him had started dying without permission. "What did you do with Roy, when he was injected?" He needed facts, something to rationalise.

Panic trickled into Oliver's throat as sweat did the same down his spine. He kept harsh compressions reigning over her chest, her heart. "Roy just… he came through it-he…" Press, press, press. Press. "He just… woke up."

And Felicity wasn't waking.

Please.

PLEASE.

Crack!

"Jesus, Oliver!" Halfway to standing, Dig tried to force Oliver's hands to stop moving. "That was her rib just now-"

"Wait!"

Freezing in place Dig glared hard at him. But with a hand next to Oliver's and another against her face, he could feel it. A heartbeat. Felicity was breathing. She was alive.

A heavy breath if relief rushed out of him and he laughed weakly. "Oh thank god."

But Oliver didn't move. He just panted. Eyes closed. And his hands moved to brace against the mattress.

…She's alive.

---

The silence felt oppressing.

Before… in the room… with her… Felicity…

The blood pumping throughout his body, the hypersensitivity of his panic, Dig's frantic movements, his own heartbeat loud in his ears, her heartbeat strong against his hands - hands hot and trembling - thoughts almost vibrating out of him… the noise had been everywhere. Inescapable.

No wonder he was still shaking.

She died.

She died and then she came back.

He felt ill. And he wanted back in the room. Hadn't wanted to leave. He wanted to be close when she woke. To feel more of that peace that kept 'happening' upon him when he was near her.

But Dig wouldn't have it. Said I looked like hell, that I needed a break. He'd glared at him for that one, not dignifying it with a response as Dig deliberately avoided talking about the fact that their closest friend was now enhanced with Mirakuru. Said I needed sleep. Oliver hadn't even looked at him. Said Thea needed me. Knowing Thea was downstairs drinking Cocoa with his mother – Dig had briefly left the room to check on them and sooth any questions they had - he'd opted to ignore his friend and simply watch the hypnotic rise and fall of Felicity's chest. If Dig wanted me to sleep he could have just left me in there. He'd have fallen unconscious in seconds. But then Dig spoke the magic words.

"How do you think Felicity would feel seeing you like this when she wakes?"

Diggle knew him well.

So about an hour later he found himself in the hallway outside of the drawing room sitting on one of the sofa seats against a window.

Mind blank.

Eyes open and staring into oblivion.

…It had taken him a while to heed Dig, finally shuffling wearily into his own bathroom and pausing in front of the large mirror there, seeing what Dig had meant: he looked drawn. But he didn't care; not that his forehead was bleeding, or that dirt was on his skin and clothes, that Felicity's blood caked his fingernails… It was all absently assessed: the rest of him was still in his bedroom.

Yet he'd taken in his hands. He'd stood there with his shirt ripped off to be binned, belt undone, looking at his fingers for several minutes before slowly bringing them to his mouth and sucking off the dried blood. It wasn't stupid; there wasn't a chance in hell he'd be infected with Mirakuru. For that to happen the initial point of contagion needed to be directly from the source, not from a secondary host. But that wasn't the point.

Her blood was on his skin. It wasn't dirty, it wasn't unsafe or hazardous or disgusting. It was Felicity. Her blood. He didn't want to wash it off like he would his own sweat, like he would the bodily fluids of an arms dealer or a drug baron. Something undesirable. No, he wanted to respect and care for each and every part of her. She'd gained those injuries by putting her own life on the line - in doing a good deed - had bled for him, an act he could never repay her for and never wanted it to become 'paid'. It was theirs now. It couldn't be lost. Between him and her. Just them. There was something markedly intimate about that. And Oliver wouldn't deny that taking in even a small portion of what made up the perfectly shaped genius, just a dried patch of blood from her shoulder, fulfilled a baser instinct.

The instinct to connect.

Was that wrong? Should he have asked permission? Why did he feel the need in the first place?

It was dangerous.

Pity he'd stopped caring.

He felt as if something inside him had finally fallen into place and it was as confusion as it was frightening.

