How the Light Gets In

by Becks Rylynn

History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.

5. I've Built My Life Around You

AN: Happy new year!

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Five:

I've Built My Life Around You

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October, 2012

Storming out after an argument with your spouse is never a good idea. It may seem like a good idea at the time because dramatic exits always feel satisfying in the moment, but it's never worth it. Nothing good can come from it. Storming out of your home at 41 weeks (and one day) pregnant after a ridiculous argument with your husband that was fueled by hormones, exhaustion, and anxiety is an even worse idea.

''This one's on me,'' Laurel sighs, winding her scarf around her neck. ''There's no way around that.''

It was such a stupid argument too. It didn't even need to be an argument. She doesn't know why she made it one. She's not herself right now. She's eight days overdue, she feels like crap, she looks like crap, she's been dealing with on and off contractions, and neither one of them got much sleep last night. She is just so sick and tired of being pregnant. She wants her baby but the whole process of getting there is garbage. She is never doing this again. They're one and done. She's lost track of how many times she's said that over the past nine months.

Everyone keeps encouraging her, telling that she's in the home stretch now and it's going to happen soon because it has to. Dean keeps thanking her for what she's doing for them. Alex keeps reassuring her, with a wink and one of those calm smiles of hers, ''Any day now.'' They're all so optimistic. The baby has dropped, she's in the right position, Laurel was two centimeters dilated at her last appointment, and she's been contracting for weeks. It has to be soon, right? What exactly is the alternative?

Last night, when those pesky contractions started up yet again, they got so bad that she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, pacing wasn't helping, and all she could do was kneel in the bathtub with the hot water spraying down on her back. She had been so sure that it was finally the real thing. Dean was adorably excited, telling her that she was doing great, that he was so proud of her, and promising her that they were going to meet their daughter soon. Yet here she is. No real labor. No baby. Still pregnant as fuck.

This is just her life now. She's going to be pregnant forever. Whenever someone assures her that it'll happen any time now, she just huffs bitterly. She has tried everything to get this show on the road. Spicy foods, as much walking as she can stand with her messed up hips, bouncing on her exercise ball, dates, pineapple, red raspberry leaf tea, acupuncture, membrane sweeps, pumping, a lot of sex, and none of these things are doing a damn thing.

It sucks. She feels like her body is failing her right now. She wants wine and sushi and soft cheeses and vodka and beer. She doesn't even like beer but she wants some. She wants to meet her daughter. She doesn't want to keep having to walk around feeling like there's a bowling ball between her legs because the baby is so freaking low. She doesn't want to be pregnant anymore.

But none of that is Dean's fault.

Technically, an argument can be made that if he hadn't stuck his unwrapped dick in her nine months ago then she wouldn't be suffering through the horrifying consequences - which may or may not be exactly what she yelled at him as she was storming out of the apartment - but that's just spiteful. Besides, it takes two to tango. An argument could also be made that if she hadn't gotten strep and forgotten that antibiotics can mess with the pill then they wouldn't be here.

''I was unfair to him,'' she admits. ''All he did was say that he didn't know how to help me. I don't know why I flipped out on him. Of course he doesn't know how to help me. I don't even know how to help me. This is hard,'' the last part comes out in a quiet, mumbled confession. ''I don't just mean this pregnancy. I mean marriage. I feel like everything's different between us now. We're communicating differently. I know we're still finding our footing but I didn't expect...this.'' She lifts her gaze, tilting her head to the side curiously. ''You were married for nearly 62 years. You always made it look so easy. How did you do it?''

Her companion doesn't answer her. This is not a surprise considering he's been dead for almost four months, but it's still disappointing.

She sucks in some of the chilly autumn air, and then releases a breath. She looks away from her grandfather's gravestone. This might have been a bad idea. She's never been here alone before. Every Sunday, rain or shine, she and Dean make the trip to the nursing home, gather up her grandmother, and then they bring her here. That's the way it is now. They bring her here so she can putter around, replacing wilted flowers and getting irrationally angry at the leaves for daring to disrupt Richard Drake's monument, and then they take her out to lunch.

It's never easy. It's hard to stand there and watch her grieving grandmother painstakingly stuff leaf after leaf into a plastic grocery bag to clear the area, pretending her hands aren't shaking because she misses her husband so much her body doesn't know what to do. Somehow, it's even harder to be here alone, without the sound of her grandmother's voice and without Dean's steadying hand on her back. Suddenly, Laurel is very aware of the silence where her grandfather's voice used to be. He was so rarely silent when he was here. He liked to fill silences. Cheesy jokes, lively debates, whistling, singing. He didn't like the quiet. What was comforting to him was the noise of life. It's too eerily quiet in the cemetery for it to feel like home.

Laurel stuffs her cold hands into the pockets of her hoodie. She stares at the grave in front of her, watching the leaves swirl in the breeze, trying not to think about how excited her grandparents were when she told them she was having a baby. Her grandfather wanted to meet her daughter. He tried so hard to stay long enough to meet her.

Her phone chimes in her pocket and she jumps, blinking back tears. She sniffles, wiping at her eyes quickly, and digs her phone out. Dean, again. This is like his eighth text in an hour. She hasn't answered any of them. She also hasn't answered any of Tommy's ''please come home, Dean's being dramatic and he won't let me calm him down with a blowjob'' texts. She's willing to admit she has not handled this particular fight in the best way. She's going to have to rectify that. She sends him a quick text, telling him that she's visiting her grandfather, assuring him that she's okay, baby's okay, and she's going to pick up whatever he wants for dinner.

''I should head home,'' she says. She smiles at her grandfather, even though it's pointless, even though it's not really him. ''Thank you for listening. You were always good at that.'' She struggles to her feet, moving one hand to rub at her sore lower back. She looks over at the gravestone next to the bench she was sitting on. ''Thanks again for the seat, Brian,'' she comments lightly. ''I'll be sure to bring you some flowers the next time I'm here.'' She looks back at Grandpa's grave, pressing a kiss to her fingers and laying them gently on the cold stone. ''I'll see you on Sunday,'' she promises softly. ''Unless I have a baby before then. But I've given up hope on that, so I'll probably see you on Sunday.'' She pats the stone the same way she used to pat him on the shoulder, and then she starts the hike back to her car.

She brings a hand up to rub her belly when she feels little Beatrice Mary or Mary Beatrice squirming around in there. She's kicking and wriggling around, undoubtedly trying to get comfortable. Even she seems frustrated by this situation. Which isn't a surprise. She's not a huge baby, but she's still got to be running out of room at this point. ''Hey,'' Laurel frowns. ''Don't blame me for this, kid. You'd have all the room you need out here, but you won't come out. You're the one who needs to get your ass in gear, not me.''

She earns herself a swift kick in the ribs for that one.

Laurel snorts, unimpressed. ''Yeah, okay, but am I wrong?'' She stops once she reaches the path. She glances in the direction of her car, and then turns back around to look into the cemetery. She chews on her lip, and considers another familiar grave. ''What do you think?'' She asks, propping her hands on her hips and looking down at her bump. ''Should we go visit your aunt?''

No response. Not even a kick.

In the tree to her left, the crows cackle mockingly, disrupting the silence of the dead. The sound startles a small flock of sparrows picking at the ground and they flutter to life, squeaking in fear and dispersing quickly. Laurel looks up at the cloudy sky, watching them scatter away. ''A visit couldn't hurt,'' she murmurs. ''Maybe the walk will do us some good, baby girl.''

She sets off, slowly moving in the opposite direction of her car. She didn't used to come here a lot. Once a year, on Christmas, with her weeping father to light a candle for Sara's birthday. That's about it. She never saw the point in it. It's an empty casket. It is not her final resting place. Every particle, every atom, every bit of energy that used to be Sara is drowning. Lost at sea forever. This dry boneyard isn't the place Laurel thinks of when she wants to be with her sister. When she thinks about Sara, she thinks of the bottom of the ocean.

She changed the route of her early morning run from the park near her apartment to down by the water. She deliberately parks her car in a parkade across the bay from the Glades so she has to walk the path along the water to get to work. She always seems to end up by the water. The ocean is what took Sara away, and the ocean is what kept her. This place, all dirt and grass, bones and bugs, is not where she is.

But over the past few months, ever since Grandpa died, Laurel has found herself at Sara's grave more often than not. Most of the time, it's just because Grandma usually wants to stop by before they go to lunch, but lately... It's so easy to throw rocks at the sea that swallowed your sister. It's easy to scream at the ocean and have your wails drowned out by the crashing waves. It's better to talk to a gravestone. She's been doing a lot more talking than screaming over the past several months. She can't help it. With the baby coming, it's like this a floodgate has been opened up and a brand new wave of grief has washed over everything.

The gaping wound left behind by Sara's loss has never not felt raw and painful, but it's been especially excruciating over the past nine months. There's so much that she wants to tell her sister, so much she wants to share with her. When she was a kid, she used to imagine her future, and Sara was always right beside her. They were meant to live their lives side by side, to share all their joys, all their sorrows, triumphs and failures, all of it. Sara was supposed to be here for all the big moments.

Sara could be the most annoying, entitled, spoiled brat. She caused so much trouble, left so much wreckage in her wake, created so many messes that Laurel, the dutiful big sister, had to clean up. Sara stole boyfriends and girlfriends, broke hearts, skipped class to go to the mall or smoke weed behind the big Oak tree on the school grounds. She got in fights she couldn't win, started drama just to start drama, and she had little regard for other people's feelings, especially when that person was Laurel. She could be such an ass sometimes, but she was still her other half.

Laurel has been off balance for years now. She would like to know, so desperately, when things will start to even out again. Will it be next year? The year after that? When Sara is ten years gone, an echo of a girl who never got to grow up, will it be better? Will it hurt less? Laurel thinks of Dean, who got his brother back, who always gets his brother back. She thinks of the person he was when they met, splintered apart by loss, and the person he is now, and she thinks - No. No, it will never hurt less.

When she is finally holding her daughter in her arms, will she be able to give her all of her when part of her is still knee deep in the surf, howling for Sara? How many years will it take for her to stop howling?

''She would've been a great aunt, you know,'' she says. She licks her dry lips, trudging through fallen leaves and damp, muddy grass. ''Sara was the wild and free type,'' she carries on. ''She didn't like to be pinned down. That's what she used to say. She was pre med, and everyone was so proud of her for that, but I don't think she would have ended up a doctor. Not because she couldn't. I know she could have. But that's not what she wanted. She used to talk about traveling the world because she hated the idea of staying in one place for too long. She was her own home.'' She smiles dimly, sadly. ''She knew herself. She was comfortable with what she wanted out of life. I've never had that kind of self-confidence. I've tried, but it's easier said than done.''

When she feels an all too familiar swell of discomfort, she has to stop, swallowing down a startled gasp. ''Oh, come on,'' she mumbles. ''Here? We're going to do this here?'' The grip of the incoming contraction is a crampy feeling low in her belly and a tight band of pressure that wraps around to her lower back. It's not the worst, but it catches her off guard. ''Okay, okay,'' she groans, bending over slightly, one hand braced against a nearby statue. ''Shit.'' It's not that big of a deal. Last night was way worse. It just doesn't have the greatest effect on her mental state. She's already emotional and exhausted and she's out here all alone with the dead. Adding pain into the mix is like the perfect cocktail of panic. She breathes through the mild contraction, far more focused on keeping a potential panic attack at bay rather than the actual physical discomfort. ''Okay,'' she huffs out again, once it's passed. ''That sucked.'' She takes a second to calm down, moving one hand up to rub at her sternum to ease the ache of anxiety. ''Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,'' she says, pointedly. ''I hope you have the kind of self-confidence Sara had.''

Slowly, she resumes her trek across dead leaves and twigs. ''I'm not saying you need to be exactly like her,'' she says with a dim laugh. ''Clearly she wasn't perfect. But she did love life. She could be hard but she was never bitter. She always tried hard to see the beauty in the world and the fun in life. Even when I couldn't. When I was afraid, she was brave for the both of us.'' She lowers her voice down to a whisper and pats her belly gently. ''I hope you'll be brave.''

There isn't much else to say. Sara would have been a good aunt. Her niece would have loved her. But, the truth is that if Sara could be here right now, if she hadn't gotten on that boat, there would be no baby. There would be no Mary Beatrice/Beatrice Mary, no Dean, no marriage, none of it. None of what Laurel has now would be hers. She doesn't know where she would be, but she knows she wouldn't be here.

She wants to be here.

Maybe that's the part that hurts the most. She loves her husband. She loves her baby girl. She loves her sister. But she doesn't think she ever would have been able to have all three of them at the same time. The life she's living now wouldn't have happened if she hadn't lost Sara. She would be someone else entirely. She tries not to think too much about it. She can't right now. She wants a quick minute to herself at Sara's grave and then she wants to go home to Dean. There's a baby coming soon. That's where her focus needs to be.

Her sister's gravesite is in a different area of the cemetery, a little further away from the other graves. Her parents picked this area because it was off the beaten path and away from prying eyes. Sara's death was so public, drawn out on the local news because the Queen name was involved, that for the first year or so it felt like there were prying eyes everywhere.

She approaches the grave with a lump in her throat. It is always silent at this grave. Not even the birds come here. She slips her phone back into her pocket and busies herself with brushing away some fallen leaves from the stone. With a fair amount of difficulty, she even manages to crouch down and pick up the bouquet of wilted flowers from the ground. They're dahlias. Pinks ones to be exact. Sara never liked dahlias. Or pink.

Laurel looks down at the flowers in her hand. It looks like it was a lovely bouquet once upon a time. Not anything big, just a small bundle, but it's nice and it looks like they were gorgeous dahlias. They'd have to be. They're from the Orchid Park Company. It's the best place in town to get flowers. Expensive, but worth it. Laurel goes there once a month for fresh flowers. They always have her favourites. Daisies and calla lilies.

The dahlias look sad and shriveled now. She wonders who bought them. Her father, maybe. He doesn't usually come here unless it's a special occasion but everything's been stirred up recently. Oliver's return reopened the wound that took years to cauterize. She wouldn't be surprised to find out her dad has been spending more time here lately. Although the prices at the OPC are rather steep for him. Most of his spare change goes towards scotch. Maybe it was Tommy. He comes to the cemetery a lot at this time of the year to bring his mother flowers. It's plausible he would stop to visit Sara. He cared about her too.

She picks at the flowers, plucking the petals off one by one and letting them flutter to the damp ground. She looks at the headstone. She is never sure what she's supposed to say to this empty monument bearing her sister's name. ''Sorry I didn't bring you flowers,'' she shrugs. ''I didn't know I would be here.'' She presses her lips together tightly. Sara didn't like flowers anyway. Flowers are Laurel's thing. ''I had a dream about you,'' she decides on. ''You were coming home.''

It's a half truth. She does have the occasional dream about Sara's miraculous return, but most of her dreams about Sara are nightmares. Vivid nightmares about her sister's waterlogged corpse laughing at her and choking on water have become part of her new normal. Pregnancy dreams aren't talked about the way weight gain, morning sickness, and weird cravings are, but it's been her least favourite symptom. She'd even take the debilitating hip pain over waking up crying and soaked in sweat.

Laurel clutches the bouquet of dead flowers and stands there in the silence, trying to find Sara. There's no real piece of her here. Not even a whisper. There are no pieces of her anywhere anymore. Just memories, a sensation of grief that is still so intense it leaves her dizzy, and the taste of salt.

The quiet sound of leaves crunching under someone's footfalls has her looking up, expecting to catch the eye of some stranger passing by on their way to their own grief. Instead, she looks up, and there's Oliver. He stops when he sees her. Just goes still right there in the leaves. His eyes widen, startled. He looks trapped.

Instinctively, her hand moves to rest atop her baby bump protectively. ''What are you doing here?''

He didn't bring flowers either. She wonders if that's because he knows Sara wouldn't have appreciated them or because he just didn't think of it. ''I wanted to pay my respects,'' he says.

''You're going to do that from all the way over there?''

''I don't have to - '' He stops. ''I can leave if you want me to.''

She laughs, and somehow manages to keep the bitterness out of it. ''I'm way too pregnant for this game, Oliver. Whatever she was to you, you obviously cared about her in some way. You have the right to mourn her. I'm not going to stop you.''

''Right,'' he says, with an awkward grimace. ''I just don't want to make you uncomfortable.''

She sends him a sidelong glace. He's lying to her. He's always been lying to her. It's all a big lie to him. ''You can stay or you can leave,'' she says, as calmly as she can, ''but you don't get to use me as an excuse to chicken out.''

He blinks, looking stunned by her bluntness. Then he sighs, shoulders relaxing, and he makes his way over to her. He doesn't say anything as he takes a spot next to her, and neither does she.

She holds her breath, squashes down the minor discomfort at having him too close to her, and she watches him as he takes in the sight of Sara's grave. ''This is your first time here,'' she speaks softly, ''isn't it?''

He looks at her briefly, wincing, and then looks away. ''I haven't been able to come here,'' he admits. ''I've tried.'' He digs his hands into his pockets. He looks at the headstone. He seems to swirl through a myriad of emotions before he settles on a quiet, ''It's nice.''

''Your mother paid for it,'' she states. ''I think she felt guilty on your behalf.''

He audibly sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. This would normally be the part where she apologizes, but it wouldn't mean a thing right now. She's too tired to coddle him right now. She studies his profile. She watches as he opens his eyes and stares intently at Sara's name etched onto the stone. This is not the man who got on that boat. She is still not sure what to do with this new man. How to talk to him. How to respond to the odd things he does. She does understand post traumatic stress disorder. She knows how it can warp and twist. She has had a front row seat to the way it can ruin.

She is married to Dean Winchester, after all.

Their relationship began in the wake of the apocalypse, the aftermath of Sam's sacrifice, and the shadow of Hell. Dean is, despite what people may think, one of the softest, gentlest men she has ever known. And PTSD still managed to twist him up so badly that he couldn't see straight. There are at least two hastily patched up holes in the drywall, a tremor in his left hand that acts up when he's stressed, the sound of shattering glass makes him flinch, and he still has nightmares. He once told her that it's almost like being possessed. You are no longer you. You don't know up from down, right from left, real from nightmare.

Once, right before he dragged himself to get help, she made the mistake of waking Dean from a particularly bad nightmare by shaking him awake. She ended up with a handprint around her neck because he had forgotten he was no longer in Hell. He left for four days that time. Didn't come home until Danny De La Vega found him in some shithole bar in the Glades and hauled his sorry ass back home to her. Even then, he slept on the couch and refused to touch her for a month because he was terrified of himself.

So, yes, she understands that PTSD can turn you inside out and reshape you into someone else. She understands that Oliver is in pain and that his pain is unpredictable. She understands that he needs help and that he probably deserves a bit more grace and compassion than she is currently willing to give him. But it hurts to look at him. It hurts to be around him. It just hurts. She can't look at him and not see what happened. It's not just Sara either. It's all of it. It's everything. Their entire relationship. She doesn't want to make him feel like he's some awful monster but she is not comfortable around him anymore. Being around him reminds her of the way things were. How horribly he treated her. How bad she felt about herself when she was in that relationship.

Oliver did not ruin her. She refuses to give him that kind of power. But he did chip away at her. Their relationship crushed her self-esteem and her self-worth. He loved her, but he was also a selfish and cowardly idiot. She doesn't think he's a bad person now. She doesn't even think he was a bad person then. It's just hard to look back on what they had and not call it abusive. It's hard to be around him now, even with this quest for redemption he's seemingly on, without falling back into the role of victim. And she will not be his victim ever again.

