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.

7. A Body of Vandalized Cathedrals

AN: Additional warnings for this chapter: Emetophobia warning for this chapter. There is a scene that involves vomiting toward the very end of the chapter.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Seven:

A Body of Vandalized Cathedrals

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Twelve days after coming back from the dead, Laurel wakes up in the middle of the night to a splitting headache.

The pain is so fierce that it pulls her out of a sound sleep. It's this overwhelming ache that jolts her back into consciousness. She doesn't move at first, other than groggily bringing a hand up to her face. She lies still and tries to will the pain away. When that doesn't work, she tries changing positions, rolling onto her back. That makes it even worse.

It's a throbbing pain that spreads through her entire head and down her neck. It's behind her eyes, her temples, the back of her head, the top of her head, it's everywhere. The sharpness of it is the worst. It doesn't feel like any headache she's had in the past. It's not comparable to a migraine, a stress headache, or a hangover and it is, without a doubt, the worst headache she's ever had. And she used to get migraines frequently so she knows bad headaches.

She manages to heave herself up into a sitting but slouched position, clutching at her head. She breathes through the wave of nausea that hits the moment she sits up and then tries to rub at the back of her neck. Maybe she just slept wrong.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes that the general rule of thumb is to at least go to urgent care if you are experiencing a severe headache unlike any you have ever had before but she can't do that. She is publicly dead. Even if she wasn't, they could never afford a trip to urgent care or the ER just for a headache. She has no job anymore, which means she has no health insurance. She is very much aware of their current financial situation. It's not good. The only reason Dean's been able to keep Mary up to date on her various therapies and appointments is because Thea quietly took over paying for all of it. Laurel doesn't want to keep taking money from her. She's just a kid. She shouldn't be bankrolling someone else's family.

Laurel looks over at Dean, still sleeping peacefully, lying on his side with his back to her. She doesn't want to wake him up for this. It's just a headache. She manages to get herself to up onto her feet without keeling over or tossing her cookies. Moving does send a brand new burst of agony coursing through her, but she grits her teeth against it and hobbles out of the bedroom.

In the bathroom, without even bothering to turn on the lights, she splashes her face with cold water, spends too long agonizing over whether she should take an Advil, and then eventually just swallows one dry. It's fine. It's on the list of approved medication she can take. She checked with her doctor about that a long time ago.

She doesn't want to wake Dean up with her inevitable tossing and turning so she wanders out into the living room to camp out on the couch. It's quiet in the shadowy living room. The only sound is the ticking of her grandmother's antique clock. She rubs at the base of her neck, trying to work out imaginary knots with her fingers. She takes the remote control off the top of the television and sinks onto the couch. She grabs her grandmother's old handcrafted knitted blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around herself.

It's odd, she thinks, that Sara isn't here. She was asleep on the couch earlier. Laurel made sure she was comfortable and had extra blankets and enough pillows before she went to bed. She must have gotten restless. She probably went out to patrol.

Laurel turns on the television. A mindless infomercial would be a welcome distraction right now. She used to watch infomercials all the time. So did Dean. The magic bullet one was their go to. She flicks through the channels, a frown forming on her lips. All the channels are nothing but static. Every single channel. She clicks off the television and puts the remote on the coffee table. That seems strange. Maybe the bill wasn't paid this month?

She leans back on the couch, sliding her gaze over to the window. There is a faint orange glow from the streetlight coming in through the white, almost translucent curtains. The curtains look different. She remembers them looking different. She's sure of it. She picked them out. She decorated this whole house. Mary got curtains with baby animals on them - and has since named every single animal. The master bedroom used to have blackout curtains until Laurel put them in Thea's room one day to replace the gross old dirty plastic blinds that the house came with. The dining room has always had white lace cotton curtains. But the living room had these really ugly old fashioned looking polyester curtains that were supposed to be gold to compliment the warm, soft yellow walls but ended up looking like puke green against the yellow. She is certain of it. She remembers picking the fabric out. It was on sale and she was already way over budget so she bought it. The curtains look like trash but they've never gotten around to replacing them.

These are thin, opaque cotton curtains like she had at -

She sits up straight, eyes widening.

Like she had at that old, too big farmhouse in the afterlife.

She kept the window in the bedroom open most of the time and the permanently warm breeze would waft through the open window and rustle the curtains. It was nice. Peaceful, even.

Laurel rises to her feet. Those curtains should not be here. She approaches the window slowly, moving toward it hesitantly. She's not sure what she's afraid of, but she is afraid. She turns to throw a look over her shoulder. It's the same house it's always been. Small, cozy, cluttered, lived in, whatever you want to call it this is home. She's still here, in her house, alive.

She steps over to the window. She pulls the curtains back to peek out the window. Everything is calm outside. The porchlight is on. The streetlights are glowing. Everything is in it's place. Everything, that is, except for the little boy standing on the front lawn.

Laurel jumps back as soon as she sees him, curtains falling shut. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. ''Oh god,'' she gets out. ''Oh my god.'' She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. ''This isn't possible,'' she says firmly. ''This is a dream. This isn't possible.'' She has to be dreaming. She yanks back the curtains again, far less hesitant this time, and there he is. Still standing on the front law, back to the house, still as a statue.

Henry.

She knows she should think twice about this. It's not possible. It could be a trick. It has to be a trick. There is no other explanation. She doesn't think twice. She unlocks the door, throws it open, and steps out onto the front stoop. She doesn't even bother with a coat or shoes. ''Henry?''

Very slowly, he turns around to look at her and it's him. The little boy she loved and lost. The one she can't even be sure was real. He's wearing the pajamas with the spaceships on them that he used to wear every night until he outgrew them. He has her nose. He has his dad's eyes and strong jaw. She taught him how to swim. She told him stories every night. She left him behind.

He looks at her silently, pale in the moonlight, and then he turns away from her and walks away.

''Wait! Henry!'' She hurries down the front steps and races down the pathway to catch up to him but he is deceptively fast. Unusually so. He's already turning the corner to the next street by the time her feet hit the sidewalk. ''Henry!'' She runs after him, the concrete cold on her bare feet. When she turns the corner, the sidewalk is empty and he's gone. She spins in a circle, eyes scanning the darkened streets for any sign of him. There's nothing. She's lost him. Again.

She closes her eyes, raking both hands through her hair. She's losing her mind. She's completely coming undone. That has to be it. He can't be here. He can't. There's no way. He's... He probably wasn't even real, how could he be here with her? She didn't bring him with her when she came back. She knows that. She would have felt it.

She opens her eyes and glances around her surroundings. She should get back inside before anyone sees her. Reluctantly, she trudges back to the house and up the path. She stops halfway to the front steps. She turns back around to look at the empty street.

Nothing moves.

There's not even a breeze. It's not raining. It's not even that cold out. She looks at the house to the left where the Denton family lives. They never keep the porch light on but they leave a lamp on in the living room to ''deter burglars.'' Across the street, she can see the red blinking light in the Henderson's pitch black dining room that means their alarm is on. It's quiet here: safe, calm, and normal. There is no danger. There is no little boy wandering the streets. She looks down at the grass. He didn't even leave footprints on the grass.

''Mommy!'' The tiny voice is a trembling and frightened sob that rips through the calm. ''Mommy, please!''

''Mary?'' Laurel whirls around at the sound of her daughter's scared yelp and this icy rush of horror overtakes her entire body when she sees her daughter. Mary is standing in the doorway of the house, crying and petrified.

Damien Darhk is standing behind her with one hand gripping Mary's shoulder tightly and the other holding an arrow, ready to strike. He smiles when he sees her. She remembers that cold, cruel smile. He laughs and her body goes numb. ''Hello, Laurel,'' he says, and then she watches the glinting point of the arrow slam into her daughter's lung.

And then she wakes up.

Her eyes snap open, muscles tensing, and she is back in her own bedroom. A breath of air leaves her lungs in a whoosh and she closes her eyes, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. It was just a dream. Okay. Okay. She can deal with that. She brings a trembling hand to her forehead. Just a dream.

She looks over at Dean, passed out on his stomach with his arms curled protectively around his pillow. She relaxes a tiny bit. That's better. In her dream, he had his back to her. He never sleeps with his back to her. She should have known something was wrong. She closes her eyes. And what kind of weirdo worries about the cost of an urgent care visit in a dream? If that is not a reflection on how deeply broken the US healthcare system is...

It was just a dream. Of course it was. Darhk is dead. She's safe. Still, though. Better safe than sorry. Laurel pulls the covers back and swings her feet over the edge of the bed.

Dean stirs the moment she crawls out of bed and opens his eyes. ''Laur?''

''Go back to sleep, love,'' she murmurs, reaching out to pat his leg. ''I'm just going to the bathroom.''

She spends a minute or two looking for her robe, which should be draped over the back of the chair at her vanity but is nowhere to be found. The house feels unusually chilly so she fishes one of Dean's flannel shirts out of the hamper and throws it on.

She tip toes out of the bedroom and goes straight to Mary's room. She pushes the door open, pokes her head in, and instantly spots her. She is fast asleep on her bed, splayed out on her stomach in a mirror image of her dad. The only difference is that she only has one arm curled around her pillow. The other is clutching her stuffed shark. Laurel lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her girl is safe and sound. She smiles to herself, relieved, and ducks her head out of the room.

She does a quick check on Thea in her bedroom and Sara asleep on the couch, turns up the thermostat to warm up the cold house, and then she heads into the kitchen. She tries to be as quiet as possible as she takes a glass down from the cupboard and holds it under the tap. She sips at the water as she makes her way back to the master bedroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard in the hallway. She slips back into the bedroom, careful to leave the door open a crack in case Mary needs them. She turns back to the bed. The empty bed.

She stops in her tracks. She doesn't remember hearing Dean get up. Her grip on the glass of water in her hand tightens nervously. The house hasn't warmed up at all. She's shivering under the flannel and she knows it's crazy but she swears she can even see her breath. She can't even hear the heat running. She can't hear anything at all. Not the ticking of the clock or the creaks and groans of the old house or even the sound of Joanie and Phil Rourke's lovable but neurotic dog that's usually barking at this time of night.

Everything is dark, cold, and eerily silent.

She doesn't know where her husband is. Laurel turns around to get to the door because she needs to get out and immediately runs into a sickening familiar body. The glass of water slips out of her grasp. It shatters instantly upon impact with the hardwood floor and sends water splashing up her legs. The next thing she knows, there is a hand closed around her neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until she can't breathe. She tries to fight back, clawing at the arm, trying to pry it from her throat but he's too strong. She doesn't remember him being this strong.