After showering he'd changed into sweats and a t-shirt, letting loose a heavy breath when he realised Felicity could use one too. He'd do it himself but that would be overstepping a line. Didn't matter how much he figured she'd appreciate not being covering in dry blood, leaves and dirt – friends didn't undress friends and wash them as they slept. Didn't matter that he'd wanted to. That buried feelings were rushing to the surface from where he'd locked them up tight. Instead he'd offered the use of his on-suite restroom to Dig but the man had refused. He'd changed clothes during his rendezvous with Lyla.

Neither knew when she'd wake.

Eyeing the surrounding upholstery now didn't help, nor did the memories each pass of his eyes forced him to recall urge him to think about something other than the events of the night. In fact, specific memories of what had once happened in the mansion just forced him to confront all he could have lost tonight. If it weren't for Felicity. His body was motionless against the cushioned seat but his hands betrayed him: clenched against his thighs as they were.

He needed her to wake.

It had been different with both Roy and Slade. He explained to Dig (as they'd wiped her face free of blood) how fast Slade had taken to the drug, how his heart had stopped beating, but only for a few minutes. Like with Felicity. He'd woken in a haze of emotion… in understandable circumstances… that had ended in deaths. Roy had been slightly different. He too had woken after a few minutes but he'd gone back to sleep immediately for several hours.

Her heart stopped.

Part of him couldn't get past it, kept coming back to it. Her heart stopped. I promised to protect her. Less than two years ago I promised John that I – we - could protect her.

His fell back against the window; jaw clenched and tried hard to repress each little nuance of emotion. Y how much his lungs were burning from the effort involved, he figured he wasn't succeeding.

He didn't take in how the dimly lit area he sat in cast curious looking shadows on the walls, couldn't decipher the low mumbling of words between his sister or mother or how he'd unconsciously been unable to steer himself away from them, his next choice if he couldn't stay upstairs. He'd been in to see them; they'd hugged and cried and smiled but it didn't matter right now. Nothing registered.

Except when his mobile, resting on the seat next to him started to vibrate.

Immediately he knew who it was.

On the third ring his hollowed blue irises finally flickered to it and stayed there. On the fourth ring he let out a shallow exhale. On the sixth ring he reached for it, swiping his thumb across the screen before putting it to his ear.

And waited.

"Kid."

He kept his nails short for this very reason; it wasn't just so that they didn't get in the way or simply because they'd look ridiculous long. It was because, when angered, when the hot streak of pure loathing flared through him, they wouldn't tear through his palms when his hands fisted.

He imagined each blunt piercing was an attempt at ripping out Slade's other eye.

It came out as a low promise. "I want to kill you." But he wouldn't: he'd made a decision with Felicity. No killing.

"I see."

Oliver swallowed. "Why'd you do it?"

"I promised you-"

"You promised you'd 'make me suffer, as you have suffered', yeah I got it." He bit out, feeling as powerless as Slade wanted him too when he heard the man softly laugh. "I'm asking you why you did it. Why her?"

"You already know why."

He almost bit his tongue. "No I don't."

"It's pitiful that I have to spell these things out for you." He drawled, his Australian accent coming through as husky and as self-assured as ever. "You should already understand this game."

Oliver gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body tense and ready to just lay waste to someone, to anything. "Enlighten. Me. Then."

"Certainly."

A rising pressure in his chest, a swirling pool of anger and misery threatened to fell him. "Don't play with me. This isn't a game." Stop hurting the people I love.

"It is a game. It's a game of life. Your life. And I plan to make the finale as painful as possible."

Stop it. As weak as he felt he couldn't hold back the wave as it began to rupture and he closed his eyes tight against the storm, jaw straining. Slade continued, as if he knew Oliver was teetering on the edge of a hopeless abyss. As if he wanted to watch him fall. But not yet.

Not yet.

"I watched you. I've been watching you. Analysing your patterns, your movements. Not because I didn't understand you: I understand you perfectly. The heroism built on a bed of lies and guilt. The moment I heard about the news of a certain green hooded vigilante it was all too obvious. And I remembered… of course I did. Laurel lance."

It took a moment for Oliver to form words, to get his mouth to move at his will. The effort involved was ginormous and it made his resolve, his determination to be unbreakable, bend unnaturally.

"What about her?"