Laurel shifts, just a little, moving her body away from him just barely. He notices her movement incredibly fast, snapping his head around to look at her. She startles, flinching ever so slightly, and he instantly backs off. His voice is quiet when he speaks, like he's expecting her to disintegrate if he speaks any louder. ''Are you okay?''

''I'm fine,'' she nods. ''Just, um...'' She smiles tightly. ''Pregnancy is uncomfortable,'' she says, which is not technically a lie. ''I'm tired of being an incubator.''

Sure does seem to spook him. The entire idea of her being pregnant seems to make him extremely uncomfortable, to be honest. Pregnancy in general doesn't turn him into a bumbling fool. Just her being pregnant. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

''Oh,'' he bobs his head up and down. ''Right.'' He looks down at her bump briefly and then back up at her, with a carefully soft look in his eyes. ''When are you due?''

She heaves a sigh. ''The 22nd.''

He stares, gaping at her in something akin to horror. ''Of October?''

''Yes, Ollie.''

''It's the 30th.''

''I am very aware of that.''

''That's...'' He suddenly looks extremely concerned. It's like he's afraid he's going to wind up having to deliver her baby right there in front of Sara's grave in the next five minutes. ''Do you need to sit down? I feel like you should be sitting down.''

She can't help but chuckle at the slight panic in his voice. ''I'm okay,'' she assures him. ''But thank you.''

He looks both reluctant and grateful to leave it at that, but he doesn't push the issue. When he eventually does speak again, his voice is quiet and incredibly cautious, like he's afraid she's going to bolt if he says the wrong thing. ''I'm sorry,'' he tells her.

He's been telling her that a lot lately. She accepts his apologies because she can tell that, for possibly the first time in his life, he is telling her the truth. Oliver's countless apologies are earnest and full of guilt and regret but at the end of the day, what do they really mean? Laurel offers her forgiveness because he needs it and maybe she does too, but Sara is still gone. Apologies can't change what happened. ''You keep saying that.''

''I'm not sure what else I can say,'' he admits. ''This isn't just about Sara this time. When you took my case - ''

''Oliver,'' she sighs, rubbing at her forehead. ''We don't have to talk about - ''

''No, I know, but I need you to - I have to tell you...'' He shakes his head. ''I didn't intend for that to happen. I didn't want you to represent me because I wanted to take advantage of you. I wanted you to represent me because you're a good lawyer and I needed a good lawyer. What I did after - That shouldn't have happened.'' To his credit, he does look genuinely remorseful. ''I kissed you,'' he says, ''and you clearly didn't want me to. You were right to react the way you did.''

She arches an eyebrow flatly. She doesn't need his validation to know that her reaction to an unwanted advance was founded but okay. ''Yes,'' she says stiffly. ''I know. Thank you for your apology.''

He seems to understand that they haven't quite reached the forgiveness stage with this. ''Does,'' he winces. ''Does Dean know?''

''I don't keep secrets from my husband.''

''Fair enough,'' he nods. ''Does he want to kill me?''

''It was on the table,'' she confirms. ''But you lucked out. We're about to have a baby. He knows he needs to stay out of jail.''

Oliver doesn't look like he believes her. He looks like he's waiting for Dean to jump out from behind a tombstone and knock his teeth out.

''I should probably go,'' she decides, after a minute of painful silence. ''You need some time alone,'' she insists, when it looks like he's going to protest, ''and I really should get home.'' She sends him a tiny half smile and rests her hand on his arm lightly before turning away. She only makes it a few steps before she hears his voice again.

''If you had been single when I came back,'' he starts, and she stops in her tracks. ''What do you think would have happened?''

Laurel gapes at nothing, too stunned by the question to turn around. What a bold move. Her lips thin in annoyance and she whirls around to look at him, eyes darkening. ''Are you seriously asking me that question?''

He has the nerve to look surprised by her visible irritation. ''I - ''

''How many other girls were there?'' Her voice is calm and cold, even though her rage feels white hot.

He pales the second the words leave her lips. ''Laurel - ''

''How many other girls,'' she snarls out, ''did you fuck while you were dating me?'' She doesn't stop there. ''How many times did you drop me off at home after a date, kiss me goodnight, and then go off and stick your dick in one of our friends? You know,'' she narrows her eyes, taking a step towards him. ''One of the first things I did after you and Sara...'' She stops, with a sharp intake of breath. ''After you and Sara,'' she continues, ''the first thing I did when I was able to drag myself out of bed was go and get tested. Now, tell me, Oliver. Was that an overreaction?''

His long silence is more than answer enough. And yet she still stays there, waiting for him to say something that proves her wrong. She doesn't know why she's still putting herself through this crap. She's waiting for something that will never happen.

''No,'' he finally croaks out, guilty as always. ''It wasn't.''

''Yeah,'' she smirks bitterly, voice tight. ''That's what I thought. You don't get to ask me questions like that.'' She's not sure what he thinks he can get from her now. Years ago, she loved him. She loved him so much it made her lightheaded and it made her blind. That was a long time ago. There is a dull grief when she looks at him now; the remnants of the five years she thought he was dead. There is a faint anger, and somewhere, deep down, there is fondness and the possibility of one day being his friend. There is nothing else. She has nothing to offer him. Certainly nothing he wants. ''I loved you, Ollie,'' she says, putting emphasis on the past tense. ''I did. I don't anymore.''

He looks unreasonably crestfallen. ''Simple as that?''

''Trust me,'' she bites out, ''there was nothing simple about it. I had to remember who I was without you. I had to relearn how to be a person. Moving on from you and what you did was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But I did it. I'm happy now. I'm free. I'm sorry you're not. And no, Ollie, even if I wasn't married...'' She licks her lips. ''I would never be able to trust you. I trust Dean. I love him. I want to be with him.'' She steps back over to him and somehow manages to dig her gentleness out from underneath the bitterness. ''When I imagine my future, it's him standing next to me. It's not you,'' she confesses, quiet. ''I thought it was for a long time, but it's not.''

The puppy dog eyed look he's sending her is familiar. She used to see that look all the time. It was what made her go back to him time and time again. It doesn't feel as powerful as it used to. ''I...'' His shoulders deflate and he releases a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. ''I know. I do, Laurel. I know you're happy. I don't want to ruin that. I'm just - I've been...'' He twists around to look at Sara's grave again, and then looks back at her. ''I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing here.''

She gets the feeling he's not just talking about here at this graveyard. ''I can't help you there,'' she says slowly. ''It's not my place.'' Tentatively, she reaches out to take one of his hands in hers and gives it a light squeeze. ''What I do know is that you have a family who loves you. So maybe you should start there.'' She offers him the best smile she can dredge up. ''I know this may surprise you but I am glad you're alive. I want you to find peace and happiness, Oliver, but you know you won't find that with me.''

''I know,'' he says, tossing her a small rueful smile. ''We missed our shot.''

She takes pity on him and doesn't point out that they never really had a shot in the first place. ''Thea missed you every day, you know,'' she says. ''I think she still does. You should spend some time with her. Go to the movies. Go out for lunch. A walk in the park. Take a weekend trip to Coast City. Just be with your sister. Be happy. You were given a second chance. Don't you dare waste that.'' She smiles at him one last time and then lets go of his hand, tugging out of his grasp. ''I'm sure I'll see you around,'' she says, and steps back, away from him.

When she turns to leave this time, he doesn't call out after her or follow her. He lets her go.

She doesn't look back.

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November, 2016

It's raining again.

That's to be expected at this time of the year - November is, statistically speaking, one of the wettest months of the year in Star City - but it's so easy to grow tired of the consistently dreary weather. Laurel has never loved the rain but she used to be too busy to dwell on it. She had a hectic life. A fast paced law career, a thriving home life, and the Black Canary was always running, always fighting, far too focused to notice the weather. She doesn't have any of that anymore. She lost it all back in April. She's been noticing the rain a lot more lately.

It's been a week since she came back and she has spent nearly the entire week in bed, listening to the rain, trapped inside all day long. She knows that rest is an important part of recovery. She needed time to work on healing. Her body needed sleep. It's just so foreign to her; the stillness. She's never been still a day in her life. She doesn't mind the stillness so much. It's peaceful. But she's been having trouble with the - with the walls. With walls in general, actually. She's still learning how to cope with her brand new claustrophobia. She's doing her best to spend as much time outside as she can, but with the weather...

She's never realized how small her beloved house is. She used to view the clutter and the small size of it as charming and cozy. She also used to get to leave every day.

It's not like it's been a horrible week. For awhile, it was her and Mary during the days, which was nice if not a little...strange in some ways. The truth of the matter is that children can be fickle. All the things Mary was into back in April, all her favourite movies and books and toys, she's over now. She's moved on. Laurel doesn't know her way around Mary's likes and dislikes the way she used to. And it's not just Mary who's changed either. Laurel keeps slipping up with her daughter. She adds a slice of ham and mayo to a grilled cheese even though Mary hates it, she slices up a pear instead of an apple, puts on Toy Story instead of Finding Nemo, sings the first few lines of You Are My Sunshine instead of Sea of Love. It's not something she wants to talk about, especially not with Dean, but when it comes down to it, Laurel only had three years with Mary. She had lifetimes with Henry. She loves her daughter more than anything, nothing could ever change that, but she doesn't know her as well as she knew her son.

Adjusting to being here has been hard, is the point. Way harder than she thought it would be.

She's not used to being idle. Or unemployed. She's been trying to fill her days up with her daughter - with speech therapy, helping her with sign language and her balance issues, and she's apparently really into learning to read right now - and trying to salvage her poor garden but now that Mary has gone back to preschool, the house has been so quiet. There is always something that needs to be done, that's not necessarily the problem. She's just not used to this.

Laurel has always respected Dean's choice to stay home with Mary. It's what works for their family and it's been great for both him and their daughter. However, she thinks she can safely say that she has never had more respect for him than she does now that she's gotten a taste of what his life has been like. She supposes she was technically a stay at home mom up there with Henry but that was a false reality. There was no real workload in Heaven. There has never been a moment where she hasn't been grateful to him but she's clearly never realized how difficult it is to be the stay at home parent. She's ashamed to admit that she's never thought about it much. He makes it look so easy. He used to make it seem like he and Mary just hung out together all day long. Sometimes they went to the park, sometimes they didn't, he helped her with sign language every weekday afternoon, and then he made dinner. Turns out, there is a lot more to it than that, and it is hard work.

It's not just that being cooped up inside the same four walls is triggering her brand new claustrophobia either. It's all of it. Without Mary, the house is quiet and lonely and she can still barely manage to keep up with all the household chores. With Mary, the house is full of life and there is always something to do but she has no idea how she's supposed to keep up with all the daily chores plus all the messes that Mary leaves in her wake. There are never ending piles of dirty dishes and dirty laundry in this household. It's maddening, honestly. She doesn't understand how they can have this much laundry. No wonder Dean has been so vehemently opposed to getting a pet. It would just be an additional mess.

And the thing is, she has literally only been doing this for a week. And, quite frankly, given that she's supposed to be taking it easy and getting as much rest as she can, it's been a pretty damn lazy version of a stay at home parent's life.

Also, she thought that the whole resting aspect of this week would actually like...help? She's been resting and staying off her feet as much as possible for a week and maybe she's just being impatient but she still doesn't feel quite right physically. She still feels off balance and she is always so tired. She's not sure if that's because she needs more time in general. Or if it's because of the nightly panic attacks. She hasn't been able to get past those.

Her nightmares are just like her: stubbornly clingy. Things are easier in the daylight but at night, when everything is quiet and dark, she can't seem to shake the remembering. Waking up six feet under in your own casket will do that to you. Sometimes it feels like she left a piece of herself in that disturbed earth when she clawed her way out. Every night, she wakes up sobbing and disoriented, drenched in sweat and unable to breathe, trapped in her own body.

Dean tells her, as calm and patient with her as ever, that it will pass. That eventually, she will stop feeling so chewed up and spit out. That one day, she'll wake up, and she won't feel like the earth wants her back. ''You do come back,'' he says. ''You come back piece by piece. It takes time.''

It's a comfort, it is, but when she asked him how long it took him to leave that grave behind for good, he couldn't answer her question. She's not sure she would have believed him anyway. She would like to. She would love to believe that all the pieces come home eventually, but she's not so sure.

Laurel twists the car keys in her hands, looking out the window at the gravestones surrounding her. She doesn't get out of the car. She procrastinates for as long as she can and then she climbs out of the Impala and shuts the door. She takes a few steps away from it before she dares to open her umbrella. Just in case. She's not risking scratching the paint.

It's not like she's afraid of getting in trouble. Dean wouldn't have left the keys with her if he didn't trust her. Besides, she's driven this thing before. They're married. They share. It's a thing that happens sometimes in marriages. This car doesn't have seatbelts anyway so he's had to make certain sacrifices over the years. Like driving Mary around in their very safe and reliable Chevy Equinox that actually has seatbelts in the back. She's heard a lot about that particular sacrifice over the years. Incessantly so. It's a little irritating, actually. It's also definitely given her a complex about this car. She's obsessively careful when she drives it.

She tugs her green canvas jacket tighter around her body, shivering lightly in the cold air. She moves slowly, like her boots are sticking to the wet gravel. She slips the car keys into her pocket and white knuckles the umbrella with both hands. It's a graveyard, not a trap. She's been here plenty of times. She lived here for seven months.

Well.

Maybe lived isn't the right word.

The point is, she knows this place. She knows it like she knows the back of her hand. This is where pieces of her heart are. This is where she'll go back to. She shouldn't be so afraid of it. She stops walking right before she hits the grass. Her body flat out refuses to go further than the edge of the gravel path. She allows herself exactly two minutes to stand there, eyes closed, breathing through the fear, and then she forces herself to step onto the grass. It's muddy and wet, but the earth doesn't drag her back under. She releases a breath. She walks quickly, purposefully, winding her way through the maze until she reaches her destination.

Oliver is standing in front of what used to be her final resting place, right where she thought he would be.

She stops when she sees him, hanging back to watch him. He doesn't have an umbrella, but he doesn't seem bothered by the drizzly weather. He should be. He's wearing a suit, probably an extremely expensive designer suit. Thea would be incredibly displeased. Laurel tilts her head to the side and watches as he crouches down in front of the broken headstone, reaching out to turn a piece of it over.

There has been a lot of people in and out of her home over the past week. Everyone has been bringing her food and coffee, stopping by on their lunch breaks, after work, before work, making any excuse to come by and see her. Oliver has not been one of them. She's heard from Thea that he's been busy fixing up the bunker, getting started on the construction here, and just in general being both Green Arrow and the Mayor of Star City. They're going with the vandalism excuse for all the damage. It was on all the news. There was a press conference. It was very official. He condemned the vandalism, apologized to the families of the deceased on behalf of the city, and assured everyone that everything would be fixed, restored, and cleaned up. Nobody questioned it.

The people in this city have learned to stop asking questions about strange things that happen late at night.

Laurel isn't particularly upset that he hasn't been to see her. He has a life full of better things to do, and he doesn't owe her anything. Especially not after she blew out his eardrum and destroyed his headquarters. There's also a part of her that wonders if he's avoiding her because he knows that she's been informed of everything he did after she died. Like that embarrassing statue. Or, you know, publicly outing her criminal behavior at her funeral in front of everyone, which not only destroyed her reputation as a lawyer but nearly resulted in Dean getting thrown in jail and Mary getting taken by CPS. She can't blame him for not dropping by. At least he's smart enough to know that ringing her doorbell at seven thirty in the morning with peppermint hot chocolate, a gift basket full of mini muffins, and forced cheerfulness won't fix everything. Certain other people have not gotten that message. Although the hot chocolate was delicious and Mary did love the muffins that Felicity brought.

She understands why Oliver might want to keep his distance for now. But she is not really here to find the unsalvageable missing pieces of herself, see. She's here because she knew he would be.

She chews on her lower lip anxiously and then starts towards him. She approaches him slowly, making sure to wipe all traces of nervousness off her face. ''You know,'' she starts, and he stands straight, whirling around to face her. ''You don't need to come here to talk to me anymore.''

Oliver's eyes follow her every movement as she comes to stand next to him. His eyes soften when he sees her. He still looks awed by her. It's a strange feeling. Flattering but confusing. He was never outright awed by her before ''No,'' he says, lips curling back into a slow, disbelieving smile. ''I guess I don't.''

She tilts her head up to send him a bright smile. ''How's your ear?''

''My ear is fine,'' he assures her. ''Turns out the eardrum wasn't completely burst. It's healing up nicely.''

''Glad to hear it,'' she nods. ''And you've seen a real doctor about it?''

''Got antibiotics and everything.''

''Good. I really am sorry about that. And about the bunker.''

''Don't be,'' he waves it off dismissively. ''Felicity wanted a remodel anyway. She said the place was too dark.''

''Well, she wasn't wrong.''

''People tell me that a lot,'' he says, smile widening when she laughs. ''What about you?'' He looks her up and down, from the umbrella to her messy ponytail to her muddy boots. He pauses for just a fraction of a second on her wedding rings, now back in place on her left hand. His soft expression never wavers but he does take a step back. ''How are you doing?''

''Better,'' she lies. ''I've been catching up on my sleep. And Netflix. I watched Stranger Things.''

''Yeah?'' He nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ''I still haven't finished that one.''

''Wow,'' she whistles lowly. ''I was dead for seven months and even I've finished it.'' She shakes her head at him. ''You need to get your shit together, Ollie.''

''I've been busy.''

''Yeah?'' She smirks at him. ''Is busy code for watching Die Hard for the millionth time?''

He doesn't protest that. ''It's November, Laurel, which means it's basically Christmas and Die Hard is the best Christmas movie ever made.''

''Now you sound like Dean.''

Oliver wrinkles his nose. He looks deeply, deeply offended by that. ''No offense but I'm not sure how I feel about having things in common with that guy.''

She laughs at him. ''Yeah, he said the same thing.''

Actually, what really happened is that way back in the beginning of their relationship, during their first Christmas together, Dean was going off on some fanboy tangent about Die Hard and defending the right to call it a Christmas movie. She made some off hand comment about him sounding like her ex and he said, without missing a beat, ''What's a Die Hard? I don't know that one. The best Christmas movie is The Year Without a Santa Claus.'' And that's the story of why Dean walks around the house each year singing the Heat Miser song during the month of December.

Laurel pulls the umbrella back to look up at the sky. The rain has slowed down considerably now. It's still spitting out but the drops are few and far between. She closes the umbrella and removes some of the space between her and Oliver. ''What are you doing here?'' She asks quietly.

He pauses before he answers. ''I came down here to check on the progress of the clean up.'' It's a lie. He looks at her, squinting at her suspiciously. ''What about you? I didn't think you would want to come back here.''

That's certainly an understatement. She flings a look in the direction of her torn up grave, barely managing to suppress a shudder. She knew when she decided to come here that it would look bad. John's been keeping her updated on everything to do with the clean up. He's the one who called and told her that they were going to have to dig up the remains of her casket, which wasn't an easy thing for any of them to do because nobody wanted to see what it looked like. She's aware that a story has been spun here because she's the one who did the spinning.

A few nights ago, Oliver, John, and Sam came here and dug up the casket. She made sure Dean and Sara were not informed of this until after because she did not want them to see it. She didn't want any of them to have to see that but Dean and Sara especially. She didn't want them to have to look at the splintered wood, the blood stains, all the sharp pieces from where she tore herself out.

She ran that mission. She ran that mission from bed using Thea's phone while Thea kept Dean and Sara distracted. She kept in touch with Sam throughout the whole thing and didn't breathe a sigh of relief until he told her it was over. The next morning, Mayor Queen briskly informed the caretaker of the cemetery that because of the vandalism, Laurel Lance's family had decided to move her body to the Lance family crypt in Gotham where she would be safe.