''Now, Ms. Lance,'' Darhk says with a grin. ''You didn't think I was really gone, did you?''

He doesn't give her a chance to answer. He doesn't give her a chance at all. There is an explosion of pain in her right side when the tip of the arrow pierces through her skin, pushing through flesh and muscle to get to her lung. She gasps in pain, tears springing to her eyes as she feels the all too familiar feeling of blood in her throat. The blood bubbles through her lips and down her chin, choking her now like it choked her then. He twists the arrow for good measure, just to make sure it hurts as much as possible, and when she cries out, he releases his hold on her throat. She collapses to the ground, gurgling and gasping. She weakly presses her hand to the wound around the arrow. He's still there, standing quietly in front of her.

She still doesn't know where her husband is, but she hopes he doesn't come back to this. She doesn't want him to have to watch her die again.

He crouches down in front of her and when she looks up at him, it's not Damien Darhk she's looking at. She stares at him through blurry eyes, gasping wetly. ''O-Ollie?''

''I don't know why you're surprised,'' he says softly. ''It was always going to be me, Laurel.''

The tears spill over, streaking down her cheeks. The thing is. The thing is she knew that. She did. She has known for a long time. She was always going to die for him. But it shouldn't have to happen twice. ''Oliver,'' she chokes his name out around the blood. ''Ollie, wait, please...''

''Consider this a favor,'' he tells her. He's wearing his Green Arrow suit, face shrouded by the hood and the darkness of the room. His voice is low and completely calm. He doesn't even sound sorry about the blood in her mouth. She wants to crawl away from him but her body is in shock and she can't move. ''It's not like you want to be here anymore than we want you here,'' he says, matter-of-fact, and her eyes widen. ''You tried to leave before, didn't you? What makes now any different?''

He leans in close to her, wraps his hand around the arrow in her side, and pulls.

She screams -

And wakes up.

She bolts upright in the dark, sobbing. She knows she's really awake this time because the first thing she hears is Dean's voice. He's saying her name over and over, trying to reach her over her hysterical sobs. She can feel his hands on her but all she can concentrate on is the excruciating pain in her side. She can still feel the arrow. How it felt when it went in, when it was twisted, and when it was yanked out. She can taste the blood in her mouth. She can feel it in the back of her throat and in between her fingers. It's not there. None of it is there. There is no blood. There is no arrow.

''Laurel,'' Dean sounds frantic. ''Laurel, hey, sweetheart, you're okay. It was just a dream.'' He places his hand over her hand that's clutching at her side. ''You're not hurt.''

She tries to move in the direction of his voice, through the fog.

''It was just a dream,'' he says again, bringing his hands up to cup her cheeks. ''You're safe.''

She is doing everything she can to breathe through this before it turns into a panic attack. It's not real. She knows it's not real. It's all in her head. But it felt so real. It was such a vivid dream. She didn't have nightmares that vivid before April. Not ever. Even pregnancy dreams weren't this bad. This was so clear. It was so detailed. She squeezes her eyes shut. She needs to calm down. The pain is not real. She works on her belly breathing, drawing in deep breaths through her nose and releasing them through her mouth.

When Dean moves his hands from her face, she grabs onto his hand, holding onto it tightly. She does manage to avoid a full fledged panic attack by keeping her breathing going until she finds a rhythm that gets enough air into her lungs but the physical pain remains. It's not quite as strong as it was but it still leaves her grimacing and squirming. She presses a shaky hand to her side again just to double check that there's no blood. ''Dean,'' her voice sounds breathless and high-pitched. ''Can you check - Can you check...?''

He doesn't say anything but he lets her squeeze his hand while he reaches over with the other to move the covers and gently lift her shirt up to check the scar.

A few nights ago, while they were driving home from Central City, she told him about the pain she had experienced earlier that night. She brushed it off as phantom pain. Told him it was probably psychological because she had been thinking about it. He hadn't taken it well. He had been unexpectedly panicked. She hadn't expected that reaction. In the days since, he has been almost obsessively paranoid about her health. Every time she so much as sighs, he's at her side, telling her to sit down and relax. Maybe she shouldn't have told him. She hates to worry him.

''You're all good,'' he says, lowering her shirt. ''No blood.''

She nods but doesn't open her eyes right away. She's still focusing on keeping her breathing going. Reluctantly, she lets go of his hand and rests back against the headboard. She tries to keep the pain off her face. When she does eventually open her eyes, she blinks and tries to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

Dean is looking at her worriedly, wide awake despite the time. ''Laurel - ''

''I'm fine,'' she cuts him off. ''It was just another nightmare.'' She looks over his shoulder at the alarm clock on his bedside table, squinting to look at the time. It's four thirty in the morning. His alarm clock is going to start going off at six forty five. He won't get out of bed until at least seven, probably fifteen after, but he should still be sleeping right now. She has no idea what being a mechanic entails for the most part but he should be well rested for it. ''I'm okay,'' she says.

He does not look overly convinced of her okay-ness.

''I'm okay,'' she says again, firmer this time. ''Really.'' She sniffles and reaches over to grab her glass of water from the nightstand, taking a few slow sips. ''You should go back to sleep. You have work in a few hours.''

He doesn't seem at all concerned about that. ''I'm fine,'' he says, flippant.

''You can't go to work sleep deprived,'' she says, pushing her hair out of her face. She puts the glass back on the table and grabs a tissue to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

''It's not that big of a deal.''

''But what if you're too tired to pay attention and something bad happens? You need your reflexes to be in tiptop shape or you could be crushed.''

He tilts his head to the side, wrinkling his nose. ''Crushed? What? What is it you think I do?''

''It's that thing. You know,'' she tosses the tissue back on the nightstand and gestures wildly. ''That thing with the car. It raises it up in the air.''

''The car lift?''

She frowns. ''That's seriously all it's called?''

''Uh,'' he shrugs, ''Eddie calls it the hoister thing sometimes?''

''That's...'' She shakes her head. ''No. Not the point. What if the car falls on you?''

''That would never...'' He blinks at her, dumbfounded. ''...Happen?''

''But how do you know?''

''Because the entire hydraulic system would have to fail for that to happen. And I would have to be standing right underneath the car.''

''What if the car bounces?''

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

''Be honest with me,'' she says seriously. ''Is it completely and totally 100% impossible for the hydraulic system to fail?''

He rubs at his forehead tiredly. ''...No.''

''And has that ever happened at Eddie's before?''

Dean looks at her for an unnervingly long time and then snaps his jaw shut and lies back down. ''You're right,'' he says, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. ''I should get some sleep.''

''Oh my god.'' Her eyes widen. ''Oh my god, it has! I was just being dramatic! I didn't think it was a real risk! Dean!'' She pokes at his shoulder. ''You could be crushed by a flying car!''

''Laurel,'' he whispers. ''Babe, you're shouting. The girls are sleeping.''

''The girls know to ignore our dramatics,'' she says, but lowers her voice.

''Our dramatics,'' he mumbles under his breath. ''Sure.'' He rolls onto his back. ''All right, first of all,'' he says, looking up at her. ''The car wouldn't fly. Cars can't fly.''

''They did in Furious 7.''

''Yes, and it was amazing, but not realistic. Second of all...'' He pauses, grimaces a little, and then admits, with another sigh, ''There was an incident with the hydraulic lift about fifteen years ago - ''

''Oh my god! What kind of chop shop death trap are you working in!?''

'' - But nobody was injured, they did a complete overhaul, and there hasn't been an issue since.''

Laurel crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at him, grumbling to herself about dangerous jobs. She releases a long suffering sigh and then slowly lies back down. It still hurts, but the pain is definitely lessening. ''I can't believe my husband's going to be crushed to death,'' she mutters. ''What am I supposed to tell Mary when you inevitably become just a pair of boots and a pile of goo?''

''Tell her that I hope her expensive fancy ass preschool was freakin' worth it,'' he says.

She gasps and reaches over to swat at his shoulder. ''Dean!''

The entire bed is shaking with his laughter. ''It's not going to happen,'' he says once he's sobered. ''The garage passed a safety inspection less than a month ago.''

''Fine,'' she says, reluctantly letting go of the possibility of him being flattened at work. She scoots closer to him and admits, softly, ''It's possible I might be a little on edge.''

''You don't say,'' he remarks, but doesn't tease her or anything. He wraps an arm around her and when she curls into him, he drops a kiss to the top of her head. ''Darhk or the grave?'' He asks, after a couple of minute of silence.

She thinks of Henry. It's still hard to talk about him with Dean. Henry was their son, but he also wasn't. Dean never knew him. Never even got a chance. She's not sure he ever will. She thinks of Darhk; him going after Mary, driving that arrow into her lung. She thinks of Oliver hovering over her, unapologetic. It's not like you want to be here anymore than we want you here, he said. She can still hear his voice echoing in her head. He said it so calmly, so easily, like it was just a fact. You tried to leave before, didn't you? But it was just a dream. He would never say those things to her. And he would certainly never know to use February, 2014 against her. It was just a dream. There's no reason to dwell on it.

''Iron Heights,'' she lies. ''It was Iron Heights again.''

''He's gone, you know,'' he reminds her, careful to keep his voice low. ''I made sure of it.''

''I know,'' she nods. She tries to take comfort in that. Darhk is gone. That should make her feel better. But he'll never really be gone. Not as long as she has this scar. Not as long as she remembers the way it felt to die. She closes her eyes. She doesn't want to think about that. She rests her head on Dean's chest and listens to the sound of his steady heartbeat while he plays with her hair. She tries to relax. She opens her eyes after a moment, scanning the bedroom quickly. It's not as scary in this quiet darkness. Not as foreboding as in her dream. She can hear the rain drizzling down outside and the creaks and groans of the old house and the old pipes. It's like a comforting lullaby.

The pain in her side begins to ease up.

''I should've known it was a dream right away,'' she says tiredly, letting her eyes drift shut again. ''You never put your clothes in the hamper.''

He has no response to that. She thinks he might have fallen asleep but when she opens one eye to peer up at him, he's blinking up at the ceiling and he looks very confused. ''...What?''

''Never mind.'' She burrows even closer to him, burying her face in his shirt to hide her smile. ''Hey.''

''Hmm?''

''Tell me a joke.''

''A joke.''

''Yeah.''

''It's almost five in the morning.''

''So? You've always got jokes.''

''I am funny,'' he allows.

She chuckles warmly. ''I think so.''