"Why, she's the love of your life isn't she? The woman you longed to see on the island, the only woman who could…" Laughter shouldn't be haunting, shouldn't be a signal for fear. "Heal you and those scars of yours. How did that work out for you? You lost her, didn't you? Even when you had her, you never really had her. Not like you had Shado."

The reminder, the constant guilt, the name, the memory had Oliver standing, a hand coming down his face to rest over his eyes.

"What is it about Oliver Queen that makes women make bad choices?"

Oliver didn't say a word. Couldn't.

"Do you love her Oliver?"

He was going to be sick. "Who?"

Slade's deep exhale sent a shudder through him. "Laurel. Shado. Sara. Does it even matter with you?"

"I loved Shado." It was futile to reply, to even try and defend himself however vehemently, but he couldn't help it and he continued, his voice soft with the pain of it all. "And Laurel. I love Sara…"

"Do you?"

Oliver's eyes snapped back open. "Yes! You know I do: you saw it on the island."

"That wasn't love."

"Not all love is the same." He replied, his head moved to and fro, exhausted.

"That's just another way of saying you didn't. You never did. I wonder if you're even capable of being in love with anyone."

"If it wasn't love then what was it?"

"Regret."

The breath Oliver sucked in was more than audible but he couldn't help it and he swallowed on reflex.

"You cared about her, I did see that. But love? The type of love where one person becomes everything that you are?"

It was like a punch.

"Where their every breath is yours?"

A stab of light so painful it had to be truth, because only the truth was so horrifying.

"The kind I had with Shado? You didn't have that. You've never had that."

Unbidden, unwanted, and dreaded, the sensation of soft blondness stroked care against his palms. Glasses perched precariously on the bridge of a nose he'd been tempted to tap on occasion shone in the artificial light of the foundry – but never as brightly as those brilliant eyes - as a smile that begged to be kissed every minute, every second, crawled into the space behind his own eyes and refused to leave. When his lids closed, she was right there. Talking quiet words to him, 'hero', 'you're not alone in this', 'yes you can', 'you did it'…

I believe in you

…And the thing about belief Oliver? It isn't just for 'right now', or for 'today'; it's forever.

It hit him hard, Oh, yet so gently - he already knew secretly and that the rest of him had just been waiting for him to catch up - and he sucked in a breath, let it loose as a gasp. For the first time since he'd walked through the mansion his eyes, which had been so filled with turmoil, brightened like a star. Clear. I get it. I get it now. But I can't. Everything... I love… It was a resounding thought.

That everything he loved gets hurt.

"What do you get?"

Oliver blinked, coming up short.

"Finally had that epiphany have you?"

Slowly, the space between his brows began to furrow.

"You see in everything that we went through together on the island I never saw you look at Shado or Sara or even the picture of the lover you proved your infidelity with, the same way you looked at her tonight."

The fear in his chest was a wad to choke on. Lips pressed together – if only to stop himself from making it worse - he was forced to listen to brutal truth; his eyes a sea of bleak understanding and livid passion: Slade was speaking words that would undo him.

"She's your hope. She's the reason you try so hard to be better. And it wasn't the exquisite Laurel Lance - the lawyer with something to prove, it wasn't Shado – the woman you claimed to be love but didn't, it wasn't even Sara – the person most capable of understanding just exactly who you are. It was the lowly IT girl you keep in your employ. The one you forget about when Sara waltz's into the room and offers sex on the silver platter of the privileged life you were born into. The life a man such as yourself didn't deserve."

"Stop it." Everything in him warred against this voice and it showed aggressively on his features. "You don't need to do this."

"Did you even fight to get your company back? Would you fight for her the same way?"

"I said stop it!"

"WOULD YOU?"

"YES!"

"WHY?"

"BECAUSE I LOVE HER." He snarled. "AND YOU KNOW THAT! I-" He lost his breath. "I love her, I …I love her." It was like a release. Oh God. "I'm in love with her."

"Yes." Yes. "I know." He knew.

He knew.

Of course he did. And everything in him rebelled. No, he couldn't. I tried SO hard… Knowledge to Slade was a dangerous ally.