She remembers the strange feeling of suspense that night. She remembers the guilt over keeping Dean and Sara in the dark. She vividly remembers the cold feeling of horror and nausea that swept over her when Sam asked her if she wanted her shoes from the cemetery. She knew when she came here that this grave would look bad. But the gaping, cavernous hole in front of her is... You can't really prepare yourself for something like this.

It reminds her far too much of a mouth, if she's being honest. A week is not nearly long enough to convince her that this place won't swallow her whole if she gets too close. Laurel has no idea how she managed to escape that grave, but she knows for sure that she would not be able to do it again. She doesn't want to do it again.

''I just needed some air,'' she says, finally. ''I've been going stir crazy.'' She tosses him a quick, tight smile. ''But, uh, I actually wanted to talk to you. Felicity told me you were here.''

''You - Oh.'' He looks genuinely surprised. ''Of course. What do you need?''

A complicated question, really.

She looks down at the ground and tries to figure out how the hell she's going to word this. She's not exactly here to ask him to get her out of a parking ticket. She looks back up at him and instantly, his eyes widen in concern. For a second, she thinks maybe she's blurted it out without realizing it, but then he speaks. ''Whoa, hey, Laurel,'' he's already reaching out towards her, ''your nose is bleeding.''

Automatically, she reaches up to wipe at her nose and sure enough, her hand comes away slick with blood. Reflexively, she sniffles and then grimaces as her mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood. ''Shit.'' She tilts her head back, pinching her nose. ''Can you - Can you grab a tissue from my pocket?''

''Which - ''

''My jacket pocket. Either one. I'm a mom.''

''Uh, what does that have to - ''

''You have to keep tissues on you at all time when you have a kid,'' she informs him, voice nasally from plugging her nose. ''Otherwise you wind up wiping up snot with your shirt the way Dean does.''

''Oh.'' Oliver helpfully reaches into her pocket to retrieve a tissue for her. ''That sounds like a glamorous life.''

She laughs and almost immediately chokes on the blood running down the back of her throat. It's a profoundly disturbing sensation. ''Don't make me laugh.''

''I can't just turn it off, Laurel.''

''That's funny.'' She holds the tissue to her nose, trying to mop up the mess and stem the flow of blood but it just keeps coming. ''When did you turn it on?'' She can't remember the last time she had a nosebleed. Sara used to get nosebleeds in the winter when she was a kid and chase Laurel around the house with her face full of blood like a creepy horror movie kid, but Laurel has never been prone to them.

''Are you okay?'' She hears Ollie's voice ask. She can hear the frown in his voice. ''That's a lot of - ''

''I'm fine,'' she mumbles. ''It's just the cold weather.''

He steps into her space, one hand gently removing the umbrella from her grasp, the other slipping into her other jacket pocket to dig around for another tissue. ''You don't usually get nose bleeds in cold weather.''

She doesn't usually sleep for twelve hours and get random dizzy spells either but here we are. ''It's fine.'' She accepts the fresh tissue from him. ''Nosebleeds happen,'' she says. ''They're a part of life.'' She turns away from him to blow her nose. It really is fine. It's mildly jarring to see all the sticky blood leaking through the tissue and coating her fingers, and the taste of it reminds her far too much of that night at Iron Heights. But she's not in any pain. She's not feeling lightheaded. It's just a nosebleed. Everyone gets nosebleeds. Even Mary's had a few of them. Laurel sops up the blood the best she can, clenching the soiled tissues in her fist.

''Hey,'' Oliver's voice says. ''Let's get you out of the rain, okay?'' He slides an arm around her shoulders and she reluctantly allows him to steer her away from her open grave.

What she should be thinking, as she instinctively leads him over to the Impala, is that Dean is going to be so pissed when he finds out that Oliver - of all people - has invaded his sacred space. What she's really thinking, as Oliver's climbing into the passenger seat, is that she needs another tissue. He must be thinking the same thing because he's already rifling around in the glove compartment and asking her if there's any more tissues anywhere. She's never been clear on what kind of wacky ass psychic connection her husband has with this car but she's really hoping his first baby doesn't tell him that Oliver Queen has been...inside of her.

Oliver glances over at her out of the corner of his eye as he's searching for another tissue. ''Are you sure you're - ''

''I'm fine,'' she bites out.

He produces a packet of Kleenex from the glove compartment. He doesn't say anything as he hands it over to her, but she can feel his eyes on her as she tries to stop the flow of blood. ''Is there something I should know?'' He asks eventually. ''About the - the witches?'' He still seems to be disproportionately incredulous about this whole witch thing. She can't say she understands his disbelief. Not after Darhk. ''Are there any leads?''

''None that anyone's shared with me,'' she says. ''Have you heard anything?''

''About witches? No.''

When her nose finally decides to stop running like a faucet, she cleans herself up the best she can with the packet of Kleenex and glares down at the droplets of blood staining her shirt. It's not like this is her most presentable shirt. It's an old t-shirt of her father's that she stole when she was a kid and never gave back. It's threadbare, stretched out from when she wore it while pregnant, and there are already a bunch of other stains on it, but the blood has dropped right onto David Bowie's face and blood is so hard to get out. Her fingers still feel tacky with it. She can't get the coppery taste out of her mouth. ''That's not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.'' She looks over at Oliver. ''I need to ask you for a favor.''

''Whatever you need.''

She smiles grimly, ducking her head down to look at the bloody tissues in her hand. Wait until he finds out what she's about to ask of him. ''Ollie,'' she lifts her head so she can meet his eyes. ''What you do...'' She trails off uncertainly. This is much harder than she thought it would be. ''What you do for this city as the Green Arrow is incredible,'' she tells him, honestly. ''I know you beat yourself up a lot for not doing enough but you're trying. You're trying to make a difference here. That means something. You do what you need to do to protect the people here. That's why I'm talking to you right now. No one else.''

He looks at her, mouth turned down into a worried frown. ''Laurel,'' he says slowly. ''Does anyone else know you're here?'' His eager to help expression has shifted at some point during her speech. He's looking at her with this patronizing mix of concern and thinly veiled exasperation. It's something familiar. He's always been skilled at turning his concern into condescension.

''You know how I was brought back,'' she says, ''and you know why. You know that whoever did this wanted me to be their tool.''

''I know they failed,'' he retorts. ''You're not anyone's tool. You're just - You're Laurel.''

She attempts a smile. ''For now,'' she agrees. ''That doesn't mean they'll fail next time. They're going to come for me,'' she says, flatly. ''We all know that.''

''They can try.''

''If they take me - ''

''They won't.''

''But if they do,'' she insists, turning in the seat to angle her body towards him. ''They'll make me a weapon. I can't be anyone's weapon. I'll hurt people.'' Her lips thin. She looks up at him, pleading. ''I don't want to hurt anyone.''

That's when it clicks for him. She can see it in his eyes; the exact moment he realizes what she's about to ask of him. ''Laurel.'' She can't remember the last time he said her name like that. ''What are you doing? What is it that you need?''

''I need you to choose the safety of this city over me,'' she says as if it is somehow that simple. ''And I know you will,'' she tacks on hurriedly. ''Because that's the kind of person you are. If I become a danger to this city and the people in it, you have to take me out.''

''No.''

''Oliver.''

''No.'' He physically recoils from her. ''Absolutely not. You can't ask me to do this. You're asking me to kill you.''

''I'm asking you to help me.''

The soft look in his eyes hardens and he sends her this pained, betrayed scowl before looking away from her completely. ''This isn't fair,'' his voice is low. ''Asking me to do this. This isn't - ''

''I know,'' she murmurs. ''I'm sorry.'' She leans in closer to him so she can place a hand on his knee. ''But it has to be done. You know that.''

He doesn't say anything to her for the longest time, looking down at her hand like he's trying to decide whether or not it's okay for him to touch her back. ''Why me?'' He asks. ''Why come to me and not - ''

''I can't,'' she draws her hand back and shrinks away from him. ''I can't ask him to - ''

''But you can ask me.''

''It's different with you. He wouldn't be able to do this.''

He huffs incredulously. ''And you think I can?''

''I trust you,'' she says, as gentle as possible. She meets his eyes again. She tries to make herself look as small and as vulnerable as possible. It's not often she thinks about it anymore, but she and Oliver will always have a piece of each other. That's how first loves work. There is a corner of his heart that she will always know. There is a piece there just for her. She never intended to use that against him like this.

This is not something she does. Nevertheless, this is important. Desperate times. ''My family,'' she starts. ''They went through so much when I died. And in the months after. With - With the investigation and everything.'' She sees him flinch when she mentions that, guilt pooling in his eyes. Now she's got him on the hook. ''I know losing me again would hurt them but I can't be their villain. Please, Ollie, please. Help me. I need you to help me.''

He's not looking at her. He's staring straight ahead, torn up. It's only when he lets out this slow, controlled breath that she knows she's got him. ''They're not going to get you,'' he says, deceptively calm. ''We're going to make sure of that. But if they do...'' He stops. ''I'll protect this city. You have my word.''

She hasn't quite been able to figure out what his word means to her in the years since he's been home. Still, she smiles at him. It's real this time. ''Thank you.''

He doesn't say anything for a prolonged awkward moment but he looks at her very closely, like he's trying to find something in her eyes. He frowns curiously. ''You trust me?''

She presses her lips together and clears her throat, looking down at her husband's car keys in her hands. That depends on what he means, to be honest. Does she trust him the way she did ten years ago? Hell no. But if there is one thing she has learned since becoming Black Canary, it's that there are different kinds of trust. She lifts her gaze to him once more and offers him one more soft smile. ''Oliver,'' she shakes her head with a slow, quiet chuckle. ''How many rooftops have I jumped off of with nothing but the faith that you would catch me?''

His lips quirk up into a quick smile. ''I think I lost count somewhere along the way.''

''Exactly,'' she laughs. ''That's trust, you know,'' she adds, and scoots over so she can take his hand and squeeze it gently. ''I trust you,'' she promises. ''Don't make me regret that.''

.

.

.

Okay.

That felt awful.

Laurel shuts the front door behind her and turns to face the empty living room. She closes her eyes and listens to the quiet sound of her grandmother's clock ticking the minutes away.

She doesn't regret what she asked him. Not really. Had to be done. She just hates the way that went down. Emotional manipulation is not a tactic she loves to use. It's not something she resorts to often. At least not outside the courtroom. Certainly not to this extent. It is not something to be proud of. She's had it done to her enough to know how shitty it feels. She just...

She didn't know what else to do.

The witches will come for their prize and if they get their hands on her, they will take her soul. It isn't a question. They chose her for a reason. They may have made some mistakes in the process but they did succeed in resurrecting her and activating her Cry. They're going to come for her sooner or later. There's no way they won't. People don't want to talk about that. She was there that day in the destroyed bunker when Sam and Cas informed everyone else about the spell, about what had been done to her, about what it did and why she was brought back. She saw the looks on their faces. The horror, the fear. She noticed when nobody would look her in the eye. She notices how some of them still have trouble looking her in the eye.

Cas is the only one who is willing to talk to her truthfully about what could have happened and about what could still happen. He's the one out there trying to track down an angel so they can make sure her soul is still intact and functional. He's the one trying to figure out whether or not she's a danger to everyone. Dean hasn't brought up the soulless thing since that first day, and he always shuts her down when she tries to bring it up. It scares him. Not just the prospect of her being soulless but how close she came to being dehumanized and weaponized. How close she came to being something he would have needed to stop.

He understands what it's like to be carved into something else. Made into a blunt instrument instead of a person. She understands why he doesn't want to think about it happening to her. She understands why nobody wants to think about how shaky all of this is or how she is one spell away from being turned into their next villain. They're scared. She's sorry for that. She doesn't want them to be scared. She wants them to be ready.

That's why she needed to put a plan in place for if she turns. She needed someone to make that promise to her, and Oliver was the best option. Dean would fight the sun to protect her. So would Sara and Thea. Sam and Cas would fall in line behind Dean. Sure, they would tell her what she wanted to hear. In the moment, they might even mean it. They would never be able to follow through.

Oliver is different. He'll do what he has to. If Felicity was the one in this position, maybe he wouldn't. He would burn this whole city down to save her. He and Felicity would both do awful, terrible things for each other. Laurel is not Felicity. She doesn't mean as much to them. And that's good. In this case, her expendability is one of the biggest tools she has at her disposal. It means he should be able to make the right decision when the time comes.

Laurel kicks her shoes off and pads down the hall and into the bathroom, dropping her keys and her jacket onto the table as she passes. She tosses the bloody tissues into the trash and washes the dried blood off her hands, scrubbing it off her skin and digging it out from under her fingernails. When she's sure it's all gone, she splashes her face with cold water a few times and reaches blindly for a towel.

She does her best to avoid her reflection these days because she knows what she'll see, but she can't help herself. She peeks out from behind the towel to look at herself in the mirror. She's paler than before, she thinks. Back when she was alive, she had this glow. Especially in those last few months. It had nothing to do with the pregnancy. It was because she was, for the first time in a long time, healthy. It showed in her glowing skin. She doesn't look healthy right now. She's pale and there are dark smudges under her eyes that won't go away. There is this sickly, almost frail look to her these days. She tries to cover it up with makeup and with false cheerfulness, but it won't leave.

She doesn't look much like herself. Laurel clenches the towel in her hands. She leans in closer to her reflection so she can inspect her face. She eyes the dark circles, her pores, her nose, her eyelashes, her chapped lips. She is not a corpse anymore. She is not under the earth, lifeless and cold, and then scared and suffocating. She is here, alive. She is not rotting.

So why does it feel like she is?

Laurel steps back and turns away from the mirror, still clutching the towel in her hands.

Months ago, back in January, she and her doctors had started discussing the possibility of getting her back onto a controlled dose of medication with careful monitoring. Addiction or not, she had to be treated. Therapy was a great resource and a great treatment but it wasn't the only thing there was. Medication wasn't something she was super excited about but she is hardly the first addict to need antidepressants. When you're sick, you do what you have to do to treat it so that you can live your life. She knows that. Yet she still hadn't been able to pull the trigger on the meds. Even with the support of her doctor, her therapist, an addiction counselor, her sponsor, and Dean. In her mind, it hadn't been long enough. She wasn't ready. Her sobriety was still too fragile. She was still prone to a relapse.

''You're always going to be prone to a relapse, Laurel,'' Renee, her sponsor, had informed her. ''You're an addict.''

Still, she just couldn't do it. Nobody pushed her. Her therapist told her they would table the discussion, give it a few months, keep an eye on her, and then circle back to the idea. Currently, she's really wishing she had agreed to take the damn pills. She might have something for right now. Something to take the edge off. That alone tells her that she was right to opt out of the idea back then.

She swallows hard and tries to shake herself out of it, looking down at her hands. They're not healed yet, not completely, but they're getting there. She can wear her wedding rings again. She can use them. She turns her hands over to look at the lines on her palms. Mary wants to paint her nails for her. Laurel looks at her nails. She used to paint them black. Red or green during the holidays. White on her wedding day. Sometimes she used to let Mary pick a color for her. But mostly she kept them black. It was her go to because it went with every outfit. She doesn't think she can do that again. It reminds her too much of decay and rot. The way a corpse's fingernails turn black and fall off.

''Laur?''

She startles, barely managing to stifle a gasp as she wheels around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her with careful eyes. ''Sorry,'' he attempts a smile. ''I didn't mean to scare you.'' His smile looks tired. He still looks too careful, standing there in the doorway. Too concerned. ''Sweetheart,'' the smile slips as he steps into the bathroom. ''You okay?''

She blinks at him. ''How long have you been standing there?'' She's feeling irrationally irriated that he somehow managed to sneak up on her. She should have heard him. People don't sneak up on the Black Canary. ''Shouldn't you be at work?''

''Right, yeah, but I...'' He glances back over his shoulder and down the hall, but never finishes his sentence. She can hear the sound of someone else moving around in the living room. She's going to guess Sam. Or Cas. Possibly both.

She drops her gaze down to his left hand. She's always been able to tell when he's stressed about something because that's when the tremor in his hand acts up. He usually tries to cover it up by clenching his fists or subtly shaking his hand out, refusing to allow people to see that he has a weakness. He's not even trying to cover it up today. She wonders if that's because he's comfortable enough around her to let her see it, or because he doesn't realize it's happening. She hopes it's the first option because the last time he was too out of it to notice the tremor was when he was detoxing.

Dean tilts his head to the side and frowns at her. ''Is that blood on your shirt?''

She looks down at the droplets of blood and folds her arms over her chest, somewhat defensively. ''Oh, yeah. I had a nosebleed.'' She shrugs. ''No biggie.''

''You don't get nosebleeds.''

She's not sure how he manages to make that sentence sound accusatory, but she doesn't like it. She tries to laugh it off. ''Everyone gets nosebleeds, Dean,'' she says. ''And don't worry, I didn't get any in your car.''

''You - wait. When were you in my car?''

''I went for a drive.''

''You shouldn't drive so soon after a seizure.''

''I was restless. You're the one who left the keys with me.''

''For an emergency.''

''It was an emergency,'' she says. ''I needed air.''

''Sara could have - ''

''Sara's busy. Dean,'' she rubs at her forehead tiredly. ''I don't have a medical condition. I had one seizure when I got my memories back after being magically resurrected. There are no guidelines to follow here.''

He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking her body language. ''You collapsed yesterday morning, Laurel.''

''Oh my god, I did not collapse,'' she hisses. ''I had...'' She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. ''...An episode.'' An episode of dizziness that did technically lead to her on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, trying not to throw up and waiting impatiently for the world to stabilize. It was not a ''collapse.'' He wouldn't even know about it if she had just been quicker to get back to her feet. She's going to have to remember that for next time. ''Don't be dramatic about it.''

''Dramatic? I'm not - okay.'' He shakes his head. ''I'm not doing this with you.'' He looks back down at the drops of blood on her shirt like they're some kind of terrible sign of impending doom. ''Are you okay now? How much blood did you lose?''

She relaxes slightly, letting her arms fall to her sides. She's getting a little annoyed with his hovering, yes, but she supposes she can't really blame him. ''Honey.'' She steps into his space to curl a hand around his neck. ''It's fine. I'm fine.'' She pulls him down so she can kiss his lips softly. ''You have got to stop worrying about every little thing,'' she says, patting his chest lightly before brushing past him.

''I'm not worrying about every little thing,'' he protests, following after her into the bedroom. ''I'm demonstrating a healthy amount of concern for the wellbeing of my recently undead wife.''

She arches an eyebrow at him. ''I'm not undead.''

''Well,'' he closes the bedroom door behind him, but doesn't move closer to her. ''Whatever. Same difference.''

''Not really,'' she mutters. She peels her shirt off, dropping it in the hamper and rifling around in the drawer for a clean one. ''Undead typically means zombies. I am not a zombie.''

He doesn't respond to that. He's quiet for about five seconds. ''Seriously,'' he blurts out, because he can't help himself. ''You're good? No dizzy spells? Panic attacks? Unexplained projectile pea soup puke?''

She heaves a sigh and throws a weak glare in his direction. ''I'm not possessed either.'' She grabs the first shirt she finds and throws it on. ''No dizzy spells. No panic attacks. No seizures. It was just a nosebleed. It wasn't the apocalypse.''

''Okay, okay,'' he holds his hands up in surrender. ''I'm dropping it.''

''Thank you.'' She tugs at the suspiciously loose t-shirt she pulled over her head and looks down at it. She pulls at the fabric with a frown. She's pretty sure this is a maternity shirt. Whatever. It's clean.