''I'm glad you think so. That's why I married you.''

''That's interesting,'' she murmurs. ''I married you because you can cook.''

''I have no problem with that,'' he says. ''You'd have scurvy without me. You'd be living off of cereal.''

''Excuse me, do you have a problem with my Fruit Loops?''

She can feel his chest rumble with silent laughter. ''All right,'' he says. ''You want a joke. Can I tell you the story of when I heard the best joke ever told?''

She raises her eyebrows. ''You can, but it better live up to the hype.''

''The day before Mary's birthday,'' he begins. ''I told her we were having a special day, just me and her, and we could do anything she wanted. One of the things she wanted to do was go out for waffles so I took her out for waffles.''

''She is definitely your daughter.''

''Are you about to start pushing your anti waffle agenda?''

She draws away from him and pushes herself up onto her elbow. ''Well, I'm sorry,'' she says, even though she's really not, ''but pancakes are the superior breakfast food and you can't change that.''

''Now, hold on a minute,'' he holds up a finger. ''Bacon is the superior breakfast food.''

''Meh.''

''And waffles are unquestionably better than pancakes. Unquestionably, Laurel.''

''Nah, they're just okay.''

''Waffles have holes!'' He bursts out. ''They're like warm little pockets that hold butter, syrup, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, caramel - ''

''Diabetes...''

''It's like eating little treasure chests full of sweet, sweet glory. They - They're glory holes!''

Laurel would like to state, for the record, that she is a mature person and does not dissolve into hysterical laughter when he says that. She only loses it when she watches the realization dawn on him.

It's a slow burn.

His eyes widen in something akin to horror, he sighs heavily, closes his eyes tight, and says, ''I wish I had said something different.''

And then she laughs until she cries. ''Was...Was that your joke?'' She manages to wheeze out through her hysterics.

''It's late,'' he whines.

She collapses into a boneless heap, pulling herself over to him so she can laugh into the crook of his neck. ''You know,'' she manages to get out in between peals of laughter. ''This could've been avoided if you had just agreed with me.''

''Never,'' he hisses out passionately. ''I'd rather die.''

''Oh man,'' she says, leaning over to kiss him on the lips quickly. ''I hope our marriage will survive this divide.''

He laughs, his entire face lighting up in amusement, eyes crinkling. It's such a welcome sight. ''So can I continue with my story or what?''

''Yes, please continue.''

''Thank you. Finally. Where was I?''

''You took Mary out for hot garbage.'' He shoots her a flat look and does that thing with his eyebrows that make him look extremely unimpressed.

''Sorry,'' she says, offering him a bright smile. ''Last one, I promise.''

''Anyway, as I was saying, I took Mary out for waffles,'' he says pointedly, and then pauses dramatically. She mimics zipping her lips shut for his peace of mind. ''You know how they serve waffles with those globs of butter on top?''

''Yeah.''

''She took one look at it, got this huge smile on her face, and said ''Daddy, guess what?'' So I said ''what'' and she said ''you're my butter half'' and then giggled for like five minutes straight.''

There is about a three second long stretch of silence and then Laurel bursts into laughter again.

''And it was the best joke I've ever heard,'' he declares. ''She was so proud of herself.''

''It's a really good joke,'' she laughs. ''I'm proud of her too. Her first joke.''

''She's gonna be a comedian,'' he says. ''That one joke was funnier than anything Amy Schumer has ever done.''

Laurel snorts. She curls back into him, winding her arms around his neck. The pain in her side is almost completely gone now, chased away by the laughter and the lighthearted mood. She hopes that's a good sign. Maybe it means it was just all in her head. Her nightmare feels farther away now. She feels safe. Although wide awake. She doesn't think she's going to be getting to sleep anytime soon. She looks at her husband. He doesn't look especially tired anymore either.

Hmm. Interesting. ''Hey,'' she says. ''If I tell you to take your pants off, would you do it?''

He looks down at her with raised eyebrows.

''Oh, it's for sex,'' she adds. ''Just to clarify.''

''Awww,'' he pats her head. ''You're not good at seduction.''

''Ugh,'' she groans. ''We're married. I thought I didn't have to do that anymore.''

She can't tell if he finds that funny or endearing but he chuckles and scoots closer to her, placing one hand on her face tenderly and leaning in to kiss the side of her mouth softly. It's true, though. She is not good at being a seductress. She's honestly not even that great at being seduced. She is uncharacteristically awkward about it. She's been told she's blunt. She prefers to skip the flirting and get right to it. She's good at that part. All the physical aspects of sex, she can do. She would like to put that out there. She's fucking great at foreplay. It's just the romance of it.

She didn't used to be like this. She used to try harder at romance. It was never appreciated all that much in...a past relationship of hers. A certain ex of hers was too impatient for that. She's managed to get over most of her insecurities over the years but there are still little things that pop up every now and then. Like this. Sometimes there's just that voice in the back of her head that's telling her if she wastes too much time on pointless seduction then Dean will get bored, decide she's not worth the wait, and look elsewhere the way. It's a dumb worry. She knows that. Dean won't look elsewhere. And he's always said that he thinks her bluntness is ''charming.'' She got lucky with this one.

''The answer is yes, by the way,'' he says. ''I would take my pants off for you without question.''

She reluctantly pulls away from him to sit up. ''See,'' she winks at him, reaching over to cup his cheek briefly. ''Now that's love.''

''Related fun fact,'' he chirps, suddenly cheerful. ''I can get undressed in 2.5 seconds.''

''What? No, you can't.''

''Yes, I can,'' he says, defiant. He starts to pull the covers back. ''Time me.''

She feels that as a thirty-one year old mature adult, she should have some reservations about the juvenile idea of timing her husband getting naked but honestly... She really doesn't. ''Okay!'' She grins, pushing herself up onto her knees. Then she catches sight of the door. ''Oh shit, wait.'' She climbs off the bed and scampers over to the door. They tend to leave it open a crack so they can hear Mary call out for them if she needs them but she's thinking it might be best to close it for this. She closes and locks the door, turns back to her husband, and then - ''Good lord!'' She claps both hands over her mouth and she physically cannot help but burst into giggles.

''Ha!'' Dean, standing there stark naked, points a victorious finger at her. ''I told you.''

''Oh my god, why is that a skill you have?!''

''Um.'' He looks at her as if it's obvious. ''Clothes are the worst, Laurel.''

''Oh.'' She considers that. ''Fair.''

''I think the better question,'' he says, ''is how have we been together for seven years – ''

''Six and a half. You always round up.''

'' – Without you noticing that I'm a speedy undresser''

''Certainly a classier way of saying 'I get naked fast,'' she comments. ''But I see your point. I guess I never…paid that much attention to how fast you get undressed?''

''Well, whatever. Your turn,'' he says, propping his hands up on his hips. ''How fast can you get naked?''

She throws her head back and laughs again. This is the most she's laughed since she came back. This honestly might be the most she's laughed in one night in a long time. She forgets sometimes, with all the chaos and the drama and the death, how fun it is to be married to him. No one's ever made her laugh the way he does. ''Is this what you imagined marriage would be like?''

He steps over to her and tucks a finger in the waistband of her little red and black plaid pajama shorts to gently tug her over to him. ''Sweetheart, this is almost exactly what I imagined marriage would be like,'' he says, and then cuts off her giggles with a kiss. ''You have to admit you're a little impressed.''

''Yes, honey,'' she chuckles against his lips. ''You're very good at getting naked.''

''Thank you.'' He steps back and spreads his arms out wide, looking at her expectantly. ''Join me, won't you? I'm gettin' lonely standing here all naked by myself.''

''Oh, right, sorry.'' She shimmies out of her shorts and pulls her shirt over her head. It still somehow takes her longer than 2.5 seconds. It's a good thing that Dean takes a moment to appreciate her naked body because it gives her time to pump her fist up in the air and triumphantly shout, ''I call top!''

He looks startled, blinking and then frowning. ''What? Wait, you can't just - '' He breaks off in a surprised grunt when she launches herself at him and tackles him back onto the bed. ''Well,'' he murmurs as she starts peppering slow kisses to his jawline. ''All right. Fine. I can get on board with this.'' He moves his hands to her hips as she straddles him. ''But, listen,'' he adds on, holding up a hand, ''this means you have to hold the headboard if it starts banging against the wall.''

''Deal,'' she says, and leans down to catch his lips in hers.

.

.

.

June, 2014

The good news is that Mary seems to be in a super cheerful mood today, which hopefully means she's going to be a delightful buffer at this barbeque. When Laurel opens the door to the backseat, Mary throws her hands up in the air and says, happily, ''Hi!''

Laurel can't help but grin back. ''Hi, honeybee!''

The bad news is that Mary's nice dress is now covered in a strawberry kiwi yogurt popsicle. In hindsight, the white dress was a mistake. The idea had been to put her in the dress that Grandma bought her so that she would at least get to see her great granddaughter in it once before Mary inevitably grows out of it at lightning speed. A nice thought, but Laurel had failed to account for the popsicles.

''Oh, kiddo,'' she sighs, eyeing Mary's strawberry stained dress. ''Did you at least enjoy your popsicle? Because it looks like you got most of it on your dress.'' She reaches out to wipe a bit of red off the side of Mary's mouth. ''Was it yummy?''

''Yes!''

She laughs. ''Okay then. I guess it was worth it.'' She looks up when the opposite door opens. ''I mean, it was just fruit and yogurt, right? There are worse things Grandma could've given her.''

''Makes sense she would like Bea's popsicles,'' Dean says. ''They were all you would eat during the first trimester.''

''They were all I could keep down in the first trimester,'' Laurel corrects. She unbuckles Mary from her car seat and lifts her up into her arms, looking over her sticky little girl. ''Oh yeah, you're going to need an outfit change.''

''You know,'' Dean says as she's moving around to the back of the SUV to lift up the hatchback for some privacy. She recognizes the tone of his voice. That's the 'you know' that usually comes right before he launches into one of his many strange stories. ''Back in 2005, I got a call from Pastor Jim telling me to get my ass down to New Orleans because everything was going to shit.'' He grabs the flower arrangement they just picked up from the backseat. ''Turns out Katrina had stirred up all sorts of crap. I was there for over a month working back to back cases. I don't even remember sleeping.''

''That's concerning,'' Laurel remarks, pausing in her attempts to strip Mary down just long enough to send him a quick raised eyebrow. ''But I guess it's nice to know you were so accomplished at your profession and in demand at the young age of twenty six.'' She reaches over to pat him on the shoulder as soon as he's close enough. ''Proud of you!''