"If you're wondering why the dose of venom didn't stop me for long," the abrupt subject change made Oliver sit back down, still reeling, "well, let's just say there are ways of combating against poison when you're a vessel of advanced Mirakuru. I took to it in a way that not even the scientists I allowed inspect me – the ones who survived - expected. My body mutated the serum. By will alone it seems."

More murder. More threat. "What does that even mean?"

"You know that my blood was being used to make replicas of myself." Slade continued, completely ignoring him. "But what you don't know is that my blood first had to be filtered. Distilled. Chemical sanitization. In the hopes that it would be easier for the new host's body to 'ingest'. It wasn't very effective. But it did mean that my own personal brand of psychological drive couldn't be imparted on another. You're Felicity? She didn't get a 'clean' dose."

For one excruciating second Oliver's heart faltered then jerked, the muscles there contracting painfully. He felt it: the strain of his lungs becoming increasingly difficult to tolerate when they weren't granted their release of oxygen, the painful thump of the protected organ when it finally began to beat again…

The trepidation of what this could mean.

Hot and cold. Seeing red.

They were all marks: pieces of ammo he could and would use to strengthen the raw fire he felt, the urge to hurt this man, to wipe him off the board for good, Mirakuru be damned.

He'd hurt her. He wanted to kill him. So much. Even though he'd promised. Even though he'd decided it didn't change that one fact. A lash of rage curled inside his core.

"I stabbed her with the head of the arrow she so bravely shot into my neck."

He stabbed her. He already knew, had seen the wound… It was enough. Enough.

Eyes dark, blue irises contracting in a tight circle around focused black pools of anger, he could almost see Slade; he'd be walking, sauntering, as he gloated and goaded with ease.

"Tell me… how is she doing?"

He didn't shout. "I am going to kill you." Guilt was a sickness his stomach had difficulty tolerating. But his voice was hoarse and the phone in his grasp cracked under the pressure of his grip. "You tried to kill my family: I am going to kill you."

I can't.

But I want to.

Think of Felicity.

"So you say."

"Either way, I swear to God I'll stop you."

"Swear to me."

"You're not worth it."

A bark of laughter echoed down the line. "You'll be begging me soon enough."

The dial tone sounded down the line with finality. His face rigid with emotion, he didn't respond well.

"Ollie!" Thea shouted, stepping out of the lounge in time to see his mobile hit the wall beside her and shatter in tiny little metallic pieces. "Was that necessary?"

He didn't have it in him – there was nothing in him prepared enough to fend off any more emotion. Taking a breath, feeling somewhat recovered yet so much worse all at once - no hate, no fear, he wasn't even angry - in an attempt to rid himself of the chaotic mess Slade Wilson always managed to create inside him. But now he was left with an empty exhaustion and he slumped into his seat, face in his hands.

And shuddered.

"That bad huh?" The indulgent lilt to her voice was welcome; a far cry from what he'd expected to receive.

A beat…

"Is Felicity okay?"

No.

"Ollie?"

"…She will be." He let out another breath; face still pressed into his palms. "I'm sorry Speedy; I just need a minute."

"Yeah, I got that. Problem is, I don't think you have a minute."

His stomach dropped. What now? He let his hands drop and looked up at her. And paused.

She seemed… reluctant? For him. Her voice was quiet, like she thought any sound might hurt him. Her eyes kind. Big; she was worried about him. She loved him. Oliver gazed; he hadn't seen her look at him like that in a long while. When she took a step forwards her gaze travelled over him as if assessing if he wanted her near.

"Sara's here."

Distracted, his mouth opened. Then closed. Sara. His stare flickered down. I thought she'd gone.

Thea must have seen his confusion. "She said Felicity left her a message?" Of course she did, he thought, his soft smile breaking through the disquiet he'd been feeling. "Mom told her it might be best to wait with her in the main room; thought you needed a few minutes."

Good. A slow sigh left him. A few minutes wouldn't help; a few hours maybe. Enough time to get his thoughts on track but the last thing he needed now was an agitated Sara Lance on his hands. "Thank you." He settled further back into the cushions, legs stretched.