''So,'' he clears his throat. ''Just to be clear: You didn't get any blood on my seats?''

A small smile tugs at her lips. ''No.''

He nods, and then gets a familiar look in his eyes. ''Blood would still be easier to clean than - ''

''Oh, not this again.''

'' - Amniotic fluid all over the - ''

''I told you to put a towel down when we went out for breakfast that morning!''

''Why didn't you remind - ''

''You,'' she points a finger at him, ''knew I was having contractions that morning. You knew I was overdue. I had other things on my mind. Things like panicking. And pain.'' She takes a seat on the edge of the bed. ''Mostly the first one.''

He laughs. It's a warm, deep, comfortingly familiar sound. Hearing it makes her entire body relax.

''Besides,'' she adds, as he sits down next to her, close enough that their knees are touching. ''I gave you a child, buddy. If you don't think she's cooler than a car, you and I are going to have a problem.''

''Can she be a close second?''

''No.''

''Fine, but don't tell Baby she's been demoted.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' She bites down hard on her lip to stifle a smile and swallows down a small chuckle. ''You might need to go back to therapy.'' He laughs again, just as comforting as it was the first time. When he rests a hand on her knee, she loops her arm through his and props her chin up on his shoulder. ''What are you doing home in the middle of the day anyway?''

He doesn't answer. He doesn't look at her either. He's looking down at her knee, where he's rubbing circles on her awful but extremely comfortable floral patterned leggings with his thumb. He hasn't even made fun of them. He usually has no problem playing fashion police with her. She has this off the shoulder shirt and every time she wears it, he makes 80's jokes, asking her if she's forgotten her leg warmers, or calling her Jane Fonda. One time, they went shopping together and he wound up disappearing while she was trying on clothes only to pop his head out from behind a sales rack while she was admiring a wrap dress just to inform her, ''It's just a fancy bathrobe!'' He is forever teasing her about her ''tacky ass'' rings and her beloved Converse. It never bothers her beyond an eye roll or a blush because he's joking and also because he is unexpectedly and weirdly fashionable when he wants to be, but it's definitely strange that he hasn't made a comment about her leggings. She was expecting, ''Aww, hon, did your garden throw up on you?'' Or some crack about Lularoe. She was kind of looking forward to it. She had a rebuttal all ready and everything. It was about flannel.

''Remember when Cas said he was going to track down an angel to check and make sure that everything's okay with your soul?'' He finally asks, quietly.

She pauses, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. ''I do.''

''Is that still something you want to do?''

''Yes.'' She doesn't hesitate for a second. ''I need to know.''

He nods slowly and then says, ''How do you feel about doing that today?''

.

.

.

So, here's the story:

Thea's had this recurring nightmare since April.

It doesn't happen every single night, but it's something she can't get away from. She's done everything in her power to keep busy. To take an active role in her healing. Or at least to overwork herself to the point of exhaustion so that she'll be able to sleep so heavily her body forgets to remember what she dreamt. She's the Chief of Staff for the new Mayor, she's Mary's nanny, she cares for the dead. She has spent seven months running from this dream, but it's no use. It still finds her.

She's having a dinner party. She's wearing a red dress. She is sitting in the dining room of the house she grew up in. It's just as cavernous and hollow feeling as it used to be. She is surrounded by all her friends and family. Oliver, Dean, Mary, the rest of the Winchester family, the Lance family, Felicity and the Diggles, even Barry and the Star Labs crew. Roy is sitting next to her. Sometimes his arm is slung over her shoulder. Sometimes it's resting on her knee. He never looks at her, and she can only see the side of his face. Dean and Oliver are, strangely, sitting next to each other, across from her. They are the only ones who ever look directly at her.

These are metaphors, you see.

Roy is with her but not really. The big brothers always have one eye on her, even when they don't need to. She is alone in a crowded room. It's the story of her life.

Everyone is laughing and having a good time. They're all joking and getting along the way families are supposed to. The way she wishes they would. She is not laughing. She is always the odd one out. She's missed the joke and no one will repeat it for her.

Laurel is sitting at the head of the table.

She's not laughing either. She is sitting stiffly in her throne like chair, removed from everyone else, but still watching them closely. She's not the happy, healthy Laurel that Thea has been trying so hard to remember. She is something grotesque and frightening. In her nightmare, Laurel sits at the head of the table wearing the dress Thea picked out for her, hollowed out and dead. Her lips are colorless, her eyes vacant and sunken in, her skin a sickly shade of gray, so unnaturally pale that Thea can see the veins through her skin. She keeps coughing, hacking into a tissue because she's choking on the embalming fluid they filled her with.

There is a bloody arrow lying on her empty plate, dripping dark red blood onto the perfectly white tablecloth. She doesn't look like Laurel. Not the one who she called when she got her first period and not the one who walked into that prison with her in April. There's something wrong with her face. There's something wrong with her eyes. She doesn't sound like Laurel either. Her voice is deeper and hoarse from disuse and all the coughing. It sounds slurred, like she's having trouble getting the words out around her swollen tongue and the fluid leaking out of her mouth. She only ever says one thing.

''Why aren't you laughing, Thea?''

She is never angry when she says this. Never cruel or harsh. She's not trying to hurt. She's dead. She's not a monster. She garbles out the question in this quiet, mostly emotionless voice and Thea can never answer her. She tries but she feels trapped in her seat, staring at Laurel in terror while everyone else around her ignores the horror movie they're stuck in.

It's such a gruesome version of someone she loved. Some animated but empty shell, coughing up chemicals, barely there. It's a ghoulish nightmare, a festering wound created by the images of Laurel in the morgue, Laurel in her casket, empty and scraped free of everything that made her feel like home.

Oddly enough, the part that sticks with Thea even when she's awake is that the Laurel in her dream is holding a wine glass.

Every time she has this nightmare, Thea winds up waking up with a gasp, sweat beading on her forehead, heart stuttering in her chest. There's pressure behind her eyes, guilt gnawing away at her because she's mad at her own subconscious for having Laurel break her sobriety in her nightmare, and all she really wants is to crawl into bed with her mom. She lies still, alone in the dark, irrationally terrified of rolling over and finding a decaying body in the bed with her, asking her why she's not laughing.

Sometimes she thinks about getting up and tip toeing out into the kitchen just to check and see if Laurel is there, breathing and picking through the leftover lo mein with her fingers. There are footsteps outside her bedroom some nights. She knows it's Dean, wandering the halls like a ghost instead of sleeping, but sometimes she finds herself wondering if this house is haunted. Not by the ghost of a person but by the echoes of the family that used to live here. The people they were before the fall.

This house feels so big and empty without her, and this house is anything but big. Dean and Laurel's snug house in the suburbs is nothing like the house Thea grew up in. Twenty minutes outside the downtown core, longer if there's traffic, away from all the chaos and the lights, is a cramped three bedroom house. It has a garage that's too big, one permanently cluttered bathroom that has a habit of causing fights, a kitchen that Dean complains about all the time, and an endless amount of warmth. The floors in this house are never quite clear; always a few stray toys left behind by Mary or a pair of heels left lying forgotten on the floor. The garage is full of workout gear, holiday decorations, the boxes they're storing for Sara, and gardening tools. There is always enough food to feed an army in the house because there is always some Winchester family member passing through town. And there are books. The house is full of them. They're in every room.

She remembers when she first moved in here, it took her a few weeks to adjust. This place isn't what she had expected from Laurel. She's so carefully put together, not a hair out of place, makeup done impeccably. It's not that the house is some messy hoarder hideaway. It's lived in. Stuffed to the brim and overflowing with mementos of normal life. This house is a home. It's not full of things. It's full of life.

When you walk in here, you're home. They make sure of it.

Mary, with her mountains of toys, her sweet little laugh, and her band aid collection. The easiest person in the world to adore. She's shy at first, preferring the company of animals rather than the company of humans and clinging to her parents like lifelines. If you go slow and stay gentle then she'll let you in and she'll let you know how things work around here. She is, after all, the brains of the operation. She's the one they've built this for.

Then there's Dean, who quietly runs the household, seamlessly fixing and mending and cooking, slotting things into place. All without expecting so much as a thank you in return. It seems like an uncharacteristic gentleness from the outside, like it should be strange for someone like him to be so easily domesticated, but it's not. If you get to know him, you'll quickly realize that this is who he's always been and this is what he's been doing for his entire life; building homes for the people he loves. Safe spaces for them to fall back to, weaving safety nets so that they will always have a soft place to land. He's the glue of this family, even if he doesn't know it.

And Laurel. The center of it all. The gravity of this home. Somehow, it all falls back to her. She was the beating heart. It's funny. Thea has known Laurel for a long time, over half her life, but she didn't really know her at all until she moved in here. This house, this home, is who Laurel truly is. She is in every part of it from the foundation up. She's the clutter, the warmth, the apple tree and the garden in the backyard, the lavender shampoo in the bathroom, the fancy French dark roast coffee in the kitchen. She is all of it, a specter of laughter and love, of life and light, that fills every inch of this place. Like many things in this city, Laurel's fingerprints are all over this space.

It's been an honor to be part of her family, and to be let into this strange, strange world of Winchesters and Lances. Thea never realized how cold her house was until she moved in here and was finally warm.

She used to sleep in on Sunday mornings and when she woke up and emerged from her room, she would find them together. Sometimes she would find them in the living room. Dean would be sitting on the floor, back against the couch, surrounded by the Saturday laundry, folding and sorting, with Mary - still in her pajamas - half ''helping'' and half ''dancing'' along to the Pixies song playing in the background. Then Laurel would drift into the room with two cups of coffee, wearing her Sunday morning uniform - hair piled on top of her head, glasses perched on her nose, face scrubbed free of makeup, wearing those truly ugly plaid pajama shorts, that old Bowie t-shirt, and bunny slippers because she is a bunny slipper kind of person. She'd hand a mug to Dean, greet Thea with a cheerful smile, and then settle herself on the floor, beckoning Mary over to her so they could work on her speech therapy and sign language.

Other mornings, especially in the Spring and Summer, she would find them outside. Dean, sitting at the table, leaning back in the chair with his coffee, watching Laurel do yoga or garden and listening to Mary, her mom's little shadow, giggle as she tried to mimic her mom's every move.

Occasionally, on these Sunday mornings, one of them would wake her up at an obnoxiously early time to go out for breakfast. Laurel would creep into the darkened bedroom, gently shake her awake, and whisper, ''Hey, sweetheart, we're going out for breakfast. Do you want to come or should we just bring you back something?''

Meanwhile, Dean would barge into her room like the fucking Kool Aid man, slamming the door open, turning the light on, and yanking open the curtains. ''Up and at 'em, kid!'' He'd holler, snatching her pillow from under her head. ''Get dressed, it's waffle time!''

This is an incredible family to be a part of.

When Laurel came home, even though all the blood and the graveyard dirt and the trauma, Thea had been so foolishly excited. So ready to get it all back. Naively, she thought they would get those Sunday mornings back. She thought the nightmare would go away. The truth looks different in the light of day. The truth is, the nightmare doesn't go away. Laurel's return can't erase the past seven months. Thea sincerely wishes that was the case.

She wants, more than anything, for things to go back to the way they were. Or, barring that, to be able to pretend that things have gone back to normal. It's hard to pretend everything's okie dokie when she walks in the front door and all she hears is Laurel screaming in agony because some random angel is wrist deep in her soul. Which is how her day is going so far.

The only reason she came home was because she wanted some peace and quiet to make some phone calls before Mary got home from preschool. She has work to do. Oliver made some stupid joke about swimsuit fashion on his twitter last night and she's spent the morning trying to make sure it won't become a thing. It was a completely innocuous joke. Very, very dry but ultimately harmless. She knows that because she knows her brother. Other people don't. If some tabloid wanted to spin it in a pervy direction, they probably could. Lord knows he has a whole slew of past indiscretions that would help further that narrative. Thea spent the entire summer trying to improve his likability among the citizens of Star City, especially the millennials. Everyone knows the millennial vote is going to be essential to reelection and she has been working since day one to get them to like Oliver. She will not let him tear down all her hard work with a now deleted dumbass tweet. So she really should be working on burying the story and getting shit stirrers to calm the fuck down.

Instead she's making tea. Lavender chamomile, to be exact. She's never liked chamomile. She thinks it tastes like a mouthful of dirt. The addition of lavender just makes it taste like floral dirt. Laurel likes it, though. It's what she drinks to de-stress and there's been maximum stress today. So Thea is making her some tea. She can't do anything else. She can make her calls in a bit and smooth over whatever damage has been done in regards to Oliver's tweet but all she can do for Laurel is make her some tea.

Angels, she has learned, are odd.

The one who came here today to check Laurel's soul, Samandriel, was polite and genuine in his want to help. Doesn't change the fact that angels are odd. Thea wasn't in the room when the soul examination or whatever the fuck that was happening but she heard the screaming. She heard the sobbing after too. It was worth it, she supposes, because Laurel's soul is indeed in the right place and - according to Samandriel - aside from a few ''cracks'' it is mostly intact. That's good news.

Thea opens the squeaky cupboard and snatches a mug. She grabs the tin of loose leaf lavender chamomile from the other cupboard and measures it into the strainer carefully. She leans back against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. The kitchen is quiet. Laurel is still huddled in bed, recovering from what was apparently an extremely painful experience and probably staunchly refusing to take even the pain medications that her doctors have previously said are okay to take. Dean and Sara are with her, most likely begging her to at least take an Advil. Sam left to pick up Mary from preschool. And Cas is still talking to Samandriel out on the front stoop.

She wonders, briefly, about how Cas feels seeing an angel. People seem to forget that she has read the Carver Edlund series. Granted, she skimmed a lot of it because there was a lot of information that felt really intrusive to read. She didn't feel right reading about Dean and Sam's shitty childhood or other private information without their explicit consent. And she really did not want to read their sex scenes. But she did read about the things they did. The monsters they fought. The apocalypse. Cas was a big part of that. He was this all powerful angel. She wonders how he feels being cut off from that now that he's human. She wonders if he ever regrets his choice to Fall. Does he miss it? Does he miss his brothers and sisters? Does he miss the fighting? Or is he content where he is? Living beside the danger instead of directly in it.

...It's possible she's projecting.

Thea picks at her cuticles and stands in the silence of the kitchen, still waiting for the kettle. Inexplicably, she thinks about the first night she spent in this house.

She dragged herself and all her broken pieces here, feeling lost without her brother and shaken up because of everything that had happened, and Laurel just let her in. No questions asked. ''The guest room is yours for as long as you need it,'' she'd said with a smile. ''I know it's not much but - ''

''I don't need much,'' Thea cut in. ''I just - I guess I didn't want to be alone.''

Laurel laughed then. It lit up her eyes. ''Then I have some good news for you, Speedy.'' She sat down next to Thea on the end of the bed and took her hand. ''As long as you're here, you will never be alone. I can promise you that.''

It was a promise she kept until her dying day. Beyond, actually. Nobody here is ever alone.

Dean and Laurel don't understand how much it means to people that they leave the porch light on every night for anyone who may need a soft place to land. They just see it as part of their life. The right thing to do. This home - and more specifically the people in it - is like a beacon in the night for vigilantes and hunters alike. Whether you're six degrees of Winchester or six degrees of Superhero, lost along the way or just passing through, this is where you stop. No matter what you've faced, you can always come home.

This place did not stop being a beacon for lost souls when Laurel died. They still came and went. They were given shelter, a hot meal, and a place to stay because Dean is still Dean, even without Laurel. But it was different. There's no getting around that. He was quieter. More withdrawn. Tired all the time. His friends and family all started ''passing through town'' a lot for people who usually operated in the Midwest. Whenever it was Jody or Nyssa or Garth, he would be kicked out of his own kitchen and told to go take a nap or sit down. He left the porch light on every night, but it quickly became clear that he wasn't just leaving it on so that extended family could find their way home. It was so Laurel could. Things here were strange without Laurel. Off balance. Colder.

Things are even stranger now.

The porch light has been off every night for a week.

What Samandriel said was that Laurel is mostly unchanged. That's the thing. ''She has some cracks,'' he said. ''That's to be expected. She does have her soul. It's right where it should be. Mostly unchanged. It should be fine.'' He was very kind as he said this. He was clearly trying to be reassuring. But the exact word he used was mostly.

Thea thinks of the Laurel who promised her she would never be alone here, soft and sweet with this unbroken righteousness, a fierce determination, and all this intense bravery. Then she thinks of this new Laurel, the one who crawled out of her grave, can't sleep through the night without brutal nightmares, and still can't take showers without panicking. She wonders if this Laurel, weary and fragile and cut off from her warmth, would make that same promise.

Laurel was dead. She was in the ground for seven months. Thea was barely dead at all and her resurrection still massively fucked her up. Sara was dead for a year and she came back soulless, feral, and with a major hate on for anyone who even vaguely resembled Thea. Laurel may not have had her soul warped by the Lazarus Pit but something is wrong with her. Thea knows this. She can feel it. She can tell just by looking at her. This is not Laurel. Not the one they lost anyway.

Maybe this is just her being sentimental. Maybe she's just childishly clinging to the life they had before, the Sunday mornings, the porch light left on, but why is that wrong? Why can't anyone else see what she sees? Why are they all so quick to accept that there is no going back?

Behind her, the kettle starts screeching. She turns quickly, turning the heat off and pouring the water into the mug. She lets the tea step for a few minutes and then picks up the mug and turns to the door just as it swings open. She stops suddenly, narrowly avoiding sloshing hot tea all over her shirt.

''Thea.'' Laurel looks surprised to see her. ''I - I thought you went to go pick up Mary.''

''Nope.'' Thea puts the mug down on the counter and snatches a paper towel off the roll to clean up the small splash of tea on the floor. ''Sam went to get her.'' She looks up, inspecting Laurel briefly. She looks a little clammy and she's shaking in that specific way she does after a bad panic attack but she looks otherwise physically okay. It's her eyes that set off Thea's internal alarm bells. Her eyes don't look right. Thea stands up straight, moving over to toss the paper towel. ''I made you tea,'' she says, nodding to the mug on the counter. ''It's lavender chamomile.''

''Oh.'' Laurel smiles faintly but doesn't look all that interested in tea. ''Thank you. That was sweet of you.'' She smiles once more but it doesn't reach her eyes. ''Um, I'm actually just going to get some air right now. I'll - I'll be back in a few minutes.'' Unexpectedly, rather than turn and exit the kitchen to go outside, she veers left and ducks into the garage.

Thea stares after her, eyebrows raised. Fresh air. In the garage? She frowns, tilting her head to the side in bewilderment, and then she remembers something. The look in Laurel's eyes. She doesn't have a name for it, but she knows what it means. It's not quite hunger, not quite thirst, and not quite desperate, but it's close. She waits a minute, desperately hoping Dean will burst into the kitchen so he can deal with this because she is so not qualified. He never comes. She picks up the steaming mug of tea and holds it in her hands, weighing her options here.

Human caused.

That was another thing Samandriel said.

''Some of the damage is from the spell,'' he told them, ''but most of the cracks are older. Human caused, most likely. Magic leaves a stain, but human suffering causes the deepest wounds.'' Quite frankly, she would want a drink after hearing that too. Except she's not an alcoholic. Suddenly, and perhaps unfairly, she's furious. Two years. Two years sober and she's going to throw it all away less than a week after coming home? All because some angel dude reminded her of her suffering? When her four year old is about to come home?

She narrows her eyes and follows after her, pushing open the door to the chilly garage. Sure enough, there's Laurel. She's rummaging around in the boxes of holiday decorations, moving from Halloween to Christmas to the Fourth of July. The frustration drains out of Thea as quickly as it swept over her. She shuts the door behind her but doesn't move from her spot on the steps, clutching the tea she made for Laurel. ''It's not there.''