She can't see his eyes through the sunglasses on his face but he's grinning at her, clearly trying not to laugh. He places the flower arrangement - white and purple tulips - next to the boxes of baked goods from Carlyle's. ''One of the cases I took on was this poltergeist,'' he goes on. ''Real piece of work. He'd killed his entire family back in the late 1920s. He was cremated and all of his belongings had been shipped back to...Poland, I think? I had no idea how to deal with him but this voodoo priestess I was working with suggested summoning his family. They showed up and dragged him down to hell kicking and screaming.''

Laurel stares at him. She has no idea what the purpose of that story was. ''Okay?''

''His daughter,'' Dean says, ''was this tiny blonde thing wearing a white dress all covered in blood. Scared the crap out of me.'' He looks at Mary standing in the back of the SUV in nothing but her diaper. Then he looks at her white Easter dress covered in red. Then he looks at Laurel. ''Don't know what could've made me think of that.''

She shakes her head at him, chuckling quietly. ''You're going to be an awesome old person,'' she says, rifling around in the diaper bag for the baby wipes.

He reaches into the bag without even looking and produces the wipes in about a second and a half. ''...Thank you?''

''You tell rambling stories that go on forever and are only marginally related to the current situation,'' she explains, before she tears open the package of wipes with her teeth.

He bursts into laughter. Like instant full body cackling. It seems to be contagious because Mary instantly starts giggling along with him for no reason other than her dad is laughing. She's so busy laughing that she doesn't even bother to fight and squirm when Laurel wipes the popsicle off her face and hands. ''I'll take that as a compliment,'' he says.

Once she's satisfied that her daughter is no longer a sticky popsicle fiend, Laurel digs around in the bag for the remaining two outfits she packed. She holds them up for Mary. ''What do you think? Pajamas or sundress?''

Mary, still giggling to herself about nothing, is far more interested in her belly button to answer that question. Also, there's a good chance she didn't even hear her. Tired of standing, she plonks herself down almost on top of her soiled dress and starts to crawl over to the tulips with another squeaky, ''Hiiii! Pretty flowers, Mama!''

Effortlessly, Dean intercepts her grabby hands to offer her the lamb lovey that he must have pulled from thin air because he is secretly a wizard dad or something. She positively lights up when she sees it, taking it from him enthusiastically and cuddling it close to her chest. She giggles again, rubbing the soft fleece of the blanket part against her cheek. She stares up at him and he grins back. He signs, You're welcome.

Mary signs back, Dad.

He throws his head back and laughs again before leaning in to kiss her cheek. ''Good enough.''

She is still smiling and laughing happily. She's always laughing. Laurel has never known a gigglier baby. She's never known any other babies but the point still stands. She smiles softly to herself, even though she has to admit that she sometimes feels left out when she watches those two interact. ''Let's go with the sundress. It's cooler,'' she decides, only to immediately pause and rethink her decision. ''Wait, what if she hates dresses?'' She looks over at Dean with wide eyes. ''What if she hates dresses and I'm stifling her feelings by forcing her into gendered clothing that makes her uncomfortable?''

Dean looks at her for a long time. ''Laurel, she's one.''

''She's nineteen months.''

''The other day she put a bowl on her head and sang a song about her new hat.''

''Aww, she did? You didn't tell me that.''

''I don't think she cares about clothing options yet.''

''All right,'' she sighs. ''Maybe I'm overthinking it.'' She's overthinking a lot of things today. It is, in fact, fairly easy to get Mary into the yellow sundress. She's pretty chill about it. There is some mild consternation when Laurel has to take the lovey from her for a second so she can pull the dress over her head but the fuss is minimal.

''When you were invited to this barbeque,'' Dean's voice drawls out. ''Were you also asked to cater it?''

''No.''

''Then can I ask why you decided to buy out Carlyle's?''

She blows out a breath, pausing in her attempts to shove the used wipes into a leftover brown paper bag from the grocery store. She looks over at him, watching him poke through the stack of pink bakery boxes in bewilderment. ''I know,'' she grimaces. ''It's a little excessive.''

He shoots her an incredulous look. ''A little?''

''I panicked, okay?'' She tosses the last of the wipes into the bag and lifts Mary up onto her hip. ''Normally I would bring wine to a dinner party but that ship has sailed so - ''

''So you decided to bring an entire bakery?'' Tentatively, he lifts the lid off one of the boxes. ''What did you get?''

She stuffs the package of wipes and Mary's pajamas into the diaper bag with one hand. ''Assorted cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, mini quiches and mini sausage rolls, and soft pretzels because that's what they're known for.''

Dean grabs the box off to the side. ''What's this one?''

''That,'' she says, struggling to zip up the diaper bag with one hand, ''is a chocolate cream pie and it's for us. I need you to get it home and into the fridge ASAP.''

''You bought us a chocolate cream pie from Carlyle's?''

''I did.''

He stares at her with what can only be described as heart eyes. ''Laur?''

''Hmm?''

''You are the sexiest you've ever been right now.''

''Thank you.'' She steps into his space to scratch lightly at the scruff that he's been too lazy to shave lately. ''That's kind of you to say.''

Mary takes advantage of the close proximity to Dean to reach her arms out to him and squawk repeatedly, ''Up, thank you! Up, thank you!'' At least she's polite about it.

''Boy, is she ever going to be pissed when you leave and it's just her, boring old mom, and a bunch of strangers,'' Laurel comments, transferring Mary over to him.

''Don't be so hard on yourself,'' Dean says. ''You're not old.'' When she sends him a look, he just snickers. ''This is exactly why I should stay.''

In all honesty, she would love that. She's not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of going to this team barbeque. She generally enjoys parties and she likes to think she's good with people but this is filling her with anxiety. She would much prefer to have Dean by her side. At least she would have someone to talk to. It's just...so not a good idea to have Dean and Oliver in the same room for too long. Not right now anyway.

''I love you,'' she says, ''but you know that's a terrible idea.''

Dean doesn't disagree but he sighs heavily, leaning down to kiss the top of Mary's head. She lets go of her lovey, almost dropping it, looks up at him with one of her big smiles and then, with her clumsy, still learning hands, she signs, Cookie.

''Is that why you wanted me?'' He asks, laughing. ''Think you made a mistake there, pumpkin. Your mom's way more likely to give you a cookie than me.'' He signs, clearly and concisely, No. Sorry.

She looks highly offended. ''No,'' she says, grabbing Dean's face in her hands. ''No, Daddy. Cookie,'' she says emphatically as if the problem is simply that he didn't understand her.

''I know what you said,'' he tells her. ''I just said no. You've already had two popsicles.''

Mary flops against him dramatically, hiding her face in his shoulder.

Laurel looks at the contents of the trunk. Felicity's going to think she's trying to move in with her. She eyes the boxes doubtfully. ''Do you think this is too much?'' She asks. ''Maybe this is too much. I don't want to seem desperate or like I'm flaunting having money.''

''Uh, we don't have money,'' he reminds her. ''You blew over half our grocery budget on this.''

She opts to ignore that. Suddenly, she has a horrible thought. ''Oh god, do you think mini quiches are pretentious?''

He looks at her like she's lost her mind. ''I don't even know how to respond to that.''

''Maybe the soft pretzels are too much,'' she worries, wringing her hands. ''Who brings soft pretzels to a barbeque? That seems strange. That's strange, right?''

''What's happening right now?''

''I'm...'' She twists the rings on her fingers. ''I might be nervous.''

''I noticed that,'' he says, reaching out to calmly place a hand over hers to get her to stop twisting at her fingers. ''Why? I've never seen you nervous about going to a party. This is - what? A backyard barbeque with less than a handful of people? This is nothing. You'll be in your element.''

''This is different.''

''Why?''

''I just...'' She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ''I don't think these people like me very much.''

She's been avoiding that particular truth. Oliver is...Oliver. She never knows what she's going to get with him. Either he'll be a friend or he'll be the guy who seems to get a kick out of making her feel about two inches tall. There is no in between these days. But she can handle him. It's the rest of his associates that she's worried about. They haven't exactly been the most welcoming bunch. They haven't been rude, but there's some frostiness there. She's been working with them as a legal consultant, helping them with the crooks they catch and pointing them in the direction of others, ever since Slade Wilson was defeated and none of them seem to want her in their secret clubhouse.

At first, she thought it was her. She'd been pretty gung ho about joining their operation in the beginning. Her father was in the hospital in awful shape, Sara was off with a bunch of assassins, and she needed a distraction. It was entirely possible she had been too aggressive in her desire to be a part of things. So she backed off, dropped her enthusiasm, and let them do their thing. It didn't help. They'll never say it to her face and they'll always be polite, but they aren't interested in being friends with her and they don't seem to want her around.

Laurel can't be 100% sure but she thinks the only reason she was even invited to this barbeque is because she walked in on them talking about it and Felicity felt like she had to invite her.

''Why do you care?'' Dean asks, which is...not the reaction she had been expecting.

She turns her eyes to him. ''What?''

He shrugs, completely unconcerned. ''Why do you care? These people willingly work for some rich dude who runs around at night wearing head to toe green leather and shooting people full of arrows,'' he says dryly. ''Arrows, Laurel. And they're all just like 'oh, okay, this is normal.' Their judgment is skewed.''

Laurel tries not to smile. ''He's not rich anymore, actually. Slade Wilson drained his accounts. By the way, I'm a consultant for them now, which technically means I also work for - ''

''With,'' he cuts in, holding a hand up. ''You work with him. Not for him.'' He steps closer to her. He tugs lightly at the cream-colored slouchy loose knit sweater she threw on over the pink paisley maxi dress that he took one look at earlier and said You're several decades too late for Woodstock, flower child. ''Besides,'' he says. ''Your judgment is also seriously skewed. You married me.'' He leans in to kiss her on the lips softly. She deepens the kiss, an instinct at this point, bringing one hand to the back of his neck. ''A horrible decision, really,'' he mumbles against her lips.

She laughs into his mouth and has to pull away. ''I don't know about that,'' she says, wiping a bit of lipstick off his mouth with her thumb. She glances at Mary, still on Dean's hip, still clutching her lovey, too busy sucking on her fingers to care about her parents' PDA. ''It's worked out awesome for me so far,'' Laurel comments lightly. ''You cook, you clean, you take care of the baby, you quote Disney movies, and,'' she covers Mary's ear, ''you give me multiple orgasms.''

''Also,'' he winks. ''I have a nice ass.''

''I like it.''