An exhale, forced through Thea's nostrils, had him blinking back to her: it sounded more like a sniff than the amused snort she was probably aiming for. But there was something close to amazement on her face and gratitude laced her tone. "I should be thanking you."

He was shaking his head before she got the last word out. "Thea, you're my sister. Mom is 'mom'. You don't need to thank me for doing anything."

As stubborn as her brother, she refused his logic. "But you saved us."

It was earnestly heartfelt and Oliver couldn't quite figure why she was imploring him for anything at all. "Felicity saved us."

"Yes she did." Nodding as she moved closer, Thea perched on the end of the sofa. "And I'll thank her properly when she comes down stairs. She took it to a whole new level of badass." She'd love that, he thought. "But I was talking about the gun. And how well you used it. And it made me wonder…"

Finally she looked at him, big eyes searching his: he attempted the usual shell of calm, but he was so tired and cracks were beginning to show. "Wonder what?"

"If you were the Arrow."

The silence following her statement was deafening.

He licked his lips, mind horrifyingly blank. "Thea…"

She shook her head but her voice remained quiet. "Don't lie to me. Not again. We were talking about lies tonight in the car before that psycho kidnapped us. I don't want to go down that road again. Living through it made me realise that life is precious. I don't want to be angry at you anymore. I don't want to be angry at mom."

Nothing was coming out. Why aren't I saying anything?

"If you say nothing right now I will take that as an immediate admittance."

Say something. But his mouth was closed, stunned speechless, his eyes fixed on hers and he knew just how fragile he looked because he felt it. He felt exposed, drained and tired of it all. Initially, his reasoning for not telling the people he cared for just exactly what he did late into the night had been down to the basic fact that he hadn't expected to survive the year. Then, as time moved forwards, and as a solitary mission became a team goal his reason became a simple justification for keeping those he loved safe. Thea had been and still was on the very top of that list.

But now? What was his reason? Disregarding the irony of the fact that him keeping secrets to keep her safe had actually put her in further danger, it was instinctive to him to try to protect her. But protecting his sister had led her to distrust him. And honestly he didn't think he could afford the energy to erect a decent defence or lie against this. He didn't have the time. Or the will. So his only thought now… was…

Her eyes, so unusual in that though they were blue they were also mistaken for brown and green, were seeing everything, taking in every inch of her brother.

A brother who didn't want her to hate him. For being the Hood, the Arrow. For being a disappointment. He didn't want her to see him the way Tommy had, the way Laurel had. As a killer. A murdering vigilante.

Please don't hate me.

The moment slipped silently into a full minute. Into two. Into an eternity where he didn't breathe, think or try. He just sat and looked at her. And he thought his heart would burst from his chest with how hard it was beating until-

"Thank you." Her arms were already around him, face pressed into his collarbone. "Thank you so much for all those times you saved me, us." She held him so tightly and his expression turned slack in shock. "Thank you. Arrow."

Oliver fought for words but couldn't find any. Instead he simply held her back. And slowly smiled, a new kind of strength filling him. She'd told him in the police precinct that she no longer believed in him, betrayal etched so deeply in her skin it had hurt the core of his being, before leaving him and their mother in the dust.

The relief at getting that faith back made him dizzy.

"You never need to thank me."

---

It was no secret that Oliver didn't sleep well.

For the past 2 years he'd managed a half-way decent balance between sleep and his pilgrimage as the Arrow. Lian Yu held many horrors: the very idea of a full night of uninterrupted sleep was a mere dream. Like with China, with the 'hood', and with his attempt at 'heroism' he'd calculated the minimum hours sleep requisite for optimum efficiency was 3 hours, 30 minutes.

Sleeping next to Sara had added an extra 2 hours to that number.

The reappearance of Slade Wilson had knocked that back to a little over 1 hour per night. Nightmares set up camp and refused to leave.

It had been said, to him and to others, that trouble sleeping is often linked firmly to the demons locked within, to the wolves howling at your door and snapping at your heels. In Oliver's case this was more than a little true. Add that to the very real fear that Slade would kill his family, would hurt Sara deliberately and in such a way that Oliver would never be able to forget or forgive himself and he was surprised he'd slept at all the past few weeks.

Yet it wasn't his only reason.