Laurel stops, back going ramrod straight but she doesn't turn around. After a second, her shoulders slump and she tilts her head back to the look up at the ceiling.

Thea takes a sip of the tea. It still tastes like floral dirt. ''He found it a few weeks back and got rid of it.''

''Oh,'' says Laurel, very quietly. She looks down into the box marked 'Xmas Lights' and grips the sides so tightly the cardboard bends in her grasp. She does turn around after a few seconds of breathing deeply, eyes finding Thea. ''I wasn't going to drink it.''

Thea nods, even though she knows that's a lie. ''Okay.'' She considers taking another sip of the tea in an attempt to look casual but she really doesn't like chamomile tea. ''Why did you have it?''

The answer to that comes quickly, unflinchingly honest and blunt. ''Because I'm an alcoholic.''

Can't argue with that. ''Yes,'' she agrees. ''You are.''

Laurel doesn't move away from the box. ''It was like a safety net,'' she admits. ''I never opened the bottle. I didn't even look at it after I put it in here. But I knew it was here if I...'' She pauses. ''If I needed it.''

''And you need it now?''

''Yes.'' A breath. ''I don't know.'' She closes her eyes briefly and pushes a hand through her hair. ''He threw it away?''

''Yep.'' Thea settles herself down on the steps like the cold concrete is the most comfortable spot in the world. ''He poured it down the drain.'' She ignores Laurel's wince and holds out the mug. ''You should drink your tea. It's supposed to be calming.''

Laurel doesn't look like she wants to move away from the box just in case her bottle of wine magically reappears. Thea's not sure if she should push her or not. She's not sure what to do here at all. Dean would know what to do. He's an alcoholic. He's been here before. Eventually, Laurel does move away from the box. She shuffles over to Thea, sits down heavily on the steps next to her, and accepts the tea.

Thea lets out a breath of relief. It's a bigger victory than it appears. ''How long did you have it?'' She asks after a minute.

Laurel sips at her tea. ''Since we brought Sara back from Nanda Parbat.''

Thea bites back a grimace. ''Yeah,'' she murmurs. ''That would do it.'' She looks at Laurel out of the corner of her eye. They're close enough that their shoulders and knees are touching. She pretends not to notice the way her hands are shaking. She tries not to stare too much. It's hard not to. A week isn't long enough to drain away the awe. She didn't think she would ever see her again and yet here she is. How do you not stare? Recurring nightmare or not, how do you not stare?

Laurel glances over at her, catching her eye briefly. Thea hurriedly looks away, warmth flooding to her cheeks, mildly embarrassed at being caught. Laurel doesn't say anything about the staring but she does offer her a quiet, ''I'm sorry.''

This time, when Thea looks at her, it's out of disbelief. ''For what?''

''I scared you.''

Thea stares at her, mouth open soundlessly. The first thought that pops into her head is the nightmare. The dinner party. The corpse at the head of the table. The bloody arrow. Why aren't you laughing, Thea? Does she know? How could she -

''Usually I can control the cravings,'' Laurel goes on, and Thea lets out a breath, closing her eyes. ''I call my sponsor or I talk to Dean or I just breathe through it.'' She takes another gulp of tea. ''I guess I haven't really been myself lately. And I don't have a sponsor anymore.''

''You don't have to apologize,'' Thea says. ''We all have our triggers. Something traumatic happened to you. You have a right to respond to that. And you didn't drink. Maybe you thought about it but you didn't.'' The 'yet' is left unsaid, hanging heavily in the space between them.

Laurel drinks her tea. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look all that comforted. But she does relax just a little bit.

They lapse into a semi comfortable silence. Thea spends a few minutes trying to come up with something they can talk about that isn't idle chit chat about the weather like they're just strangers on a train. All she manages to come up with is, ''Oliver has a twitter now.''

Laurel swings her attention back to Thea, wrinkling her nose in bemusement. ''What?''

''I made Ollie get a twitter over the summer.''

''Why?''

''Because he inherited a dumpster fire,'' Thea states bluntly. ''City Hall is a wreck, and Oliver has no idea what he's doing. Instead of putting out the fire, he just fanned the flames. Especially in the first couple of months. His approval rating was consistently in the gutter. But he's been a well known public figure for years, he's young, and I know he has his fans so I thought it would be a good idea to cultivate a social media presence and connect with the younger constituents. I wanted him to look relatable to millennials. I know it sounds ridiculous - ''

''No, it doesn't,'' Laurel cuts in, knocking her knee against Thea's. ''It actually sounds brilliant.'' She beams at her over the rim of her mug. ''Did it work?''

''His approval rating went up among the younger crowd,'' Thea confirms. ''Buzzfeed even did one of those clickbaity lists about his best tweets. Gen Xers and Baby Boomers still think he's a buffoon though.''

''Well, he is a buffoon, honey.''

''Yes, but - ''

''You have to remember that those people watched him grow up through scandalous tabloid covers and your family's continued flaunting of their wealth.''

''His past doesn't mean he's incompetent in the present.''

''I agree but humans are flawed and stubborn,'' Laurel shrugs. ''Whether they acknowledge that he's changed or not, that's still who he is to them. It's going to take a lot to rehabilitate his image in their eyes. Especially among blue-collar workers who still look at him and see the entitled, spoiled brat who - oh, I don't know - crashed his brand new Porsche into a utility pole during an illegal street race, knocked out power in a residential area in the Glades full of factory workers, and was shown laughing about it on the local news. And that's just one example of pre island Oliver publicly laughing at the misfortune of others.''

''He wasn't laughing at - ''

''I know,'' Laurel says, patting Thea's knee. ''But they don't.''

Thea nods slowly. Unfortunately, she can't say that any of that is wrong. It is going to take an awful lot to rehabilitate Oliver's image. But she knew that already. She just wanted to get Laurel's mind off alcohol and onto something else. ''I made my staff do some cold calling,'' she reveals. ''Younger people seem to have a generally favorable opinion of him and people of all generations have sympathy for what he went through with the whole being presumed dead thing but the older generation - ''

''Thinks he's a buffoon,'' Laurel finishes, the corners of her lips ticking up into a smirk.

''The buffooniest.''

''Did you seriously have your staff doing cold calls about Oliver's popularity?'' Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''You know he's not the president, right?''

''I take my job seriously,'' Thea says with a cheeky grin. ''Plus, what's best for Green Arrow and associates is to keep him in office for as long as possible so he needs to improve his likability by the next election year.''

Laurel makes a small thoughtful noise but doesn't say a word. She looks contemplative, staring down into her tea with a frown. ''You want my advice?'' She asks after an extended silence.

Thea perks up. ''Yes please.''

''The people of this city didn't vote him in. They got stuck with him,'' Laurel says, which is blunt but not technically incorrect. ''He was the only one left standing. There was a lengthy campaign full of debates, rallies, buttons, posters, promises, a seemingly endless amount of speeches, and then in the end, the people didn't even get a say. If he wants them on his side, what he needs to do is give them one.''

''That's good advice. Hey,'' Thea latches onto Laurel's arm excitedly. ''You wanna run for Mayor?''

Laurel snorts. ''Not in this lifetime.'' Her smile softens. Her shaking has dulled down to a barely noticeable vibrating now. ''Thank you.''

''For what?''

''Distracting me.''

Thea makes a big show of digging her phone out of her pocket and keeping her eyes on the screen. ''I don't know what you're talking about. I just needed to vent.'' She holds out her phone.

Laurel trades her tea for the phone, squinting down at the screen. ''What am I looking at?''

''The innermost musings of Oliver Queen.''

A disbelieving grins starts on Laurel's lips as she scrolls through the feed. ''There's no good way to get kicked in the face.''

''As you can see,'' Thea says, ''he's very deep.''

''Successfully embarrassed my sister in front of 450 people this afternoon. Still got it.''

Thea nods, taking another sip of the gross tea. It's not as bad when it's lukewarm. Still not great. ''That's every day for me.''

''John Diggle might be a wizard.'' Laurel frowns at that one, looking up with a questioning arch of an eyebrow.

All Thea can do is shrug helplessly. ''Don't ask me. I don't know what those two get up to when they're alone.''

''I always assumed it was salmon ladder races and a lot of arm wrestling.''

''Probably a fair assumption.''

''Grabbing a workout at lunch,'' Laurel reads. ''Solo in the gym so I took my shoes off and fashioned my shit into a crop top because I'm the boss of me.'' She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but she's laughing fondly as she does it. ''Now there's the Ollie I know.''

''You haven't even gotten to the most Oliver tweet ever,'' Thea laughs.

''Which one is that?''

''Keep scrolling. You'll know it when you see it.'' Laurel keeps her eyes on the small, illuminated screen, thumb scrolling through the tweets. When she stops abruptly and there's a brief second of silence before she dissolves into laughter, Thea knows she's found it. ''99% of the time I offend someone it is completely by accident and I am totally unaware they're upset.'' She barely gets through reading the tweet out loud before she's giggling again. ''That's it,'' she wheezes. ''That's Oliver in a nutshell. You should print that one out and frame it.''

''Oh, I make fun of him for that one all the time. He tweeted that one in the middle of the night and when I was browsing twitter the next morning, I spilled coffee all over my white blouse.''

''I hope you sent him the dry cleaning bill.''

''It seemed only fair.'' She watches Laurel search through Oliver's twitter, chuckling quietly. She doesn't look as desperate to find her secret stash of wine as she did before. Thea is going to mark that down as a tentative triumph. She still thinks Laurel should talk to someone who can help her properly but it's still a victory. ''I haven't even told you about the bike lanes,'' she says suddenly. ''I'm all for saving the environment and going green but the plan that was submitted was poorly thought out. Oliver greenlit the project anyway during the third week of his term and now the downtown core is even more congested than it was before and we're getting daily complaints from frustrated motorists.'' She laughs a little at the absurdity of her life but gets no response. She looks back at Laurel and sees her looking down at the phone in her hands with a more melancholic smile on her face. All the laughter has dried up. Thea pinches her lips together worriedly and leans in to see what Laurel is looking at.

Oh. Right. Those tweets. She remembers those tweets.

Got a paper cut today, the first of four tweets reads. My friend's daughter refused to leave my office until she put a band aid on it.

Then she told me ''don't be sad, it won't hurt forever.'' She is her mother's daughter.

She also advised me to listen to the Spice Girls so she's definitely her mother's daughter. Laurel would be proud.

The thread ends with one last tweet. It's a picture of Oliver's whimsically bandaged finger with the caption: Queen Elsa will be joining me for my afternoon meetings. I hope everyone treats her with the respect she deserves.

Thea remembers that day. It wasn't that long ago, the beginning of October if she remembers correctly. Mary's preschool was unexpectedly closed for the day and Dean hadn't been able to get away from work so Thea had brought her into the office and set her up in the corner with a snack, a juice box, and a coloring book, although she was far more interested in helping to ''file'' things. She was her shadow that day. Thea walked into Oliver's office and he got halfway through his story about his meeting with someone from something important sounding before he even noticed Mary standing there quietly, holding her coloring book in a mirror image of the way Thea was holding a stack of files. Startled him so much to see a tiny Laurel standing in his office that he wound up giving himself a paper cut. Even as shy as she is and as much as she distrusts him, Mary had not been able to resist being the world's smallest mother hen when she saw that he was hurt. She does that.

''He's not wrong,'' Thea pipes up. ''She is her mother's daughter.''

Laurel looks up from the phone, offering Thea a somewhat stilted smile. ''I like twitter Ollie,'' is all she says, handing the phone over.

''Now I just have to work on getting him to lighten up in real life,'' Thea jokes.

''If anyone can, it's you.''

She's not entirely convinced of that, but it's a nice thought. She looks at Laurel, calmly sipping at her tea. She looks at Dean's beast of a car. The old thing almost looks like it's looking at them. There's a question burning in her throat. It seems like a rude question to ask and it's not the best time to ask it but it slips out before she can squash it down. ''Was it painful?''

Surprisingly, Laurel doesn't even flinch. ''What? Getting angelically fisted?''

The response shocks a hearty laugh out of her. ''Wow, do I ever wish you had phrased that differently.''

''Sorry,'' Laurel says, but she's snickering. ''It...'' She bites her lip, sobering slightly. ''It hurt,'' she admits. ''Worse than the arrow. Not as bad as childbirth.''

Thea's not sure what part of that answer is the most disturbing. ''That sucks.''

''It does suck.''

''Are you feeling better now?''

''I'm...'' Laurel pauses. She fixes a smile on her face. It only bothers Thea a little that she can't tell if it's real or fake. ''I'm getting there.''

''I'm glad.''

''I think I'm going to stay out here for a few minutes,'' she adds. ''You don't have to stick around if you don't - ''

''No, no, I'm okay. I'm good here.''

Laurel looks unconvinced. ''Are you sure?''

''Why wouldn't I be?''

''I don't know.'' Laurel shrugs. ''Just - You know. You've been distant since I got back.''

''I...'' Thea squashes down a wince of guilt. She hasn't exactly been subtle about her avoidance but she'd hoped Laurel was too busy to notice. She thought Mary or having Sara around would take the edge off. She should have known it wouldn't. It's Laurel. Of course she noticed. ''I know. I'm sorry about that.''

''You don't have to be sorry.''

''No, I do. I've been avoiding you. I don't mean to be - I don't want to make you think I'm unhappy you're back.''

''I don't think that,'' Laurel assures her, patient as ever.

''I am glad you're back,'' says Thea, and she is. It's hard to explain everything she's feeling when she doesn't even understand it herself but the one thing she knows for sure is that she's grateful. The return may be shrouded in mystery and worry but Thea is happy to have Laurel here with them. With her. It's not a perfect miracle, it's not a miracle at all, but she would rather have her here. Mystery or not. ''It's just that this is... This is...'' She doesn't have an end to this sentence. She doesn't know what this is at all.

''Yeah.'' Laurel's lips pull back into a smile. She holds her mug of tea in one hand and rakes her other through her thick, slightly tousled hair, sweeping it off to one side. She's blonde again. Her hair was darker a week ago, when she came back, streaked with brunette. It wasn't just the hair either. When Laurel went into the ground, she had a face full of makeup and a head of blonde hair. The makeup was slathered on thick, caked on until Laurel looked more like a wax figurine. Even her nails were done in a perfect French manicure. This, Thea remembers, was especially strange because Laurel hadn't done her nails like that since 2005.

Dinah had been the one to specify how Laurel should look. Thea picked out the dress and the shoes. She brought the clothes to the funeral home and had the world's most irrational and embarrassing breakdown about whether or not she should have brought nicer underwear for Laurel to wear with her blue dress. She cried so hard that the funeral director had to sit her down with a glass of water and call Oliver to come drive her home. But Dinah had gone full stage mom with the makeup. It had seemed like such an unnecessary waste at the time. It wasn't an open casket funeral. There hadn't been a formal viewing. Just a few quiet moments for close family before the casket was transported to the cemetery for the graveside service. The only people who saw what she looked like in that casket were her parents, her husband, and Thea.

Thea remembers thinking it was tacky and shallow for Dinah to focus so much on appearances. But it wasn't about that. It wasn't about making Laurel look like a Barbie doll. It was about making her look alive. Dinah had just wanted to look at her daughter one last time and see her daughter. It hadn't worked. All the makeup in the world can't make a corpse look like anything but a corpse.

When Laurel came back, however, none of that had been present. The manicure had been broken and ripped away, the roots of her hair were dark, and there was no makeup left on her face. Only fresh flowing blood; an irrefutable sign that she was alive again. Her wounds are healing now and she dyed her hair blonde again the other day - with some help from Sara - in an effort to feel more like herself but she hasn't worn anything but moisturizer on her face since.

It's a bizarre thing to notice and, in fact, Thea hadn't really noticed until now, but there's something comforting about it. She doesn't look like a wax figurine anymore. She doesn't look the way she did in the morgue or the casket or the nightmare. She looks tired, maybe not as glowing as she did back in April, and slightly pale from lack of sunlight, but she looks real. She looks alive. Whatever else is happening, she's alive.

That part hasn't quite sunk in for Thea yet.

''It's okay to be cautious,'' Laurel says, breaking the silence. ''I want you to know that. It's okay to be conflicted. There's no right way to feel about this.''

Thea clasps her nervous hands together with a barely noticeable smile. That's certainly a Laurel thing to say. ''When you were gone,'' she starts, but doesn't know how to finish. She's not sure how to properly sum up the misery of being here without her. She can't even begin. ''It got really bad when you were gone,'' is all she manages to choke out.

''I'm sorry,'' Laurel whispers. ''I'm sorry you were in pain. I never wanted that for you.''

''It's not your fault,'' Thea says firmly. ''You were the victim, not the perpetrator.''

Laurel looks down into her tea. She looks like she wants to say something but she's not sure how to say it. ''Dean says you were amazing with Mary,'' she settles on.

Thea chuckles, rueful. ''I didn't do much. It was nothing.''

''It wasn't nothing,'' Laurel insists. ''You're twenty-one years old. You should be out living your life. You shouldn't have to give up all your free time to help raise a child who isn't yours but that's exactly what you did.'' She reaches out to take Thea's hand. ''What you did for Mary and for Dean was incredible,'' she says earnestly. ''I wanted to thank you for that. For taking care of them when I couldn't. I'm so proud of you, Thea. You have no idea.''

Thea tries to swallow down the rock in her throat, blinking furiously. ''It was the least I could do,'' she says with a shaky smile. ''But it's - it's all okay now. You're back. You're home.''

''That doesn't fix everything.''

...No. It certainly doesn't. ''Doesn't it?''

''No.'' The strange little smile on Laurel's lips is lined with sadness. ''We may want it to, but it doesn't. It can't. Me being here - It doesn't mean the pain didn't happen. It happened. You were hurt. You hurt. It was a part of you. You made room for it. It was a big part of your life. I think it probably still is. There's just no box to put it in anymore.''

Uncomfortable with the direction this question is going in, Thea rises to her feet and moves away from Laurel, over to the hood of the car. She thinks of everything she's done over the past few years to keep from breaking down. The cemetery visits. Taking care of the graves of loved ones, bringing them flowers and stories, fussing over them like they were really there. Laurel is right about those boxes. Thea has a lot of them. She's done everything in her power to keep them neat and tidy, meticulously organized in the back of her mind, labeled clearly so she knows to avoid them - this is my grief for my parents, this is my grief for Tommy, this is my grief for Laurel - and that's where she puts her sadness on the days she wakes up and all she can feel is the ache of loss.

One would think she would be better at handling miraculous returns given what happened to Oliver but that's exactly the problem. She spun out of control when he came home. She got so lost, torn in two, split down the middle by the confusing, torturous mix of grief and elation. The only reason she made it out was because of Laurel. Technically, it was Laurel and Ollie who pulled her out of that spin, but Laurel was her much needed steady hand. She got her the job at CNRI. She let her back into her life and she put her on the path here. She can't be her steady hand this time. Thea is going to have to pull herself out of this spin. She just doesn't know how she's going to do that yet.

Loss is an insidious kind of cruelty. It doesn't just happen the exact moment it happens. It creeps into your life and takes a wrecking ball to past, present, and future. It poisons you. It poisons your memories.

Back when Oliver first came home, there was one night. One night where the remains of the Queen family pretended to be like everyone else. It was just Oliver, Thea, and their mother, watching Netflix in between dramas and disasters. She remembers every second of that night, from the pizza they ordered to the movie they watched to her mother's smile and Oliver's laugh. She keeps that memory close to her heart. Only now when she thinks of that night, there's a shadow in the corner of the room, and it's telling her that Mom will be dead in a year.