''Like not love?''

''I love it.''

''Love not adore?''

''Let's not go overboard.''

He laughs and leans in to kiss her again, just a quick peck on the lips this time. This, apparently, is one kiss too many for Mary because that's when she decides to start squirming and whining to be put down. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't been able to master walking quite yet. She was on her way, progressing at a relatively normal rate, and then the hearing in her right ear started to go. It's about 80% gone at this point. It was a slow fade, one they knew was probably coming, and they were told that it would probably affect her balance but it has really affected her balance.

Dean puts her down on the sidewalk, she manages about three unsteady steps, and then she just wobbles and flops down on her butt. Immediately, her good mood seems to evaporate. Her bottom lip starts trembling and she looks up at him helplessly.

Laurel expects him to sweep Mary up into his arms and make her laugh. Instead, his face just kind of falls, even though he's obviously trying not to let it show. She moves quickly, snapping into action and scooping her daughter up into her arms. ''That was a good try, Mary,'' she murmurs into her good ear. Then, to Dean, she says, ''Can you grab the boxes?'' She pats him on the shoulder, moving her hand up to his neck reassuringly when she sees the flicker of guilt in his eyes.

Mary's diagnosis is old news at this point. It's just the way things are. They have, for the most part, come to terms with that. Doesn't mean they don't both have their moments. The ones where it slams into them like a Mack truck that - oh yeah, their kid's life is going to be harder. It's usually her having those moments. She's willing to give him this one. He's earned a singular moment after dealing with her constant crap over this past year.

She manages to get both the diaper bag and her purse slung over her shoulder with the flowers tucked into the crook of her arm and Mary on her other hip. She only manages to stay like that for about five seconds before Dean wordlessly takes the diaper bag and her purse from her and then hauls the boxes into his arms as well, leaving her with just Mary and the flowers.

''Listen,'' he says as they're crossing the street. ''If these people have a problem with you that's on them. Got it? It's not your fault. Can't do anything about other people's bad taste.'' He shoots her a grin. ''Anyway, we like you. Right, Mary?''

Mary smiles. And then grabs a fistful of Laurel's hair and tries to eat it.

''Well, I'm glad you guys like me,'' Laurel says, carefully untangling Mary's hand from her hair. ''What are you going to do with your kid free time anyway?''

''I don't know,'' he shrugs. ''Run a few errands?''

She looks over at him as they approach Felicity Smoak's house. ''You're going to spend your Saturday running errands?''

''I'm gonna go hang out with all the other stay at home parents wandering around aimlessly wondering what the hell to do without their kids.''

''Where are you planning on doing this wandering?''

''Where would you like me to wander?''

''Preferably I'd like you to get the pie in the fridge before you do any wandering,'' she says. ''But also do you think you could wander - ''

''Doesn't even sound like a word anymore.''

'' - Over to the pharmacy and pick up my prescription?'' It's a perfectly innocent request in her opinion but when he doesn't respond, she looks over at him and catches sight of the look on his face.

He looks like he's trying too hard not to appear concerned. ''You...have a prescription?''

''Yeah,'' she looks at him oddly. ''My birth control. It's kinda important. Especially since we rarely use condoms, which is actually highly irresponsible because I know we're monogamous but I do not want another unplanned - '' She stops abruptly when she realizes, suddenly, why he looked so worried. Oh. Right. Recovering addict. Recovering addict who used to abuse her prescriptions. That's her. ''That's all it is,'' she says quietly. ''No more benzos. No more Percocet. I swear.''

''No, no, I know,'' he rushes to assure her. ''I wasn't...'' He trails off with a sigh, glancing over at her guiltily. ''Birth control,'' he says with a nod. ''I'll pick it up.''

Laurel reaches out to knock on the front door a few times before turning back to him. ''But seriously, I need you to get that pie in the fridge.''

''Do you really think I would let anything happen to that pie?''

''I don't know,'' she says. ''It's just that it's hot out and the pie was expensive. I don't want it melting.''

''Laurel,'' he says seriously. ''I would give my life for that pie.''

It gets a laugh out of her, temporarily lifting the heaviness off her shoulders. ''I'm happy to he - ''

The front door swings open, cutting her off mid sentence. ''Hi!'' Felicity greets them both with a big, slightly nervous looking smile. Her hair is free of its trademark ponytail, falling down her shoulders in long blonde waves, and she's not wearing her glasses. She's not wearing her signature dress and heels either. Just plain black leggings and an oversized Harry Potter shirt. She looks comfortable, at ease, and so young. It throws Laurel off for a second. It is easy to forget how young Felicity is when she's spending her nights sitting in command central working with a team of vigilantes but she's only like - what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? She's younger than Sara.

Also, she's short.

Laurel doesn't think she's ever realized just how short Felicity is before.

She's actually adorable.

''Laurel, you look beautiful,'' Felicity says.

Despite the fact that the compliment seems more like an enthusiastic overcorrection, Laurel recovers as quick as she can, smiles and says, with a warm chuckle, ''Thank you, so do you. And thank you for the invite.''

Felicity's smile wavers for about half a second. ''O - Of course. Why wouldn't I invite you?'' She looks at Mary with a soft smile. ''And hello to you too, Mary. I like your pretty dress.''

Mary looks at Felicity for a second and then turns to hide her face in Laurel's shoulder.

''Sorry,'' Laurel says with a quiet laugh. ''She's shy.''

Felicity waves it off. ''Oh, that's okay.'' Then she looks at Dean. She looks extremely worried to see him. ''Um, hi.'' She smiles wanly. ''You – You're the husband, right?''

''Dean,'' Laurel says, automatically. ''His name is Dean. But he's – ''

''He's not staying,'' Dean says. ''So you can relax.''

''Oh, no, I wasn't - ''

''It's okay, I can imagine what your boss has told you about me,'' he says. ''Don't worry about it.'' He steps over to her, hands her the stack of bakery boxes, and then flips open the top box and snags a soft pretzel. ''Okay,'' he announces, stepping back. ''Gotta get that pie in the fridge.'' He slings the diaper bag and purse over Laurel's shoulder, kisses both her and Mary on the cheek, whispers ''keep your mom laughing for me'' in their daughter's ear, and then he all but sprints away.

His earlier offer to stay may have been sweet but it wasn't genuine.

Mary does not react well to Dean's departure. As soon as she realizes that he's leaving and they're not going with him, she panics. Her eyes get wide and she starts wriggling in Laurel's arms, staring after Dean's retreating form. She looks completely horrorstruck. Frantically, she starts signing, Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Just over and over again. When that doesn't work, she looks at her mom with huge frightened eyes and says, ''Oh no.'' She keeps saying it, babbling repeatedly, ''Oh no, Mama, oh no. Oh noooo.''

''It's okay, little bird,'' Laurel murmurs in Mary's good ear. ''Daddy's going to come back later.''

She follows Felicity into the house, still trying to calm her daughter down. Felicity's home is nice and homey inside. It's tastefully decorated, bright and cheerful, welcoming, and far neater than Laurel's house. It's lovely. And it's in a great neighborhood. Laurel's kind of jealous. She had wanted to live in this neighborhood because it's only a few blocks away from her grandparents' old house but they hadn't been able to afford it. She loves their home and she wouldn't give it up for anything now but she would have loved for Mary to grow up in this neighborhood. It's full of kids. There aren't a lot of kids in their neighborhood. Mostly older couples or families with teenagers. Felicity hit the jackpot here.

Queen Industries must pay well.

''Oh my gosh,'' Felicity says excitedly from her spot in the kitchen, peeking into the top bakery box. ''Are these soft pretzels from Carlyle's?''

''Of course,'' Laurel smiles. ''Only the best.''

''I love these things,'' Felicity says. ''I would eat one every day if I could. You know,'' she says, taking the bouquet of tulips from Laurel's grasp. ''You really didn't have to bring anything. Let alone a whole bakery.''

''It's no trouble,'' Laurel says. ''I may have gone a bit overboard,'' she admits, ''but in my defense, Dean never should have let me go into Carlyle's alone and he knows that so it's really his fault.''

Felicity laughs. ''Well, thank you for all this. I didn't have much planned for dessert so the cookies and cupcakes will come in handy. And these,'' she holds up the tulips, ''are gorgeous.''

''I was going to bring you some zinnias from my garden but this one,'' Laurel starts, tickling Mary's belly, ''got mad at me every time I tried to cut some of the flowers.''

Felicity blinks, surprised. ''You garden?''

''I do.''

''I didn't know that.''

She's not sure what she's supposed to say to that. Felicity doesn't know a lot about her in general. She's never asked. None of them have. ''I'll have to bring you some flowers sometime.''

''I'd like that,'' Felicity says with a small smile. It feels like an olive branch. ''Come on,'' she says, once she's gotten the tulips into a vase of water. ''Everyone else is outside.''

It is, in fact, just as awkward as Laurel thought it would be. When she walks out into the small, fenced in backyard, everyone is outright polite to her, but it's still awkward.

The thing about Oliver's team is that they are Oliver's team. They follow his lead. And, unfortunately, when it comes to her, Oliver's view has been warped over this past year. She displayed weakness. She openly experienced depression. He saw her at her worst, at her lowest, and he hasn't forgiven her for that yet. She disappointed him. That's all his team knows about her. None of them hate her. She's confident about that. They just think she's as weak as Oliver's made her out to be. It would make sense if they think of her as a liability.

Plus, there's Mary.

Oliver has never been bad with kids, thanks to the large age gap between him and Thea, but it's obvious that Mary makes him uncomfortable. Last week, she forgot to drop off a file on a local drug dealer so she made a quick stop after Mary's doctor's appointment and when she walked into the Foundry, it was like she had walked in there with a bomb.

For the first hour, Laurel's main concern is getting Mary to calm down. She keeps urgently signing, Dad and then pouting and whining when Laurel says, ''He's going to come back later but right now it's just you and me.''

Roy - who has absolutely no fear when it comes to kids - is the only member of Team Arrow who bravely approaches them. He sticks with them for awhile, giving Laurel a ''tour'' and making sure everyone says hi to her. He tries to be the mediator between her and Oliver and John for a few minutes when he leads her over to the grill to say hello to them, but they're too busy bickering over who gets to grill the burgers.

''Those two are like an old married couple,'' she jokes.

Roy scoffs, but his face lights up in a grin. ''Those two and Felicity are the OGs,'' he says. He looks over at them with this half fond, half morose look. His smile dims just a bit when Felicity waltzes over to John and Oliver and they just accept her into their banter with no problem. ''They've got their own secret club.'' He gives a sort of half shrug and turns back to Laurel with a cheerful grin. ''You get used to it.''