Peace was another concept as unreal to Oliver as the idea that the Queen's Gambit had never sunk in the first place. Since 2007, respite had been carried out with one eye open and waking had always been with the intention to either flee from someone or run towards something else. The prey or the hunter. There was never a moment to let down his guard, never a time to consider just existing. To just sleep. To just be.

You see how hard I work out?

Driving his body towards exhaustion had been the only way. Relentless he wouldn't stop until sweat poured off him, until his muscles shook with the strain. He was lucky he could manage to lie down at all.

And when he woke? Sleeping in, holding the one you love close, basking in the silence… none of it was optional. Not at all. He'd found it impossible. His body, his mind wouldn't allow for it.

In all this he was different from Sara.

Sara had managed to find the correct stability between guilt and reason; where he was too burdened by the sins of his past, she'd embraced them. She knew she was an assassin, knew that some of the things she'd done were horrific but she'd also come to terms with the killer within. She accepted, in a way he'd never been able to, that bad things happen to good people, that worse should happen to bad people but that good and bad aren't black and white and that sometimes what is right isn't always easy. But even in his first days as the Hood, Oliver had never shown that same cold calculus that she possessed in easy spades: that the easiest way of riding yourself of a problem was to eradicate it.

She may have been sleeping with him… but she was too much like Nyssa to be thinking of anyone other than her.

So whenever he woke, they never woke together. He didn't know how to sleep in anymore.

The point? It wasn't that late; barely two in the morning. The Queen family weren't novices in the art of using every hour between midnight and dawn, since he himself did his best work at night, as Thea managed Verdant and his mother slept when she wished. Every member of the household was currently wide awake.

All Oliver wanted to do right now was rest.

But he couldn't. He still hadn't spoken to Lance. Their driver had been murdered tonight. He had family. It needed to be fixed.

And Sara…

Avoidance wasn't his intention. They needed to talk. Problem was that whenever they tried to talk to each other about any subject that floated past the line of surface level bullshit they tended to argue. Like they had with Helena, with Roy. And he knew that they would now, with Felicity.

He really want to go there. She wouldn't like what she'd find.

Like Laurel, Sara still saw 'Ollie'. It didn't matter that they'd both changed, that they'd both suffered on the island; their relationship was based on the past, on the people they use to be. He'd ignored it. So had she. Looking back on it now he felt like a fool. Thinking that it would be enough. That it would hold them together.

And he thought the same thing now, looking at her standing there. In the lounge. A frown of guarded expectation marred his features, making him look more than a little wearisome. His hands were limp by his sides, his voice lax but not delicate.

"Why are you here Sara?" He breathed.

Why'd you come back?

His tone wasn't accusing; far from it. But he knew Sara. He understood her. Once she made a decision she'd do what he would have once done; she'd up and leave. She'd run, dragging the past behind her like the moaning chains of burden into the present where they'd drive her actions through the future. "You made it clear that…"

You made it clear that you thought we were toxic. Just like it was with Laurel. Sometimes he'd wondered if he'd ruined the Lance sisters: not to sound overly conceited but it wasn't a coincidence when a relationship with both sisters ends with an admittance as painfully true as 'we're toxic together'.

Not wanting to return to the man he used to be, the one who killed without regret - or even the selfish playboy who used a business trip as an excuse to cheat - letting Sara walk away, as painful as it he would admit it had been… it had also been a relief.

She'd been right. Their objectives weren't the same, weren't even close to being the same. That didn't make her bad and him good; it just made them too opposing. Not opposites that synchronise to create that perfect stability between two people that Oliver only knew about because he'd read about them. Opposing forces that hurt each other.

Oliver waited for Sara to reply.

She still stood there all shield and purpose; leather jacket unzipped, arms crossed over chest, sad eyes looking him over. "Are you okay?"

"Am I…?" A breathless laugh left him but one carrying zero humour. Are you kidding me? "That's what you're leading with right now?"

Those eyes entreated him and for someone so lethal, she really did have the most amazingly pretty and doe-like eyes. "Ollie…"

Damn it. Regretting his tone, he took a metaphorical step back. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't angry at her; there was no reason to be. He just wanted her to answer a question for once with an actual answer. They'd been dating for a couple of months yet just a couple of hours after their break up and that was all it took for Sara to be right back to the way she'd been – the way they'd both been - when she'd first arrived in Starling. Answering questions with more questions.