That same thing can be said about her memories of Dad, of Tommy, even of Oliver and now, of Laurel.

In the summer of 2012, she ran into Laurel and Dean outside of a restaurant downtown. Laurel was very pregnant and very tired but she looked genuinely happy. It was the first time ever that Thea met Dean. Laurel had introduced them with a bit of hesitance, waiting for Thea's approval, and Thea hadn't wanted to give it because she was stubborn and sad and maybe a little resentful of the fact that Laurel had moved on, but it was impossible to see the look in her eyes and act like a selfish brat. So when Dean offered her his hand, Thea took it, and when he smiled at her, she smiled back. Laurel looked relieved, happy, healthy, and safe in the life she was living with her husband and their unborn baby.

In four years time, she was going to die.

On April 1st, 2016, Mary learned all about April Fools' Day and wanted to prank her parents so Thea got her one of those plastic cups of pop up worms. Couldn't have been more obvious what it was but both of her parents still dutifully offered her theatrical responses to the gag. Laurel jumped and yelped in mock surprise when Mary handed it to her, sending the little girl into fits of giggles. ''You got me, honeybee,'' she'd said, tilting Mary's chin up and leaning down to kiss her cheek. She was happy that day. She was smiling and laughing and relaxed and about to die in less than a week.

On January 21st, 2006, Ollie snuck Thea out of school early for her birthday and took her out for pizza and ice cream. Afterwards, they went to the pier and met up with Laurel. She had just gotten off work so she brought them some hot chocolate from the bakery she was working at. She greeted Thea with a kiss on the cheek, tilting her chin up the way she would one day do with her own daughter. ''Happy birthday, Speedy,'' she murmured. Her breath was warm against Thea's cheek in the winter air and her hair was whipping around in the cold wind. She smelled like sugar cookies and chocolate and something sweet and fruity. She had added a cinnamon stick and fresh whipped cream to Thea's hot chocolate.

In ten years and about two and a half months, she would be dead.

Gone. Just like that. Stolen away in one brutal minute just like all the others. Every single memory of Laurel is tainted with the knowledge of her death. She wants Laurel's return to fix that. She wants to look back on that day in the morgue and have the dark memory lit up by the knowledge that in seven months Laurel will be home again. She wants to remember the time she pulled that sheet back and have her horror and her grief cured. She wants the hurt to mean less than it does. But it doesn't work that way. Laurel's right. The pain happened. She lived it. The grief is still there, even if the loss isn't.

Thea turns around to face Laurel and offers her an unsteady grimace masquerading as a smile. ''Speaking from personal experience?''

Laurel puts the mug down on the steps, but doesn't stand up. ''When I brought Sara back, I thought everything would magically get better,'' she says. ''It didn't. Nothing takes that night away. I watched her hit the pavement. I held her in my arms. I carried her body. I watched Dean and Oliver dig her grave and put her in the ground. I grieved her for a year. Her life can't take away the pain of her death. The loss is still there. It's just more complicated now. I'm guessing you understand what I'm talking about.''

Thea is not sure how to look at Laurel without bursting into tears. How to open her mouth and speak without crumpling into sobs. She has spent the past seven months walking a tightrope. Trying to keep control. To keep her tears to herself. She cried in her bedroom with the door locked, in her car, in the bathroom at work, at the graveyard, but never in front of people. Not since the funeral. She kept that to herself.

Someone had to keep their head above water. Someone had to take care of things. Someone had to care for the dead and look after Mary and Dean and make sure Oliver didn't give up. Someone had to be brave. Someone had to be Laurel. Ten minutes with the actual Laurel and suddenly Thea's weak in the knees with seven months of pain weighing her down like a boulder on her back.

''I tried really, really hard,'' she gets out. ''Everyone else - They all just unraveled without you. I tried not to do that. I tried to be strong. I tried to be you.''

''Thea, you don't have to be me to be strong. You've always been strong.''

Thea slumps back against the Impala with a small laugh, feeling suddenly and inexplicably exhausted. ''Maybe,'' she says, ''but we needed you, Laurel. We all needed you. So I tried.'' She bites down on her bottom lip, still trying to keep the tears from spilling over. ''Turns out nobody can be you but you.''

Laurel looks torn between flattered and worried, offering up a shaky smile.

Thea picks at her cuticles again, pushing at the skin with her nails until they're red and raw. She can barely feel it. She so badly does not want to break down in front of Laurel. It's the last thing she needs right now but it's so exhausting to have to keep swallowing it down. ''I missed you,'' she finally says, because she's just too damn tired to keep it in anymore. ''I missed you every day.'' She still misses her and she's right there in front of her. She's not sure how to stop.

She can't look at Laurel right now. She can't look at her wide eyes or her lips pinched in concern. She looks down at her fingers. She's accidentally picked too much at her left thumb. There's blood blooming from the wound now, bubbling up and smearing on her nail. She's going to need to swipe one of Mary's beloved Doc McStuffins band aids.

''Did you know that there's no sleep in the afterlife?''

Thea snaps her head up, staring at Laurel incredulously. ''What?''

''There's no sleep in the afterlife,'' Laurel says again, unnervingly casual. ''I guess it makes sense. Sleep is kind of an alive human concept so it's not needed when you're not alive, but it was hard to get used to at first. There are days and nights there - or at least there was in my afterlife - but I never needed to sleep. I'd use the nights to wander around my memories.''

''You could do that?''

She nods. ''Every night I'd open the door and step into a memory. I'd live the good parts all over again.''

Thea has no idea where she's going with this. ''That... That sounds nice.''

''You were a fixture in them,'' Laurel says, tilting her head to the side. She says it like it's not a big deal. She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Thea pushes off the car, wiping the blood on her black jeans. ''I was?''

''Mmmhmm.'' Laurel is still smiling. ''Do you remember the day you first met Mary? When you came over to drop off the gifts your mom sent?''

''Um, I remember accidentally decapitating a teddy bear,'' Thea says. That part is definitely hard to forget. But she remembers everything else about that day too. It was the first time she had felt like part of a normal, functional family in years and the family hadn't even been hers.

''That was one of the first memories I revisited,'' Laurel tells her. ''You're in some of my best memories. She steps over to her, bringing both hands up to cup Thea's cheeks gently. ''You, Speedy,'' she says softly, ''are the best thing I got out of my relationship with your brother. You were my favourite part of those years. I loved watching you grow up. It was amazing to watch you become the brilliant, determined, kick ass, brave woman you are today and I can't wait to see what you do next.'' She moves her hands down to Thea's shoulders, squeezing gently. ''I don't know how we do this,'' she confesses quietly, smile slipping. ''I don't know how we go through these things. How we heal. But... Day by day,'' she says that part strongly, with conviction. ''We're going to take it day by day. All of us. Then, one day, before you know it, we'll be through. We'll be on the other side of this and we'll be together. How does that sound?''

Thea can't help the laugh that escapes. It's quiet and choked sounding, strangled by the sob in her throat, but it's genuine and it's awed. ''Sounds like something Laurel would say.''

Laurel doesn't look like she was expecting that answer. ''I am Laurel.''

Thea lets out another gulping noise that could either be a laugh or a cry. It doesn't matter which. ''You are,'' she says. ''Aren't you?''

Laurel still looks confused - and a little worried - by Thea's strong emotional reaction but she wraps her up in a hug anyway. It's the first time she's hugged her since she's been back. Not counting the awkward mostly one sided hug Thea forced on her the night she showed up on the doorstep when everything was blurry and happening so fast. It's been such a long time. Thea has not forgotten what it feels like to be hugged by Laurel. It's just as comforting as she remembers. Her eyes widen momentarily and then the tears just spill over and they keep coming. She hugs Laurel back, tentatively at first and then she just melts. She closes her eyes and buries her face in Laurel's hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender shampoo. A hug is not a cure all but damn if it doesn't feel good.

''I love you,'' Laurel whispers into her ear. ''Do you know that?''

Thea sniffles, choking on a laugh. ''Is it because I'm awesome? 'Cause I've been told I'm incredibly awesome.''

''You are incredibly awesome,'' Laurel agrees with a chuckle.

''I love you too,'' Thea says, pulling away from the embrace reluctantly. ''Don't go dying on me again, okay?''

Laurel brushes a tear off Thea's cheek with her thumb. ''I promise.''

.

.

.

November, 2012

There are a lot of things that, no matter what, will never change. One of these things is that Moira Queen famously has a habit of overdoing it when it comes to the act of gift giving. This is an undeniable truth that Thea has known since she was little. One time, a second cousin twice removed graduated from Julliard and Mom bought her a car. She had never met this cousin. Dad had been so flabbergasted that he had to sit down. He just kept muttering to himself, ''A car. A car?''

So it's really no surprise when Thea walks into the sitting room one morning and finds Oliver standing in the middle of what can only be described as baby boutique hell. ''Oh,'' she yawns, looking up at him. ''So you told Mom that Laurel had her baby, huh?''

Oliver, who had been standing there blinking and gaping uselessly, deflates and facepalms. ''Mom,'' he groans. ''Oh my god, no.'' It's the most Ollie he's sounded since he's been back.

His bodyguard, Mr. Diggle, standing quietly over by the door, looks visibly amused by his charge's consternation.

Thea has no chance to dwell on this for long, however, because that's the moment her mother chooses to pop up. Literally she pops up like a whack-a-mole from behind a very expensive looking crib. Thea startles, yelping in shock and staggering back into her brother's chest, clapping both hands over her mouth.

Mom outright ignores this. ''What do you mean no?'' She demands, narrowing her eyes at Oliver. ''We have to send a gift.''

''She's my ex girlfriend.''

''Hmm, yes.'' Mom props both hands up on her hips and sends him one of those cold, disapproving looks of hers. ''And whose fault is that?''

''Whoa,'' Thea murmurs under her breath. ''Savage.'' She has to wipe the smirk off her lips when she sees the glower Oliver's sending her. ''Sorry.'' She's not really sorry. She bounces past the both of them, ignoring their weird standoff in favor of flopping down into the arms of a giant teddy bear sitting on the ground. It is extremely comfortable. Also, there is a plethora of gift baskets on the table in front of them and one of them appears to have chocolate covered pretzels in them so she knows what she's having for breakfast this morning.

''She's a family friend, Oliver,'' Mom's saying. She sounds super exasperated by what she must perceive to be her oldest's insufferable rudeness. ''This is just what's done. It would be rude not to send a gift.''

Ah, yes. Societal norms. She is, on occasion, very concerned with those. Other times not so much. Like when she married her dead husband's best friend. Society sure didn't expect her to do that. It's like sometimes she's Emily Gilmore and then sometimes she's Game of Thrones meets Real Housewives.

''Besides,'' Mom tacks on, picking up some weird looking contraption to inspect it with a judgmental frown. It takes Thea an embarrassingly long moment to realize it's a breast pump. ''We owe her,'' she reminds him, oblivious to the way he's eyeing the machine in her hands with juvenile discomfort. ''She got you off.''

There is a length pause in which Thea and Oliver both scrunch their noses up in a mixture of horror, disgust, and confusion. Thea freezes with a pretzel halfway to her mouth, Oliver looks like he's having an aneurysm, and even Mr. Diggle is silently side eyeing that one.

To her credit, she does realize her mistake quick. ''Of the charges,'' she hurries to explain. ''When her father arrested you. Because she was your lawyer.'' Then she sighs in disappointment. ''Really, you two. How did you turn out to be so filthy?''

''I watched you fold a napkin into a dick out of boredom during the company's Christmas party one year,'' Thea mumbles, ''but sure, okay, we're the filthy ones.''

''Fine,'' Oliver cuts in before Mom has a chance to respond to that. ''You can send her a gift - ''

''I don't recall asking for your permission.''

'' - But do you have to send all of this? This is an insane amount of stuff.''

''Babies need a lot of things.''

''Do babies really need one of those?'' He asks, raising his eyebrows and pointing a finger at the bear Thea's currently lounging against.

''Admittedly,'' Mom says, ''that might have been an impulse purchase. I thought it was whimsical.''

''I love it,'' Thea declares firmly, looking up from browsing Instagram. ''I've already named him.'' Mom and Oliver both look at her, identical look of 'wtf' written on their faces. ''Mr. Fluffington,'' she announces. They're both still staring at her. She takes another pretzel out of the bag and pops it into her mouth. ''He's British.''

For some reason, this seems to stun them into silence because neither Mom nor Oliver says a word for a long time. They just kind of stare at her. Ollie is the one to eventually break the silence. ''Do you realize that you've named every stuffed animal you've ever had Mr. Fluffington?''

''Um, false?'' She frowns in offense. ''There have been several Mrs. Fluffingtons. Even a handful of Miss. Fluffingtons because the decision not to get married is just as valid as the decision to get married and honestly, fuck societal pressure. Maybe you just don't remember the women, which is,'' she points an accusing finger at him, ''misogyny.''

''I... I didn't - What?'' Oliver just stands there, blinking and shaking his head, mouth open and closing like a fish.

In the doorway, Mr. Diggle clears his throat quietly and drops his eyes to the ground to cover up the fact that he's clearly trying not to laugh.

Oliver looks over at their mother like he's waiting for her to help him out. Instead, she holds up a box and declares proudly, ''This mobile plays Cyndi Lauper.''

He shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. ''Where's Walter?''

''Working.''

''Does he know how much you've spent?''

Thea shakes her head. ''Wow.''

Very calmly, with a very straight spine, Mom clasps her hands, tilts her head to the side, and looks at Oliver with a look that could fucking ice him on the spot. Thea swears the room actually gets colder. ''You're suggesting my husband should have the final say over what I do?''

''No!'' Oliver shakes his head rapidly, taking a step back. ''No, no, no, that's not what I mean. I don't - That's - I just...'' Poor guy looks like he's about to revert back in a five year old, start crying in apology, and wrap his arms around her waist begging her not to be mad at him for throwing a tantrum. ''Please, Mom, please,'' he tries. ''Just narrow it down a little bit.''

''But - ''

''He does have a point,'' Thea jumps in, finally deciding to throw him a bone. Part of her would love to watch this play out a little longer but poor Ollie is getting more and more flustered with every minute that goes by and she doesn't actually want to torture him. He obviously still has feelings for Laurel. Thea knows that because she has, you know, eyes and stuff. She knows that talking about Laurel's baby is like rubbing salt in the wound for him. ''I'm sure Laurel has most of this stuff,'' she says. ''Like, do you really think she doesn't have a breast pump? Or a crib?''

That does seem to get through to their mother. She looks around the room. ''I suppose I could return some of these things.''

Oliver slumps in relief. ''Thank you.''

''But,'' she says firmly, leaving zero room for discussion. ''I'm sending her the mobile that plays Cyndi Lauper.''

Eventually, after hours of deliberation, it's decided that the Queen family will be sending a generous package to Laurel and her baby consisting of a baby carrier, the mobile that plays a lullaby version of Time After Time, some baby clothes, and a gift basket full of fancy cheeses, nuts, chocolate, and champagne. The gift basket is for Laurel, Mom says. But just Laurel apparently. Because Mom never once mentions Dean. It's always just Laurel and the baby. She doesn't seem to want to acknowledge that there's a husband in the picture. Probably because he gets in the way of her fantasy of Laurel taking Oliver back, giving her grandkids, and being the daughter-in-law of her dreams.

Mom might be more in love with Laurel than Ollie, to be honest. And Ollie's pretty pathetic about it, so that's saying something.

Mr. Fluffington will also be heading to Laurel's place. Because the store wouldn't take him back. Apparently it's store policy that they can't take back stuffed animals because they could be infected with bed bugs.

Thea will admit that she was a little pissed that she had to cancel her plans to help Mom return everything because Oliver ran like his ass was on fire as soon as she could but it was fucking hilarious to watch her get epically offended at the mere suggestion that she, Moira Queen, could have bed bugs. She told the poor sales clerk that she was going to call the Better Business Bureau on them.

Overall, it hasn't been the world's worst day but it's also been just...a lot of Mom. One on one time with Mom. Like, a lot of it. So when Thea hears that her mother is just going to send the gifts over by courier, she jumps at the chance to take it herself. She loves her mother, of course, but they're not exactly the family that spends tons of quality time together. She used to wish they were, sometimes she still does, but there's so much awkwardness between them.

She needs some breathing room.

In addition to that, it is definitely an excuse to steal the bottle of champagne from the gift basket. Hey, listen, she may not know Dean that well but she's heard through the grapevine (the grapevine being Tommy) that he's a recovering alcoholic and he's only been sober since, like, June or something. She figures it's better safe than sorry. ...Plus, champagne is her favourite.

And, okay, she'll admit that offering to drop off the gifts is not just about getting away from her mother. The plan is to drop off the gifts, then Tiffany is going to pick her up outside of Laurel's place, they're going to meet up with some people at this new club that's opening downtown, then after, she'll head back to Laurel's building, call the driver to come pick her up from there, and she'll say that she was there the entire time. This level of subterfuge is not normally necessary but Oliver has been a real killjoy since he got back and now Mom's hopping on that same train and Walter's not helping and ugh. Just ugh.

Fucking stupid, is what it is. It's like they think they can take back the last five years. Well, they can't. Dad's still dead, half the time Ollie acts like he'd rather be back on that damn island, and Mom...

The problem with this plan is that she seriously underestimated the heft of all this crap. It's impossible to carry everything at once. She gets her driver to help her load everything onto the elevator in the lobby but she makes a big mistake when she sends him away. Somehow, when the elevator stops on Laurel's floor, she does manage to get almost everything out before the door shuts. Almost.

She gets the boxes with the mobile and the carrier out and into the hall, she gets the gift bag filled with baby clothes and the gift basket out, but just as she's grabbed the bear by the leg and stepped out of the elevator, there's a problem.

Mr. Fluffington has turned out to be a real asshole. He's such a nuisance to lug around. And now he's gone and gotten his head stuck between the elevator doors. Should've just left the fool in her bedroom with the champagne.

''Oh my god,'' her eyes widen and she lets go of the bear, frantically pushing the button to get the doors to open. They do not. She is left watching in muted horror as the bear's body begins to move as the elevator travels back down to the lobby. ''Oh my god,'' she yelps out again and throws herself at the door, grasping onto the leg.

This is not a situation she - or anyone - is prepared for so she just kind of reacts. By pulling as hard as she can. Which, to be fair, does work. Mr. Fluffington does come free. He just comes free with a truly horrific ripping noise and she falls back hard, tripping over the gift bag and tumbling back against the wall with a shriek.

On the ground, she looks at the now headless bear in her hands. ''Mr. Fluffington,'' she whispers. ''Oh, buddy.'' She glances around her. ''This is not going like I pictured.'' She leans back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. All right, well. She can't give Laurel's baby a headless teddy bear. They'll think it's some kind of weird personal attack like that scene from The Godfather. She pulls the gift bag out from under her feet. It's torn from where she tripped over it and the fancy bow has fallen off, but the clothes inside are fine. Same goes for the boxes. The gift basket has toppled over. Thankfully, the cellophane has kept everything from falling onto the carpet but everything has slid out of place. She groans. ''Aw, cheeses.''

The worst part is the stuffing everywhere. It looks like a teddy bear crime scene. Thea pushes a few strands of hair out of her eyes. ''Yep, this could have gone better.'' Ew, and she's still on this gross carpet. She doesn't want to sound like a rich bitch but this is a thousand dollar coat and this carpet is unnervingly sticky. ''Fuck my life.'' Quickly, she shoves some of the stuffing back into the bear and is just about to heave herself to her feet when the elevator dings, the doors slide open, and -

''Thea?''