Despite what she thought of him when he was dating Thea, Roy is a total sweetheart. He even tries to get Mary out of her shell. He's pretty determined about it too. He tries peekaboo, jokes, silly faces, but Mary is just as stubborn as she was the day she was born and refuses to budge even though Laurel knows that he amuses her.

And then there's Lyla.

John's wife - at least she thinks she's his wife? - catches up to them at the refreshment table while Laurel is trying to juggle a red solo cup full of boring ice water and a pouty baby who does not want to be put down. When Lyla sidles up to them, she offers them both a kind smile, looks at Mary, and signs, Hi. Why are you sad?

Mary is so stunned to see a stranger signing at her that she forgets for just a second to be shy and irritated. She stares up at Lyla in amazement and then, as soon as she realizes that a stranger is addressing her, she throws herself back at Laurel, hiding her face in the crook of her neck.

Laurel laughs, rubbing her back comfortingly. ''Sorry,'' she says, yet again. ''She's not big on strangers.''

''Oh, don't apologize,'' Lyla says warmly. ''I used to be the same way. How old is she?''

''She's nineteen months. Or, as my husband would say, she's one.''

''Is she HOH?''

Laurel blinks, mildly surprised. She shouldn't be. Lyla signs so she obviously has some knowledge of the community but it's still shocking to hear someone so casually use the term outside of doctors and support groups. ''She is,'' she says with a nod, and then pauses. Pendred is not a particularly common thing. Whenever she mentions it to people, she usually winds up having to spend the next five minutes explaining the condition and answering questions about how Mary was diagnosed and the genetic factor and if they're upset it wasn't caught during her pregnancy. She doesn't think it's a bad thing that people are curious but she doesn't like using her daughter's medical condition as a conversation starter. ''Progressive hearing loss,'' is what she decides on. ''She's lost about 80% of her hearing in her right ear.''

Lyla just nods, completely unfazed. ''My nephew lost his hearing when he was six,'' she says. ''He just graduated at the top of his class last week. I'm Lyla, by the way,'' she says. ''I'm John's, um...'' She throws a look over her shoulder. ''I'm his partner,'' she says. ''Sorry, I should have led with that. I swear,'' she shakes her head and pats her swollen belly. ''This kid is stealing my brain.''

''It's okay,'' she says. ''I get it. I'm Laurel,'' she offers. ''This is Mary.''

Mary pulls away but just to look at Laurel with a scowl and signs, yet again, Dad.

''She is really attached to her dad,'' Laurel explains.

''That's adorable,'' Lyla grins. ''Is her dad...'' She pauses, glancing around. ''Not here?''

''Unfortunately no,'' Laurel says, voice easy and practiced. ''He had other plans. Next time.'' They move away from the refreshment table over to a couple of the folding chairs set up in the small, fenced in backyard. As soon as she's sitting down, she tries putting Mary on the grass. Immediately, Mary plops her butt down and starts trying to rip her sandals off her feet. Laurel considers attempting to stop her because bees but - meh. It's not worth it. She hands over the lamb lovey, which Mary happily takes once she's rid herself of her shoes, and then turns back to Lyla. ''John talks about you and the baby all the time,'' she offers.

Lyla smiles lightly. ''He does?''

''Absolutely. We don't know each other very well. I'm...'' Laurel pauses, sliding her eyes over to the others briefly. ''I'm new so we don't have a lot to talk about, but he's asked me a few questions about pregnancy. What he can do for you to make things easier. It's cute. He seems excited. And,'' she allows, ''maybe a little nervous.''

Lyla laughs at that. ''That makes two of us.''

Laurel leans back in her chair, keeping a close eye on Mary to make sure she doesn't shove a fistful of grass into her mouth. She also keeps one eye on Lyla, who seems perfectly relaxed and content to be sitting here with a stranger instead of talking to people she knows. ''How are you feeling?'' Laurel asks politely. It seems like the safest question. She used to hate when people would ask her that when she was pregnant but it really is an automatic question, isn't it?

Lyla chuckles at the question. ''The other day I cried because I wanted chocolate cake and I didn't have any so I have no idea how I'm feeling.''

Laurel can't help but laugh. ''I've been there. When I was eight months pregnant, I had this intense craving for fried chicken from Ezell's slathered in honey mustard. I sent my husband out to get it at like eight thirty at night and he came home with the chicken...and honey. Not honey mustard. Just plain honey. No mustard in sight. I sat down on my kitchen floor and cried. Like, full on sobbed.''

''But did he rectify his mistake?''

''No, that was the worst part. By the time he got the food home to me, Ezell's was closed.''

''That might be the saddest story I've ever heard,'' Lyla quips. ''I think I've scared John a few times with my hormonal mood swings,'' she adds, glancing over at her significant other who is currently standing over by the grill with his hands on his hips, anxiously watching Oliver attempt to grill up the burgers.

''Yeah,'' Laurel drawls. ''Men are weak.''

Lyla chokes on her drink.

Laurel smirks over the rim of her own cup.

''I think it's because I'm not much of a crier,'' Lyla says, once she's stopped cackling. ''Must freak him out when he walks into the room and I'm bawling over a fabric softener commercial.''

''For me it was this one yogurt commercial,'' Laurel says. ''It always got me. But I'm a crier so when my husband would see me sniffling over Jamie Lee Curtis getting herself regular he would just think everything was normal. I think it freaked him out more when I didn't cry.''

On the ground, Mary latches onto Laurel's dress and manages to pull herself to her feet. She looks mighty proud of herself. ''Mama,'' she says, letting her lovey fall to the ground to tug more at her mother's dress. ''Maaaama.''

''What's up, honeybee?''

Mary outstretches her arms.

''You want up?'' Laurel asks, making sure to sign along.

''No, no,'' Mary shakes her head. ''Mama, no,'' she points at the cup in Laurel's hand. ''Drink.'' To get her point across, she also signs it. Three times in a row. Then she says, drawing out the word for as long as humanly possible, ''Driiiiiiink.''

Laurel retrieves the sippy cup from the diaper bag and pours some of her water into it, offering it to Mary, but no, that's not good enough. Mary wants a drink from her mother's cup. Not some stupid Mickey Mouse sippy cup. ''Okay, sweetie, okay,'' Laurel says, leaning down and trying to carefully tilt the cup to Mary's lips. It still winds up sloshing onto the grass and dribbling down Mary's chin, mostly because Mary grabs at the cup and tries to steal the whole thing.

She takes too big of a sip and instantly reacts like she's just taken a huge gulp of pickle juice. She pulls away, shaking her head and making a face, nose scrunched up. She dramatically sticks her tongue out. ''Oh no, cold!'' She rubs at her tongue as if she's trying to get the cold off, and looks up at Laurel with an accusatory glare.

''Too cold?'' Laurel asks.

Mary pouts. ''No ice.''

''Oh, you wanted no ice, did you? Well, this one doesn't have any ice,'' Laurel says, holding out the sippy cup. ''Do you want this one?''

Mary grudgingly accepts the cup with a look of adorable annoyance usually reserved only for Pixar animated characters. She takes a sip of it, seemingly satisfied and then she signs, Cookie.

''Yes,'' Laurel laughs. ''I will make sure you get a cookie before we leave, my little diva. But not right now, okay?'' She leans down again to press a kiss to Mary's cheek. Mary takes the opportunity to wind her arms around Laurel's neck tightly, sippy cup and all, spilling cold liquid down Laurel's back.

And that's life with kids.

She hopes Lyla is taking notes.

Laurel relinquishes her own drink, placing it down on the grass and settles her daughter on her lap. ''If you're hungry, do you want some chicken?'' She takes the sippy cup when Mary hands it to her. ''Daddy made you some chicken and sweet potatoes for dinner.'' She's not sure how much of that Mary caught, mostly because she doesn't think she was listening, but she certainly catches at least one part of it.

Dad, she signs.

''Wow, they're certainly best friends, aren't they?'' Lyla asks.

''You have no idea.'' Laurel dips her head down to quietly assure her daughter, for the millionth time, that Daddy will be back later. Mary accepts this with some resignation, and flops back against Laurel, stealing back her sippy cup to drink her water. Out of the corner of her eye, Laurel catches sight of Lyla looking over at John who has now safely taken over for Oliver at the grill. The look in her eyes is one that Laurel recognizes all too well. It's that excited, nervous, hopeful look that first time parents get. She remembers that look.

On her lap, Mary shifts a little. Just enough that she catches sight of her lovey on the ground. She whines in distress and jerks her sippy cup out of her mouth, trying to reach for it and splashing water onto Laurel's knee in the process. Laurel tries to move Mary so she can grab it but before she gets too far in her attempts, someone else swoops in and snatches the lovey off the ground. She looks up, eyes falling on Oliver.

He's not looking at her, smiling softly at Mary instead and holding the toy out to her. ''Hi, Mary.''

In response to that innocuous greeting, Mary turns her head to look at Laurel with something akin to fear in her eyes. ''Oh no,'' she mumbles. ''Oh no, oh no, Mama.''

Oliver sighs heavily. ''Still don't like me, huh?''

To be fair, the last time he and Mary had any extended interaction was back in February during that awful dinner. Laurel's not sure what her baby girl remembers from that horrible night, if she even remembers anything at all, but it was a traumatic night. If there is a part of Mary that's able to connect Oliver to that night, which must have been so scary for her, then he would just be the guy who made Mom cry and made Dad angry. So, no. She's probably not a fan.

''Don't take it personally,'' she says with a smile. ''Sometimes she doesn't even like me.'' She accepts the toy from him and watches as he sits down in the chair across from her.

He takes a sip of his drink. ''No Dean?''

Laurel arches an eyebrow. She's not buying the casual tone of his voice. ''You think that would've been a good idea?''

''Hey, I could've been civil,'' he says. ''If he couldn't have - ''

''Oliver,'' Lyla cuts in. Her voice is soft but there is a definite warning edge to it and she's eyeballing him pretty hard.

He wisely chooses not to finish his sentence.

''I think I'm going to get a refill on my lemonade,'' she says, and stands easily and with a kind of grace that Laurel absolutely did not have when she was pregnant. ''Laurel, can I get you and Mary anything?''

''I think we're okay,'' Laurel smiles, ''but thank you.''

''Of course.'' On her way past them, Lyla leans down to whisper sharply in Oliver's ear, ''Be nice.''