It was her security. Her way of managing emotion.

She hadn't changed.

But he had.

When he spoke again his words barely audible. "I'm fine. It isn't me I'm worrying about."

"Your mom? Thea?"

"They're fine. For the most part." He licked his lips. "Slade tried to kill them tonight."

Part of him was still in disbelief so it came out as more of a croak. Sara looked stunned, as if she didn't expect the maniac to make such a bold move. "Oh my God, Ollie." Her arms fell from their rigid hold of each other. "What happened?"

And everything quietened inside him, as if just her name made the world still to a beautiful halt. "Felicity."

Spoken like a statement of fact.

"What?" She didn't get it. Of course she didn't. The furrow on the bridge of her nose told a story.

"He had us." Standing still made him feel more restless but the idea of sitting down again was worse. So he began to pace. "Slade overturned our car: killed the driver. I was with Mom and Thea and they were so scared Sara. He was going to kill them and they knew it." The forefinger and thumb of his left hand rubbed together, the nervous gesture he'd denied to Dig of ever having. "He wanted me to choose." Swallowing down the return of that desolate feeling and ignoring how his voice sounded because of it – coarse, low, overcome – his eyes sought Sara's. Deep blue against faraway blue. "And he pointed a gun to their heads."

Softer than he'd ever heard her, Sara spoke. "I'm so sorry."

"But then she just came round the corner," he shook his head, a fragile smile on his face, "and I swear Sara, I've never been that terrified."

"You mean… Felicity?" Her eyes flickered over him, trying to piece together the fragments but his were no longer on her.

For that matter his eyes weren't even open; his palms scrubbed over his 2am shadow until both hands slid behind his neck.

"What did she do?"

A jerk of his head turned him further away. "She shot him."

"She… she what?"

"She shot him." In the neck. Twice. "An arrow filled with Tibetan Pit Viper venom."

"Did it work?"

There was something in her tone that should have made him pause but his mind was elsewhere. "Did you know Felicity could use a crossbow?" Head tilted, he turned to face her again; an inquisitive pull to his brow, eyes narrowed.

The abrupt tangent caught her by surprise: he couldn't blame her. "I-I had no idea."

Oh. Why did he want to know so badly?

"Ollie." Confused by his seemingly distracted state she moved closer to him, compassion seeping out of her like a wave. "Have you gotten any sleep?"

A crick in his neck loosened when he shook his head. "No. Not yet. I can't."

"Why-"

"I don't want to Sara." He whispered.

Not until Felicity wakes.

Knowing how Oliver was when confronted by dreams, nightmares Sara knew better than to judge, than to push.

Instead she reached for him, touching his arm, her face suddenly intent on his. "Is Slade dead?"

What? His eyes narrowed, her manner throwing him off. "Sara?"

"Did. You. Kill. Him?" Her grip tightened, her eyes turning to ice glaciers.

Something in him went deadly still.

Blue versus blue.

"No."

Not like that. Not the way you want me to.

Bird-like something in her face twitched, her eyes switching swiftly from intention to disbelief. She stared up at him, like she just couldn't grasp the solitary word. "Why?" The brittle scrape to the word told him exactly what her opinion of his choice was.

'…Everything that has ever happened to you, everything you've ever had to do, on the island or before then. Orafter. None of it justifies allowing Slade Wilson or anyone else to ruin your soul. No one on the planet has the right to twist another person.'

Didn't mean he wasn't tempted but…

"…Because I made a choice."

Sara's eyes snapped shut, jaw clenched and she dropped the hand currently gripping his arm like a steel bind. She sucked in a deep breath.

"You had him and you let him live." Her eyes opened suddenly.

She looked so disappointed. Angry. Confused. Defiant. He understood, he really did.

He just wasn't in the mood.

"You weren't there." Each word was pushed out of gritted teeth.

"Explain it to me then."

So he did. Everything. Everything said and done. But not felt. Not yet. Not ever. Not with Sara.