She lifts her head, suddenly feeling unusually sheepish. This is not what she would call her best look. Regardless, she goes for aloof. ''Oh, hey, Tommy, what's up?''

Tommy picks his jaw up off the ground just so he can grin at her, eyes lighting up. She can literally see the gears turning in his head as he tries to come up with the best joke. ''You look like you've had a significantly worse day than I have.'' He looks over at his companion like he's waiting for him to join in on the teasing but Dean remains silent. ''Did you kill that bear just to watch him die? I know you hated the Paddington books when you were a kid but this seems like a bit of an extreme reaction, Speedy.'' Still nothing out of Dean. ''Seriously?'' Tommy shifts the brown paper bag full of groceries into his other arm to look at him. ''You've got nothing?''

''I'm thinking,'' is the somewhat defensive reply. All he manages to come up with after a pause is a shake of the head, a sigh, and, ''I am so tired.'' He hands over his own grocery bag to Tommy and steps off the elevator, offering Thea his hand.

She takes it, barely managing to swallow a surprised ''eep'' noise when he just hauls her right to her feet. She grabs the torn gift bag from the ground, plasters on a smile, and says, ''I come bearing gifts!''

He looks at the decapitated teddy bear. ''I can see that.''

''The bear,'' she glances behind them, spotting Mr. Fluffington's head on the floor of the elevator just before the doors close. ''He obviously didn't work out. It's not a personal attack.''

''What?''

''Never mind.''

She frowns at the mangled corpse. ''Do you have a garbage chute?''

Dean actually laughs at that. ''Why don't you help Tommy with the groceries and I'll take care of the bear.''

Oh, thank god.

Thea gladly accepts one of the grocery bags, placing the gift bag on top. She allows Tommy to gently steer her towards the apartment door, away from the elevator and away from the late Mr. Fluffington. RIP Mr. Fluffington. 2012-2012. A short but exciting life, if she does say so herself.

''I have to say,'' Tommy muses, ''this is surprisingly less than what I would have expected from Moira.''

''Yeah, I made her return a bunch of stuff. Oh, hey, they have a crib, right?''

''No. They make her sleep on the floor.'' Then he ruins the joke by backtracking way too quickly and adding, ''I'm kidding.'' Which - no shit. ''Wait, did she seriously buy a - ''

The door to Laurel's apartment swings open abruptly and Thea and Tommy are left face to face with the new mom herself. Thea blinks and tries not to physically recoil in shock. That would be immature. Laurel looks dead tired. Zombie level exhaustion. Her hair is piled on top of her head, she's wearing sweatpants and a black tank top with what Thea is hoping is baby spit up on the hem, and she's paler than normal. But that's all to be expected. She has a three week old. That's not what startles Thea.

Despite her obvious exhaustion, as soon as she sees Thea, Laurel beams. Gives her the same sweet and genuine smile as always. ''Thea, hi! It's good to see you.''

''Um... Hi,'' Thea gets out. ''It's good to see you too?''

''Probably didn't expect to see this much of you,'' Tommy mumbles.

Laurel frowns. ''What?''

Dean, carrying both of the boxes with the gift basket stacked on top, squeezes between Thea and Tommy, does what looks like a remarkably calm double take when he sees his wife, and then says, ''Honey, your boob is all the way out.''

''Oh my god!'' Laurel reels back, instantly turning away from them to fix her shirt. ''Son of a bitch.''

''Don't worry about it,'' Tommy chirps. ''Happens to me all the time!'' Then he leans in closer to Thea and whispers. ''This is the third time she's done that.''

She looks at him oddly. ''Dude, how often are you here?''

In response to that, a blush creeps up his neck. ''I should get the milk into the fridge.'' He steals the bag of groceries from her and disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

Thea shakes her head and steps into the apartment, closing the door behind her.

''I'm so sorry,'' Laurel says, turning back to Thea. ''I was feeding the baby because I'm always feeding the baby because that's all she wants to do and I guess I just - It's been..'' A breath leaves her lips in a whoosh and she shuts her eyes briefly. She lets out a frazzled and exhausted sounding laugh, bringing a hand up to her forehead. ''I am so tired.''

Thea flicks her eyes over to Dean, expecting him to be looking over at his wife in worry but he's just examining the gift basket and nodding along with what she's saying.

Yikes.

It's like a birth control PSA in here.

''That's okay,'' Thea says quickly. ''Boobs can be tricky.''

As soon as the words come out of her mouth, she's wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Boobs can be tricky. Boobs can be tricky? What the fuck? Did that really just come out of her mouth?

Both Dean and Laurel look at her with poorly concealed amusement and then Laurel grins and says, ''It's really good to see you, Speedy.'' She wraps Thea up in a warm, welcoming hug. For someone who - judging by the slightly greasy look of her hair - hasn't showered today, Laurel doesn't smell all that bad. She mostly just smells like peppermint tea and baby.

''Thea brought us cheese,'' Dean interjects, holding up the gift basket.

Laurel turns but keeps one arm around Thea's shoulders. ''Cheese?''

''Among other things,'' Thea confirms. ''You know my mom. She had to send something.''

''What in the hell is Roquefort?'' Dean asks, and then appears to immediately regret opening up the cheese to smell it. He rears back, face contorting in disgust and horror.

''It's a type of bleu cheese,'' Laurel says, completely unfazed.

''Ugh.'' He places the cheese back in the basket like he's handling a bomb. ''There are types of bleu cheese?''

''Yes, honey.''

''Well, I wouldn't know that,'' he says, sticking his nose up. ''Because I don't eat things that taste like vomit soaked dirty socks. I have standards.''

Laurel stares at him, unblinking. ''You ate a Cheeto that you found in your shirt pocket for breakfast today.''

''It was a flamin' hot Cheeto, Laurel,'' he says, deadly serious. ''You can't waste those.''

Thea bites down hard on her lip to stifle a laugh.

Laurel shakes her head and sighs but when she turns back to Thea, her eyes are sparkling and she's clearly trying not to laugh. ''Thank your mom for me. She didn't have to do this.''

''Oh, please,'' Tommy says as he strolls back into the room. ''It's Moira. Of course she had to. You're lucky she didn't buy you a house.'' He doesn't bother to inspect the gifts and instead makes a beeline for the bassinet in the living room like his life depends on it. He lights up as soon as he sees the baby. ''Hey there, sunshine,'' he coos, scooping up the teeny bundle. ''You're a little milk drunk, huh? You look like your mom after New Year's Eve 2011.''

Thea doesn't get the joke but Dean almost chokes on the chocolate he's snatched from the basket, and Laurel goes beet red. Like, redder than she did when her entire breast was out for all the world to see. Tommy looks very proud of himself. Thea raises an eyebrow but opts not to ask. She watches as Tommy lifts the bundle up to his face and inhales deeply. Because that's such a normal thing to do. He seems unexpectedly familiar and at home here in someone else's home cuddling someone else's baby. It's strange to see Tommy Merlyn, party boy extraordinaire, so comfortably domesticated but somehow it's not as surprising as one would think. Frankly, she's had her suspicions about his ''friendship'' with Laurel and Dean for awhile now.

''Stop sniffing my kid, Merlyn,'' Dean pipes up, peeling the lid off a tin of mixed nuts. He looks down into the tin, shakes it around, sniffs at it, and then decides it's too boring for him, placing the lid back on.

''I can't help it,'' Tommy sounds unapologetic. ''I need a hit. It's been too long. I was starting to go through withdrawals.''

Laurel looks up from picking through the gift basket. ''You were here this morning.''

''I've had a very long, hard day,'' Tommy defends. ''Excuse me for wanting a minute or two with the member of this family who A) actually listens to my problems, and B) is the cutest.''

''Well, first of all,'' Dean starts, and then pauses to stuff a handful of chocolate covered almonds into his mouth. ''I'm the cutest. Second of all,'' he goes on, completely ignoring the way Laurel plucks the box of chocolates from his hand and gets the basket of goodies away from him before he eats it all. ''I listen to your problems.''

''You told me to punch my dad in the face.''

''No, I said I would punch your dad in the face. I was defending your honor.''

''Okay, this could go on for awhile.'' Laurel scoops the baby out of Tommy's arms. ''Come on, little bird. Let's leave these silly boys to their bickering. There's someone I want you to meet.''

Oh, red alert. Red alert.

Thea shifts on her feet nervously. All that planning and she somehow forgot to factor in the possibility of actually meeting the baby. She doesn't dislike children, just for the record. She's not sure if she wants them for herself but she doesn't hate kids. It's just that they're so tiny and fragile. It's intimidating.

If Laurel notices Thea's anxiety, and it's probable that she does, she doesn't address it directly. She does, however, make sure to keep her voice soft and she doesn't immediately thrust the baby into Thea's arms. ''Thea, this is my daughter Mary. Mary, this is my friend Thea. Hopefully,'' she lifts her eyes to Thea, ''one day, she'll be your friend too.''

Thea peeks at the baby in the blankets. The girl in Laurel's arms drowsy but awake, snug in her monkey onesie and wrapped in a soft lilac blanket with the world's tiniest mittens on her hands, and she is so, so tiny. Thea has seen a picture of Mary Winchester before, thanks to Tommy. He sent her one a few days after Halloween along with a text that just said: ''Mini Laurel in the house!'' The picture doesn't do her justice. Thea's always been of the opinion that all babies look the same but even she has to admit that this one is damn cute. And she really does look a lot like Laurel.

''Hi, Mary,'' Thea greets, voice hushed. ''Laurel, she's beautiful.''

A wide grin splits across Laurel's lips. Thea can't remember ever seeing her smile so widely and proudly before. ''Thanks. We like her,'' she jokes lightly. ''I think we're going to keep her.''

Dean, apparently pressing pause on his bickering match with Tommy, taps Laurel on the shoulder and whispers something in hear ear. Laurel excuses herself for a minute, stepping away from Thea. She uses the minute to check her phone and send a quick text to Tiffany, telling her that she'll be ready to go in ten. She looks up briefly when Tommy flounces back into the kitchen, saying something about dinner, and Dean calls after him with an emphatic, ''Don't set anything on fire!'' She is just slipping her phone back into her pocket as Laurel drifts back over to her.

''So,'' she doesn't waste any time. ''Did you want to hold her?''

Thea stiffens. ''Oh, I - I don't know.''

''Because now would be your chance,'' Laurel explains. ''She tends to be a snuggle bug after she eats. Plus, I know you've had your flu shots so I'm pretty comfortable with letting you hold her. Thank you for forcing Tommy to get his, by the way.''

Technically, she tricked him into getting his flu shot by telling him they were going out to lunch and driving his needle phobic ass to the immunization clinic instead but ''forcing'' works too. And people wonder why he dropped out of med school.

''I don't remember the last time I held a baby,'' she admits.

Laurel, for some reason, finds that hilarious. ''Thea, the first time I ever held a baby was three weeks ago. You'll do fine.''

This is the part where Thea should be making up some hasty excuse to get out of there. She doesn't do that. She's not sure why. She told Tiffany she would be ready to go in ten minutes. She really should be going. She takes her coat off instead and allows Laurel to lead her over to the couch.

''Here, sit down,'' she advises gently. ''You ready?'' She waits until she gets a nod of consent and then Mary is transferred into Thea's arms. ''Just support her head. There you go. You're a natural.'' She sounds like she's smiling but Thea can't bring herself to look away from the tiny baby in her arms.

Earlier today, before Oliver had escaped, Mom had asked if either of them had a picture of the baby. When Thea showed her the picture that Tommy sent, Mom had smiled fondly and a little sadly, looked at Oliver, and said, ''I know this must sting so I won't talk about how this should have been my granddaughter.''

Thea had rolled her eyes at her mother's dramatics but hadn't given the comment much thought. She likes Dean. She doesn't know him all that well but he seems like a good match for Laurel. He's got a good sense of humor, he looks out for her, makes sure she's taking care of herself, he doesn't take her for granted, and he's given her a good life. There's no doubt he loves her. It's glaringly obvious that he thinks she hung the moon. Thea has no grudge against the dude.

But even she can't help but think, as she looks down at Mary, that - yeah this probably should have been her niece. Oliver and Laurel may have ended up being more ''star crossed'' and less ''written in the stars'' but for a long time, they seemed like such an inevitability. It was just a known thing that they were going to end up together. Thea had a front row seat for all of that. She had been so sure that Laurel would end up being her sister at some point. It was the way things were supposed to go. It's for the best that things didn't end up that way. She knows that now. Still, she thinks she would have liked to have been this girl's aunt.

''Hi there, cutie,'' she murmurs. ''How are you liking being out of the womb?'' Mary looks up at her with her big eyes. One of her little mittens has fallen off and she's opening and closing her little fist and then flexing her fingers like she's exploring the air. She seems to realize that she's not in the safety of her mom or dad's arms because she is squirming a bit more than she was when Laurel was holding her, or even Tommy, but she's not crying. She actually looks weirdly blissed out. Thea can understand Tommy's ''milk drunk'' comment. She does look like a tiny drunk. ''I hear you made a fashionably late entrance,'' she says, watching as Mary kicks her feet.

Laurel looks up from hauling the presents over to the couch. ''Believe me,'' she scoffs, ''there was nothing fashionable about it.''

Thea laughs. She waits until Laurel settles herself on the couch before she speaks up again. ''How are you, by the way? How are you feeling? Besides exhausted.''

''Close to tears at any given moment,'' is the blunt answer.

''Oh, so business as usual then?''

Laurel rolls her eyes. ''Ha ha.'' She leans over to check on Mary and then relaxes back into the cushions, pulling the gift basket onto her lap. ''I'm doing okay,'' she says. ''Dean and Tommy are hovering.''

''Glad to hear it.''

''Dean's making salmon for dinner tonight, which he hates, just because he read that it was good for postpartum women.''

''That's really sweet.'' Wonder if Oliver would do that. Honestly, she doubts it. This brand new post island Oliver might try but the boy who was with Laurel? Not a chance. He might've made Raisa do it and then took the credit for it but he wouldn't have done it himself. He probably wouldn't have even bothered to look up postpartum meals. Thea looks at Laurel, and then back down at Mary. Admittedly, they might have dodged a bullet there.

''Is there anything in here that goes with jam?'' Laurel's low mumble jerks Thea from her thoughts.

''What?''

''Hmm?'' Laurel looks up from rummaging around in the basket. ''Oh, our friend Cas is searching for a new hobby and his most recent thing is making his own jams and jellies so we have a lot of jam. Hey, does your mom still like marmalade?''

Well, this conversation has taken a strange turn. ''...Yes?''

''Good. I'm sending you home with some homemade stuff as a thank you for the gifts.'' She pokes around in the basket some more but ultimately sets it aside to open up the boxes. ''I think the worst part of the so called fourth trimester,'' she says, steering the conversation right back on track, ''has been the night sweats.''

''The night sweats?''

''Yeah, the postpartum night sweats. I wake up drenched practically every night.''

Thea scrunches up her nose. Yuck. ''I'll add that to the list of reasons why I'm going to take a hard pass on the pregnancy thing.'' She looks at Mary. ''No offense.''

''It's not for everyone,'' Laurel agrees. She's already opened up the first box containing the baby carrier with alarming speedy and she's poring over the instructions. ''We were going to get a Baby Bjorn, but we went with the Boba wrap instead because the Bjorn was so expensive,'' she says, as if Thea has any idea what she's talking about. ''I love the Boba but Dean hates it and he'll be the one using it the most when I go back to work so maybe he'll like this one.'' There's a pause, and then she looks over at Thea. ''You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?''

''Not a clue. But I'm happy you like it.''

Laurel holds up the box with the mobile on it. ''Does this really play Cyndi Lauper?''

''Uh-huh. A lullaby version of Time After Time.''

''That's awesome,'' Laurel laughs. ''Seriously, I'm sending you home with so much marmalade for your mom.''

''I'm sure she'll appreciate that.'' With a great amount of care, Thea shifts Mary into one arm so she can touch the baby's cheek. Mary's skin is soft and smooth and warm. She's still not fussing, perfectly content to just chill out with a stranger. She's a bit curious, maybe, but not at all unhappy. Thea smiles softly. Holding Mary has made something inside of her ache with longing. She absolutely does not want a baby. Not even close. But she would love to have a family. A real one. One like this. Loving, loyal, happy, close. Thea hasn't had that in a long time. Maybe never. Sometimes it feels like every member of her family lives in their own world. They orbit around each other and sometimes they're in the same place at the time, but it never lasts for long.

She's jealous of Mary, if she's being honest. Mary's going to grow up in a tight knit family that is undivided and whole. Two hands on parents - possibly three if Thea's hunch about Tommy is correct - who adore her and a whole slew of aunts and uncles. With any luck, Mary won't know the sting of grief. She'll just know happiness. She'll know what it's like to have a real family. She's a lucky little girl.

''How are you?'' Laurel asks, catching Thea's eye the second she looks up. ''How are things at home?''

Thea attempts to shrug it off. ''Same as always, I guess.''

Laurel doesn't push the issue. She picks up the gift bag of baby clothes and examines them closely, one by one. ''Do you have plans for tonight?''

''Why?''

''You should stay for dinner.''

Thea blinks in surprise. ''What?''

''Stay for dinner,'' Laurel repeats, calmly folding a onesie. She throws out the offer so easily. ''I know you love salmon.''

Thea looks at Mary. She's settled now, nestled comfortably in her arms. She's still making these adorable noises, caught somewhere between grunts and bird-like chirps. Thea smiles at her. Then she thinks of Tiffany, probably on her way here to pick her up. She thinks of how potentially awkward it would be to sit down to dinner with her brother's ex and her brother's ex's new husband. Would that be a betrayal? It seems like it would be a betrayal somehow. ''It's nice of you to offer,'' she says quietly, ''but I don't know. You guys have your own thing here. I don't want to intrude.''

''Intrude?'' Laurel looks confused, like she cannot fathom why Thea would feel that way. ''Sweetheart, you wouldn't be intruding.'' When she gets no response to that, she scoots closer. ''Thea,'' she says, suddenly very serious.

She's using her 'divorce' voice. It's the tone of voice she used to use whenever she and Oliver would break up. Which happened frequently. It was a predictable thing. Ollie would do something stupid, he and Laurel would temporarily go down in flames, Thea would throw a fit when she found out, and then Laurel would have to come over and assure her that ''this doesn't mean we can't be friends, you and I will always be friends, Speedy.''

''I know things are different than they were when I was with your brother,'' Laurel goes on. ''You and I - We've sort of...''

''Drifted apart?'' Thea supplies.

Laurel looks guilty. She really shouldn't. Laurel moving on was never something that surprised Thea. I mean, Laurel was barely twenty-two when everything happened. Of course she would move on, fall in love again, build her own life, her own family. That doesn't mean it didn't hurt when she started slipping away.

In the beginning, the direct aftermath, Laurel remained a fixture. She was, although unofficially, the widow. She was a part of the family. She would regularly come to the house to check on Mom and she would try so hard to help but Mom was in a fog and Thea was in so much pain, angry and full of this broken, shattered grief that she just pushed her away.

There was this one night in late September where Laurel came over to pick up some of her things from Oliver's room. There was a storm, one of the worst storms on record, and Mom didn't want Laurel driving in it so she spent the night at the manor.

Thea remembers she didn't get much sleep that night. Thunderstorms have never been her favourite things. The wind always knocks out the power in the old manor no matter what, the thunder echoes in the cavernous halls, and the lightning casts eerie shadows on the walls. She's never minded the cool, wet weather of Star City but the storms set her on edge. There's just a different sort of feel to the air when thunder crashes through the silence and lightning splits the sky apart. It gives her nightmares. Most children would probably run to their parents to ease that kind of discomfort but not Thea. She always ran to Oliver. Her big brother has always been her shelter from the storms.