Laurel glances after her and then reluctantly turns her attention back to Oliver.

''I didn't think you'd come,'' he tells her, leaning forward in his chair.

She tightens her lips. ''Did you not want me to come?''

''No, no, I wanted you to come,'' he rushes to assure her. To his credit, it does sound like he's telling her the truth. Though it's hard to tell with him. ''I just didn't think you'd want to.''

''Why wouldn't I want to come?''

''I guess I just thought you'd have better things to do,'' he admits. ''And let's face it: the last time you and I were at a dinner party together, it didn't go so well.''

''No,'' she agrees. ''It didn't. Luckily everyone here has been invited,'' she says ''so hopefully there won't be any issues.''

Oliver looks stunned for a second, and then laughs quietly. ''Good point.''

''Really, Ollie,'' she says, trying to smile. ''Of course I came. I know I'm not part of your team but I think we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other from now on. I'd like to get to know them.''

''That's good,'' he nods. ''I'm glad you came.'' He looks over at his team. At his friends. She watches his eyes linger on Felicity for a moment before he looks back at her. ''They want to get to know you too,'' he says, but the tone of his voice is flat and unconvincing. ''It's just been...a rough year.''

She laughs wryly. ''Tell me about it.''

He frowns, the look on his face torn between worried and critical. ''You're doing okay, right? Not just in general but being here around all the...'' He trails off, gesticulating helplessly.

''Alcohol,'' she says. This is going to be a thing now. People are going to ask her these questions. Hesitate the way Dean did when she mentioned having a prescription. This is her sober life. It will take some getting used to. Sobriety is something new to her. Even before this past year, she was... Well. She meant what she said when she told Sara she had been slowly drowning for years. ''I'm fine,'' she says. ''Been sober since February. I go to my meetings. I'm a big girl. People are going to drink around me. It's a part of life. I have to get used to it.''

''So you're not - ''

''Tempted?'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''Sure I am.'' She nods in the direction of the refreshments table. ''There's a huge bottle of vodka on that table. I really want it.'' It's not a great idea to be telling him this. Oliver doesn't do well with things like this. They always end up as ammunition. He stores the information away in the back of his mind and then drags it out when he needs to gaslight her. Half the time, he doesn't even mean to do it. It's just who he is. ''But that doesn't mean I'm going to drink,'' she says firmly. ''Life doesn't stop just because I'm in recovery.''

She's not sure how much of that he absorbs beyond her comment about the vodka but he does offer her a small smile. ''It's good that you've...'' He pauses, clearly struggling for the right words. ''Got a hold on things.''

On her lap, Mary throws her sippy cup on the ground. She doesn't drop it. She throws it. It literally bounces. Guess she's done with her water. She sticks her fingers in her mouth to suck on them and curls her lamb lovey into the crook of her arm. Laurel sighs and thanks Oliver when he helpfully grabs the plastic cup off the ground and hands it to her. As soon as she sees him move even just a tiny bit closer to them, Mary looks at him with contempt and says, lowly but extremely firmly, ''Bad.''

Laurel works hard not to laugh. ''Sweetie, it's okay,'' she says. ''It's just Ollie. Mom's friend. Do you remember him?''

Mary tilts her head up to look at Laurel and asks, verbally this time, ''Daddy? My Daddy?''

''Um,'' Laurel frowns. ''No, honeybee, he's not your dad. Your dad is your dad.''

Mary huffs in what appears to be frustration and signs, Dad. Help.

''No,'' Laurel says gently. ''We're okay, Mary. Everything's okay.''

''She really does look like you,'' Oliver comments.

She hears that a lot. She supposes she can understand. Mary does have her eyes and her nose. But her smile... That's all Dean. No question about it. ''Really?'' She asks. ''I've always thought she looks more like her dad.''

''No,'' Oliver shakes his head. ''She's all you. I think it's the eyes.'' He takes what is almost a comically long sip of his drink, which tells her that he's thinking long and hard about what he's about to say. ''I'm sure he wasn't thrilled about this,'' he finally says.

She bites back another sigh. He should have kept thinking. ''About what?''

''You coming to this barbeque.''

''Why would he care?''

''Come on, Laurel,'' he scoffs. ''It's not a secret he doesn't like me.''

''Can you blame him?'' She asks, leveling him with a stare. ''Have you given him a reason to like you? You don't like him either.''

''Maybe it's because he keeps punching me in the face.''

She forcibly bites down on her tongue. ''What are you hoping to accomplish here, Oliver?''

''Nothing,'' he snaps. ''I'm just saying that - ''

''Is this a private party,'' someone asks from behind them, ''or can anyone join in?''

''Sara?'' Laurel turns in her seat, spotting the prodigal Lance standing there with a big grin on her face.

Sara meets her eyes briefly, smile widening, but then there's a flurry of people surrounding her, all giving her much warmer greetings than Laurel got, and she gets lost in the crowd. Laurel takes one look at her daughter, catches sight of the excitement in her eyes, and smiles. Sara seems to accept all the warm greetings, the hugs, the kiss on the cheek from Ollie, but as soon as she's able to break free, she makes a break for her niece.

''Mary Bea!'' She yelps out happily, effortlessly scooping the girl into her arms. ''Baby girl, look how big you've gotten!''

Mary laughs, chirping out something that vaguely sounds like Sara's name and then throws her arms around her aunt's neck and gives her a hug. It is the sweetest thing Laurel has ever seen. It's also not a huge surprise. Mary has always been shy. Right from the beginning, she was not a people person. You have to earn your place if you want to be her friend. Unless, of course, you're Sara. Despite the admittedly limited interactions the two have had, Mary and Sara are thick as thieves. Two peas in a pod. As soon as Sara came home and took her spot in Laurel's life, Mary's ranking of important people went from Dad and then Mom and then everyone else to Dad and then Auntie Sara and then Mom and then everyone else.

Can't hold it against her, really.

''Sara,'' Laurel greets, rising to her feet. ''What are you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you because you know that I am but I thought you were...working.''

''Meh,'' Sara says lazily. ''I took the weekend off.''

''You can do that?''

''Well, I did.''

''You're not going to get in trouble?'' Laurel bites down on her bottom lip. She may not know Nyssa very well and she can't say she's overly fond of her because of the whole drugging thing - which happened twice, if you're counting - but she does know that the woman loves Sara to the moon and back and will do everything in her power to keep her safe. Laurel's worry is that Nyssa may not be able to keep Sara safe in the long run. Sara has always been a free spirit. She makes her own decisions and she lives by her own rules, no one else's. Laurel cannot imagine that the League of Assassins is in love with that kind of attitude. It seems more like a ''fall in line or else'' kind of organization.

Her concern must show on her face because Sara fixes a reassuring smile on her face and says, ''It's fine, Laurel. They know where I am. I have the weekend. I came to check on Dad. I spent the afternoon with him today, then I went to the house to see if I could crash with you guys for the night but no one was there.''

''That's why people generally call first.''

''But then Dean came home,'' Sara goes on, completely ignoring her sister. ''He told me about the barbeque and that you were here and I should make an appearance. I told him I'd rather he take me to a movie - ''

''Right, right, because all my significant others are like Pokémon to you.''

'' - But he said I have terrible taste in movies and you could use a friendly face.'' Sara stops, and then frowns. ''Wait, what?'' She tilts her head to the side. ''Pokémon? What does that even mean?''

Laurel smiles innocently and says, ''Gotta catch 'em all.''

Sara's jaw drops. She looks like she's trying incredibly hard to appear offended but there's a grin stretching across her lips and her cheeks are tinged with red. ''You are such a,'' she lowers her voice to a whisper, ''jerk. If I didn't have my niece in my arms, I'd flip you off right now.''

''Hey,'' Laurel holds her hands up, laughing. ''You opened yourself up to a lifetime of teasing.''

''All right,'' Sara amends. ''I guess that's fair. Now, listen, this is important. We have forty minutes to stuff our faces with all the free food we can and then I'm going to announce that I'm jet lagged and ready for bed so we're going to call Dean to pick us up and then he's going to take us out for frozen yogurt.''

''What?''

''Oh, that was my stipulation,'' Sara explains. ''Because I love frozen yogurt and I think it's funny to see how overwhelmed he gets in build your own froyo shops.''

Laurel looks at her for a long time. ''He does get really overwhelmed, doesn't he?'' She snickers, then instantly feels bad about it. ''He's just not used to so many options,'' she tries. ''And he has strong opinions about what toppings you can put on frozen desserts.'' When Sara laughs, Laurel grins. ''I missed you, you know that?'' She pulls Sara in for a one armed hug, even with Mary in the middle. Mary doesn't seem to mind all that much, giggling and then letting out an ''awwww'' noise. ''Also,'' Laurel murmurs into Sara's hair. ''I brought a bunch of food from Carlyle's. There are soft pretzels over on the table.''

''What?!'' Sara pulls out of the hug at lightning speed ''Oh my god, yes! Score!'' She kisses Laurel on the cheek, and then turns and practically sprints away, with Mary still on her hip, presumably off to go eat the entire box of pretzels. Which is something that has happened before. Several times.

Laurel grins after her girls, listening to the sound of Mary's laughter. She digs her phone out of her purse and texts Dean a short, sincere, Thank you for the backup.

His only response to that is a picture of the pink Carlyle's box with the chocolate cream pie safely tucked away into the fridge.

She smiles broadly, sends him a few kissy face emojis, and slips her phone away. She turns her attention over to the grill, where Oliver is standing with John and Felicity. They can be as hesitant as they want about her. That is their right. She can even understand it to a point. Nevertheless, she's in this now, whether they approve or not. She is a part of this. If you want to get technical, she was a part of this before any of them. She remembers that, even if they've forgotten. Oliver came to her for help. He can try to erase that part of this as much as he wants, but she's not going to let him. The Hood came to Laurel Lance first. Before any of them. She was a part of this because he chose to make her a part of this within the first month of putting on that hood. And she is not going anywhere.

She takes in a deep breath, and makes her way over to them.

.

.

.

November, 2016

Mary is having a bad day.

It didn't start bad. She woke up happy and cheerful, excited for preschool instead of dreading it for once, babbling away happily while she scarfed down her oatmeal.

And then vertigo happened.

Not the drug, thank god, but the legitimate medical condition. Laurel's still not sure what triggered this specific episode - usually it's long car rides, spinning around, standing up too fast, even dancing - but one minute she was fine and the next she was swaying on her feet.

It's a thing.