She ran to him that night in late September too. It was instinct. She forgot, for a moment, as she crept down the long, dark hallway, that there was no one to run to anymore. He wasn't there waiting for her that night. Laurel was. She was awake, sitting in the bed with her laptop, surrounded by open law textbooks and legal pads, using her phone for light. She was wearing Oliver's clothes and she had her earbuds in so she didn't notice when Thea poked her head in. She didn't seem bothered by the thunder or even the power outage but when the lightning flickered across her face, she looked ghostly pale in the dark and she looked sad and uncomfortable to be where she was.

Thea knows now that if she had tip toed into the room and said that Oliver was supposed to protect her from storms and she didn't know what to do without her, Laurel would have put off studying, scooted over in the bed, and let Thea in without a second thought because that's just what Laurel does. That's who she is.

That's not what Thea did that night. When she saw Laurel, when she remembered that Ollie wasn't there anymore, that he would never be there to protect her from the storms ever again, she quietly shut the door and went back to her room, all alone with the storm. She wonders, now, how that would have changed things. Maybe they wouldn't have drifted quite so far apart if she had just let Laurel in back then.

''I'm sorry we've made a mess of things,'' Laurel tells her. ''Or I've made a mess of things. But we can find our way back to each other, can't we?'' She smiles, looking hopeful. ''Thea, I've known you since you were six years old. I taught you how to ride a bike. You called me in the middle of the night when you got your first period. I still think of you as my family, with or without Oliver. I would love for you to be a part of my life, of my daughter's life.'' She pauses, then smiles again. It's softer this time, almost hesitant. ''I'd love to be a part of yours,'' she proposes. ''If that's something you're comfortable with.''

It is hard to imagine a life without Laurel in it. She has to admit that. She doesn't say anything right away, focusing on the baby girl in her arms and the easy quiet of the warmly lit, cozy apartment that she still remembers from her days of being her brother's shadow. Mary has quieted down now, dozing in Thea's arms. Thea can hear Tommy and Dean moving around in the kitchen, pots clanging, fridge and cupboards opening and closing, a muffled laugh. This is a very different home from the one she lives in.

She thinks of her plans for tonight: club hopping with her fake ID and a friend who isn't really a friend. It wouldn't be just about dancing. She knows that. It is never just about dancing. Going to these clubs, for her, isn't about socializing. It's about what she can get her hands on. Tonight was going to be ecstasy. She and Tiffany debated about it at length. Tiff didn't want to do something as ''pedestrian'' as weed because it's boring and because she's paranoid about gaining weight. She whined about doing coke too because the last time she did, the comedown gave her an awful headache and made her feel ''crazy anxious.'' It was an irritating and insipid conversation but that's what Thea's life is like now. That's what a conversation with a ''friend'' looks like to her. She doesn't have many friends. Just people she gets high with.

It might be nice to take a night off from that life. She can drink the bottle of champagne when she gets home later if she really needs a boost. It might be nice to have, like, a real family dinner with a real family. Even if it isn't her own. ''I guess I could stay for dinner.''

Laurel's eyes light up. ''Yeah?''

Thea pulls her lips back into a tentative smile. ''Yeah.''

It might be nice, she thinks, to have a friend.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Sometimes, though not as often as before, Iris can't help but go back to Blackbird.

It is hands down one of her best pieces. She worked day and night on that article, pored over research, conducted hours of interviews, spent weeks living on coffee and protein bars, poured tears and sweat and her heart and soul into that portrait of someone else's heart and soul.

She doesn't regret opting out of publishing it. The second Dean expressed discomfort about the publication it was over. That was the deal from the beginning. She doesn't begrudge him for pulling the plug. She knows a thing or two about grief. It's a horror show. One that takes over your life. Grief strips you down to your bones. It's like being thrown to the wild. All that matters is getting out alive.

She understands that Dean's life needed to be about survival above all else. She remembers the first few months after Eddie died. They were exhausting. Every day was a fight that she had to live through. She had to take every day minute by minute, breath by breath. Dean didn't need to worry about some article. Still, regardless of how much she understands, Iris will admit that it stings a little that no one outside of a few select people will ever see the article. Blackbird is some of her best writing. She knows it. Her dad knows it. Barry knows it.

She has never written anything like it before - and she has written some damn good pieces. It wasn't just about memorializing someone. It was about immortalizing her. It would have cemented her as a historical figure. More importantly, it was - is - a portrait of hope. That's one thing she learned about her subject. When you scrape away the tragedy, look past the shock, the horror, and the brutal unfairness of her violent death, Laurel's story was always about hope. The hope of overcoming, of finding your strength, being your own hero, getting knocked down and getting up stronger than before.

Dean made that perfectly clear from the get go. There was one message that he wanted to send with this article, one thing he really wanted people to know about his superhero wife: It was always about hope and love for Laurel.

It's a good story.

The woman who bled so her city wouldn't have to. Black Canary fought for the ones who couldn't fight for themselves. It would have been nice to let them know that she did that out of love. It would have been nice to give them back some of the hope that died with Laurel. But it's not her story to tell. Oliver quite literally carved her name into the history books. Commissioned a giant, imposing statue of Laurel Lance, eternally guarding the citizens of her city. A boldly romantic gesture in Iris' opinion, if not terribly misguided and absolutely not his place. From what she's seen in pictures, it's not the greatest likeness but it's good that Star City has something left of her to hold onto.

The real story, however, the intimate history of the woman behind the mask, will remain safe with Dean and with Iris, tucked away in a cardboard box and a flash drive that she keeps on her at all times. The article will never be published. And yet she still keeps going back to it, adding more, deleting sentences that add nothing to the overall piece, double checking grammar and spelling. She usually only goes back to it late at night when she can't sleep.

Or when she's supposed to be having a movie night with the three most important men in her life and eating a delicious Banh mi with a side of pho and Vietnamese fried spring rolls and yet none of them have shown up yet and she is not holding a delicious Banh mi. It's not unheard of, she knows that. Things pop up. Their schedules are often different. She still reserves the right to worry.

She's been jumpy lately, okay, she'll admit that. Happens when you're chasing leads for a completely unrelated story and come across a dead body in a dumpster. The new monster of the week is a real monster, turns out. He's gotten under everyone's skin.

What they do here in Central City - well, this isn't Star City. They don't necessarily deal with things this dark and gritty. Their specialty is metahumans and the strange side of science. It can be terrifying and it can be brutal, they've lost people, been traumatized and hurt. It's not an easy life but it is not usually this. They don't typically tend to deal with human serial killers. Until this guy.

Monster is too mild of a term.

The CCPD is trying to keep it quiet because they don't want to cause panic and hysteria among the general public but this guy is bad news.

Iris sits back in her chair, pulling her legs up and grabbing her mug of tea. She drains the half empty lukewarm Earl Grey, fixes the sentence structure that's been bugging her for days now, and then grabs her phone. She fires off a quick text to Barry, asking if everything is okay, and then she pulls up the news feed for Central City. Just to make sure there's no breaking news about anything involving The Flash or any new murders. Nothing. She checks twitter too. Browses the #FlashSighting hashtag for a good five minutes. Still nothing. Apparently it's a relatively calm night tonight.

She puts her phone back on the table, finishes the last dregs of her tea, and then puts Blackbird away. She's just putting the flash drive back in her purse when the lights in the house flicker and then go out altogether. There is a split second where she expects something catastrophic to happen. Of course nothing does. It's just the problematic breaker. That's the rational explanation. Iris pinches her lips together, allowing annoyance to creep in. This is what you get when you live in an old house.

Calmly, she powers down her laptop, grabs her empty mug, and heads into the kitchen to look for the flashlight. That stupid leaky faucet is dripping again. She puts the mug in the sink and turns off the faucet. The light of the moon is all she has to work with so she's mostly using touch to look for this damn flashlight. She knows it's in here somewhere. She checks the drawer with the batteries, the cupboard above the sink, and then she crouches down to check the cupboard under the sink. She moves an old burnt pot out of the way. Still no flashlight. She really wishes she had brought her phone in to use for light. And that damned dripping noise is starting to grate on her nerves.

Iris stands up straight, automatically reaching to turn off the faucet. Except the faucet isn't dripping. Because she already turned it off. Cold fear grips at her insides and a knot forms in the back of her throat. All she can think of, as she numbly draws her hands back, is the sinister parlor trick their serial killer friend uses to terrorize his victims.

The dripping noise stops, replaced by the unmistakable sound of someone cocking a shotgun. Instinctively, she whirls around, finding herself staring down the barrel of a sawed off. Her body responds before her brain even has a chance to catch up, dropping down to the ground and narrowly avoiding having her face blasted apart. She thinks she screams but she can't be sure. Her heart is beating a mile a minute, thudding against her ribcage, and all she's thinking about is getting out. She manages to get herself behind the island in the kitchen, putting at least something of a barrier between her and her attacker. There are two exit points. The back door that leads out into the backyard and the doorway leading out into the hall. If she runs into the backyard, there's wide open space and a gate she'll have to get through. If she runs out into the hall, she'd have to get all the way to the front door. Both are risks but the back door is closer. Either way, she needs to make a decision and she needs to make it fast. She can't just cower behind the island and wait for him to shoot her and leave her body lying her for Barry or Wally or her dad to find. No way will she put them through that. And no way is she going to die like this. She is not letting this psycho do that.

God, why didn't she bring her phone in here with her?

She's going for the back door. She crawls towards the door, trying not to make too much noise. He's not attacking. She knows he's there but he's not shooting wildly. He's waiting. He's calm. That's one of his signatures. He never hurries. He is always, always calm. He knows what he's doing. She can hear the sound of the gun cocking but she doesn't know if it's the actual gun cocking or just him mimicking the sound to scare her like the fucking freaky ass weirdo he is. She makes it all the way to the end of the island, nearly to the door, and then he just appears. He crouches down and pops his head around the corner.

She knows she screams this time, throwing herself back. He looks the way he usually looks; wearing that black trench coat, the black hood with the strange, concentric white circles on it. It blocks his entire face, including his eyes and mouth, from view and gives him a deeply unnerving appearance of being emotionless, expressionless. Less than human somehow. She can't visually tell if he's looking at her but she can feel his eyes boring into her.

She scrambles to get away from him, scooting back even though she knows it's useless. A gloved, large, very strong hand clamps down on her ankle and pulls hard. She scrambles desperately for something to hold onto, fingernails clawing at the floor. There's nothing to grab onto, nothing to keep her from being dragged towards him, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the pot that she moved out of her way earlier. It's sitting on the floor in front of the open cupboard. If she can just get to it...

Iris grits her teeth. She gathers up every last bit of adrenaline and anger she possibly can, turns over onto her back, and kicks him in the groin as hard as she can. She genuinely can't tell if it hurts him because he doesn't make a noise and she can't see his face but it does make him drop her foot. She gets to her feet as quickly as she can, snatches up the pot, and then she lunges at him. She smacks him hard on the side of the head and then catches him under the chin, sending him sprawling out onto the floor, right in front of the door. His shotgun goes sliding away from him. She would try to retrieve it but he's not going to stay down for long. She needs to get out. She drops the pot and abandons her plan to go out the back door.

She races out of the kitchen, makes it down the hall and into the living room and then two arms come out of nowhere, wrap around her waist, and the next thing she knows, her back is pressed against the wall and there's a hand covering her mouth. She tries to fight, to scream, but this brand new attacker is holding her in place. When the haze of adrenaline clears just enough for her to think, she realizes he's not attacking her at all. ''Sshh, Iris, Iris, it's me.'' He moves his hand from her mouth.

Relief courses through her at the sound of the familiar voice. She relaxes, instantly reaching out to clutch at his sleeve. She's so glad to see him she doesn't even question what the hell he's doing here. ''Dean?''

He doesn't bother with greetings, especially not when he hears the distant cocking of a shotgun followed by those unhurried, eerie footsteps. He pulls her away from the wall and nudges her behind him. She feels like she should be objecting to him just immediately turning himself into a human shield because she can't let his poor daughter become an orphan but she's paralyzed right now. It's too dark for her to see much but she knows that the other guy is getting closer and for some reason, instead of getting them both to the door, Dean is backing her farther into the living room. She wants to believe he knows what he's doing because she knows he has some sort of past with vigilantism from what she can gather but she feels a bit like she's being put in a kill box here. The intruder, this intimidating, shadow like man all dressed in black, stomps into sight. Calm as ever.

''Um,'' her voice is shaky. ''Any plans here, Dean?''

All he says, voice tight, is, ''Cover your ears.''

''What? Cover my - Why would I - ''

''That's a neat little trick you've got there,'' says a voice in the darkness. It seems to startle him because he whirls around, raising his gun. ''I can guarantee you,'' the voice says, completely unafraid, ''mine's better.''

And then, all at once, there is an explosion of noise.

It's a high pitched, ear splitting, painful sound, one that Iris can feel right down in her bones. Somewhere inside the deafening screech, she can hear shattering glass, but she's too busy covering her ears, eyes shut tight, grimacing in pain. This is a sound she recognizes. She's heard Dinah make it. The voice sounded like Dinah too. Except it's not Dinah. Iris knows that immediately, even though it doesn't make any sense. She likes to think of herself as a keen observer of people. She's a reporter, it comes with the territory. Dinah's voice is deeper, raspier, not by much but enough to notice in comparison. It's likely she was a smoker at some point. Her sonic scream is different too. It flows better. This one seems less controlled somehow. It has the sound equivalent of hesitation marks in it.

There is no mistaking who just swooped in here. As soon as the noise dies down, leaving behind a somehow electric silence, Iris looks up. Even shrouded in the darkness, it's easy to pick out the identity of her savior. It's Laurel, the real one. She looks far less dead than Iris had been led to believe she was. ''Hmm, well,'' there is a smirk noticeable just in Laurel's voice, ''I'm betting he can't imitate that one, huh?''

She's so caught up in her shock that it takes her a second to realize that the intruder isn't standing anymore. It takes Dean and Laurel significantly less time to get it together and by the time Iris manages to snap herself out of it, they're gone. She chases after them into the kitchen, where they're both standing at the back door. Or at least what used to be the back door. There's just a bunch of broken glass there now. Laurel straight up blew the guy right through the door with that sonic scream of hers.

Iris hurries over the broken glass, squeezing in between them to look into the backyard. She is not at all surprised to see nothing but dewy grass and shards of glass. ''He's gone.''

''He's - No.'' Dean shakes his head. ''No way he could have just gotten up and walked away after that.'' He shakes his head again and lets out an incredibly annoyed sounding sigh. And then he takes out his gun. Because now is clearly the time for action. He tosses a look at Laurel. ''Stay with her.''

Iris arches an eyebrow, watching as he steps through the broken door instead of just opening it and walking out. She turns her attention back to Laurel. It's cold where they're standing, a chilly breeze coming through the broken door, but there's also more light. In the light, she can see Laurel's face more clearly. She tries not to stare but - How do you not stare?

Laurel doesn't even seem to notice. ''Are you okay?'' She asks, worried eyes looking over Iris for any visible injuries. ''Are you hurt?''

''I'm...'' Iris blinks at her. ''I think I broke a nail.''

Laurel still frowns in concern, grabbing Iris' hands to examine her broken nail with careful and gentle fingers.

''I'm fine,'' Iris insists, because she is. She thinks. She's shaking a bit from the adrenaline and the cold, and she might need to make an emergency appointment with her therapist, but she's uninjured. Mostly just pissed off at the state of her kitchen and slightly in awe because...because... ''Oh my god, you're alive,'' she gets out, and then wraps Laurel in a tight hug.

She and Laurel are not exactly best friends because of the distance between them and because their busy lives make it difficult to keep in touch in any meaningful way, but they're something. They met years ago, by accident, at the Star City courthouse, when Dean and Laurel were in desperate need for their wedding and Iris happened to be there with her father and was even more of a hopeless romantic than she is now. They've emailed throughout the years, met up for coffee whenever they were in close proximity, and then met again when they were both thrust into whatever their world is now. She was the only person other than Dean who was at both Laurel's wedding and her funeral. There is a reason he trusted her and only her with writing that article. She cared about her. She was her friend.

''How is this...'' She pulls away, squinting and staring at Laurel's face critically. Just to make sure it's really her and not Dinah playing some nasty trick. It shouldn't be. Dinah's...having a bad week. To put it lightly. She's not well enough to do this. Just to be sure, she takes Laurel's hands. She squeezes them softly and smiles, making it seem like a gesture of kindness instead of an investigative tactic. It's easy to tell, even through the leather jacket Laurel's wearing, that there are no bandages on her wrists. She looks up at Laurel's face, half hidden in the shadows. ''How is this possible?''

Laurel cocks her head to the side. ''Didn't Oliver call you?''

''Oliver? No. Last time he called was Halloween. He hasn't told us anything.''

Laurel heaves a sigh. ''Of course he hasn't.''

''Crazy hood guy - ''

Iris jumps and shrieks at the sound of Dean's voice, and then immediately feels her face heat up. Yeah, okay, maybe she's not as fine as she thinks.

''He's gone,'' Dean says, voice pointedly softer. He tucks his gun away. ''Are you hurt?''

''No. I'm fine. I'm okay.'' Neither of them look like they believe her at all. She'd find that frustrating but she can't really blame them right now. She blows out a breath. ''I'm not hurt,'' she says quietly. ''I promise. Just cold.''

''Oliver didn't tell them about me,'' Laurel pipes up.

''Of course he didn't,'' Dean grumbles. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Iris' shoulders. She hadn't even noticed she was shivering.

''Listen, Iris, we'll explain everything about my...'' She trails off, pressing her lips together uncertainly.

''Homecoming,'' he supplies.

''Right,'' she nods. ''We'll tell you all about it. We'll tell all of you. But first - ''

''What's up with the faceless asshole hitman?''

Iris sighs, pulling the jacket tighter around her body. ''Our new villain,'' she says. ''He showed up in town about four days ago and it's been a mess ever since. He's been going after vigilantes. Mostly non superpowered ones. Two days ago, he murdered a woman who went by the code name Virago.'' She looks down at the ground. ''She didn't have powers. She wasn't a meta. She was just a person trying to do some good. He slit her throat for it. I was the one who found her body.''

''Is that why he came after you?'' Laurel asks, steering Iris over to the kitchen table and very gently pushing her into a chair.

''I don't know,'' Iris rubs at her forehead. ''Maybe. He might just know that I'm affiliated with The Flash. Barry's been a thorn in his side.''

''Is he a meta?''

''No. At least we don't think so. The sound imitating thing is - ''

''Fucked up?'' Dean suggests.

Iris huffs out a laugh. ''I was going to say disturbing but that works too. Anyway, we don't think it's a power. It's either a compulsive thing or it's a way to somehow further torment his victims. Like a power play. We know he likes when his victims are...'' She stops, and has to take in a breath. ''When they're scared.''

Dean and Laurel share a glance. They do that a lot. Like they're sharing information with just a look. They make a good team. Iris wonders, idly, if she and Barry do that.

''Does this guy have a name?'' Dean asks, crossing his arms.

''Not a real one,'' she admits. ''We don't even know what he looks like. He gave himself a new name, though.'' She bites down on her bottom lip. ''It was written in blood on the inside of the dumpster where I found Virago's body.''

''What's the name?''

''Onomatopoeia. He calls himself Onomatopoeia.''

.

.

.

end part five

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AN: Chapter title from the song ''Landslide'' by Fleetwood Mac. All of Oliver's tweets (excluding the ones about Mary) are real and have been borrowed from Stephen Amell's twitter and tweaked ever so slightly.