The vertigo is nothing new. It's been around since the hearing in her right ear went. At first, her otolaryngologist was adamant that the vertigo was a temporary symptom and that it, along with her balance issues, would vastly improve with regular physical therapy. They were told that in 2014. Her balance issues have gotten better, but the vertigo attacks are still a common enough occurrence that the poor girl had to be subjected to a battery of tests shortly after her third birthday just to rule out any other underlying causes. After a barrage of tests, including an MRI, Mary was found to be - other than the Pendred - perfectly healthy.

So they were sent home with a script for meds to help with the nausea and dizziness, information on some light stretches and exercises that are supposed to help vertigo, strict instructions to keep up with her physical therapy, and a meaningless platitude of oh, well, she'll probably grow out of it, don't worry so much.

Which is easy for them to say. It's not their kid who has to constantly miss out on being a kid - trips to the playground, visits to Santa, Easter egg hunts, family get togethers - and lie still in bed with a cold compress on her forehead, crying and scared because her head hurts and her stomach hurts and the room is spinning.

''It's not that big of a deal,'' one of the doctors said. But it's not his child who has to live in fear of getting sick in public and sobs when she has to go on a long drive because she knows she's going to be miserable.

Even today her vertigo managed to ruin yet another thing for her.

Mary does not like school. She asks to please stay home almost every day. So of course the one day she's excited and ready to go to school is the one day she gets sick and has to stay home.

Her preschool class is going on a field trip today. It would have been Mary's first ever field trip. They're going to a local animal shelter. That would have been her nirvana. She has been so excited about it too. All she's been able to talk about all week was all the puppies and cats she was going to cuddle. Everyone was ready for it. Dean had bought some Zyrtec for when she inevitably came home covered in cat fur. Last night before bed, Thea made her promise to come home with lots of stories. Laurel was prepared to be peppered with ''can we get a dog/cat/bunny/bearded dragon'' questions for at least a month.

Instead, the poor kid wound up puking up her oatmeal and spent the morning in bed.

Laurel can't blame her for being in a bad mood. She would be pretty ticked off if she had to miss something she was looking forward to. Which she did. Seven months of her life. So she can relate. She does wish she had some backup, though. Mary has been clingy, moody, and ornery all day long and as much as Laurel understands her emotions, it's exhausting to deal with. She doesn't think she would have found this so tiring seven months ago. Mary is just acting like a normal four-year-old coping with disappointment. She should be able to handle this.

Maybe the early morning sex was a mistake.

...Nah.

Normally, if she had a day free to spend with her daughter, she would be doing physical therapy exercises or taking her to the park. Even just a walk around the block. Something active. Or even just something out of the house like taking her out for a smoothie. Whatever it was, she would be doing her best to limit screen time. She's a real stickler about screen time. All the internet mommy boards are extremely worried about screen time. All the popular blogs are all up in arms about it.

Laurel is not a strict parent. Dean's the strict one out of the two. People are always so shocked by that but it's true. He's the one who does meal plans, chore lists, charts for good behavior and potty training. She's the one who says they should go out for ice cream like fifteen minutes before Mary's bedtime or says, on a Friday night at eleven o'clock, that they should just jump in the car tomorrow morning and go spend the weekend in Coast City while Dean looks at her like she has lost her ever loving mind for suggesting such a thing.

However, she does google a lot, she has subscriptions to three different parenting magazines (all of them quite ''crunchy'') and she does read a lot of parenting blogs and forums that she shouldn't. Those things have really scared her about screen time. It is the one thing she tries to be extra vigilant about.

Today, though, she is willing to bend the rules.

She's tired, Mary's not happy, it's raining again, and even if it wasn't, she can't go out in public. Movie day it is.

When Mary wakes up from her early morning nap, feeling better physically but still bummed about missing the trip to the animal shelter, Laurel lets her pick out a bunch of movies and tells her they're going to have a special girls' day, just the two of them. They may not be able to go anywhere but they can still have fun, she says. It seems to do the trick. They build a fort in the living room, Mary brings out a bunch of her stuffed animals, and Laurel makes popcorn. With extra butter, garlic salt, and parmesan cheese because she and Mary like it that way and because Dean's not here to complain that they're ''defiling'' the popcorn. Mary picks out the Toy Story movies for their marathon and she's already laughing less than twenty minutes into the first movie.

Laurel knows she isn't the world's best mom but she can damn well cheer her kid up when she's feeling sad.

When the second movie ends and the credits start to roll, she looks over at Mary. She's flopped down on her back in the nest of pillows and blankets and she's pointing the flashlight at the Paw Patrol bed sheets they used for the roof of the fort. She looks thoughtful. Laurel moves the half-empty popcorn bowl out of the way, lies down, and scoots closer to her. ''Something on your mind?''

Mary shuts off the flashlight, turns it back on, and then shuts it off once more. She sighs heavily and puts the flashlight down before looking over at her mother with a serious look on her face. ''Are the puppies gonna be mad 'cause I'm not there?''

Laurel releases a breath. ''Um...'' She wraps an arm around her shoulders and Mary inches closer to her. ''They might be a little disappointed,'' she says carefully, ''but I'm sure your friends will make sure they have a good time.''

Mary grabs the flashlight again and plays with the switch restlessly. ''I don't have friends,'' she mumbles.

Laurel swears she feels something inside of her shatter when she hears that. It's not altogether a surprise because this has been an issue Mary's been dealing with since she started preschool apparently, but it still hurts. ''What about that little girl you were talking about yesterday?'' She asks. ''The one with the pet snake.''

''Jemima,'' Mary says, and shakes her head. ''No. She's not my friend. Nobody's my friend.''

Laurel doesn't know how to make that one better. It's not an issue a four year old should be facing. Aren't kids supposed to be all sweet and welcoming at this age or something? In all honesty, she knows that Mary is different and she knows that communicating with her is sometimes harder than most kids are used to. She can understand how that could be frustrating for a small child. But come on. Not a single one of those little snot nosed germ smear-ers wants to be her friend?

She leans in to press a kiss to the side of Mary's head. ''Someone will want to be your friend, Mary.''

Mary just shrugs in response. She does not look like she believes her. ''You're my friend,'' she says, cuddling into her mother's side. ''And Daddy. Daddy's my best friend.''

''We'll always be your friends,'' Laurel says, running her fingers through Mary's hair. ''Do you know that you and your dad are my best friends?''

Mary looks surprised by that, turning her head up to look at her. ''We are?''

''Yep.''

''Not Auntie Sara?''

''I love Sara very much,'' Laurel says, ''but you and your dad are my favourite people in the whole world.''

Mary sits up, careful to move slowly to avoid another vertigo attack. She pulls her horse blanket into her lap and runs her fingers over the soft fabric. ''Why?''

''Because I love you,'' Laurel says simply. ''And because you two always know how to make me laugh.''

Mary cocks her head to the side with a curious frown. ''Am I a good friend?''

Laurel eases herself into a semi sitting position in the small fort, reclining back against the couch. ''Sweetie, you're one of the best friends I've ever had.''

Mary smiles widely. There's a tiny bit of pink on her cheeks and she's doing that thing she does when she's bashful, head tilted to the side, giggling, bringing her blanket up to partially cover her face. ''Mommy,'' she says, once she's stopped giggling. ''Can I have a hug?''

Laurel feels a smile stretch across her lips. ''Of course, honey.'' She opens her arms and Mary practically throws herself at her enthusiastically, flinging her arms around her neck happily. Laurel holds her tightly, moving one hand to the back of her head automatically. ''Are you still feeling yucky?''

''No,'' Mary says, but doesn't pull away. ''I just wanted to hug you. I missed hugging you.''

Laurel squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face in Mary's hair. It's almost hard to believe she almost lost this forever. She missed seven months of hugs and cuddles. She could have missed even more. She nearly missed her child's entire life. She can't imagine that. She knows she would have been dead so maybe she wouldn't have cared all that much but she cannot fathom not having this. Not being able to wrap her arms around her daughter. Not being able to watch her grow. Not being able to cheer her up when she's feeling sad or watch Toy Story with her or make forts. Her entire world can be condensed down to this one little girl. Who is she without her? Even in the afterlife, in Heaven, at rest with her son who may or may not have been real, she was never truly at peace. Not without Mary.

''I missed hugging you too,'' she says.

''You're the best hugger ever,'' Mary says, matter-of-factly. ''Daddy says so.''

Laurel chokes out a laugh, pulling away. ''Well, if Daddy says so.'' She tucks and errant strand of hair behind Mary's ear. ''You're a pretty great hugger yourself.''

Mary smiles a bit and then, in an abrupt change of subject, perks up and says, ''Can we have cereal for lunch?''

Laurel blinks at the mild sense of whiplash and then laughs again. ''Yes, we can have cereal for lunch.''

Mary throws her hands up in victory, grabs her stuffed dog, and practically dives for the exit of the fort, crawling out to go off in search of cereal.

Laurel follows after her, listening to her babble away excitedly. Despite the overall disappointment of the day, Mary seems happy to sit at the breakfast nook in the kitchen with her dog and the action figures she left at the table earlier, wait for her cheerios, and talk about Toy Story. Even when Laurel has to tell her that they're out of blueberries, the entire reason she wanted cheerios in the first place, she just says, ''That's okay. I like bananas too.''

It's an awe inspiring thing, in Laurel's opinion. Mary's ability to let things roll off her back and focus on the positives. Sure, there's a possibility it's just because she's so young and there are things about the world that she doesn't understand yet, but it's also possible it's just a facet of her personality. Mary has an incredible capacity for happiness. She did not get that from her mother.

Although, with that said, even happy-go-lucky Mary has her preferences. When Laurel places the bowl of cheerios in front of her, she stares down at it, lifts up the spoon with a piece of banana on it and stares at it intently for at least thirty seconds before frowning deeply. She pushes the bowl away from her and looks up at Laurel. ''Oh no,'' she says, somehow managing to sound both dismayed and passive aggressive at the same time. ''The bananas are wrong.''

Laurel looks down into the bowl. ''What?''

''You cut the bananas wrong,'' Mary says sadly. ''Daddy cuts them different.''

''...How exactly?''

''He goes like this,'' Mary mimes cutting a banana. ''And then like this,'' she says, moving her hand in a fast up and down motion. Laurel is going to assume, from the display, that this means he slices the banana lengthwise and then cuts the halves into bite-sized pieces.

''Okay...'' Laurel inhales slowly. ''Well, I don't think it'll change the taste.'' She nudges the bowl back toward her daughter. ''Just try a little bite.''

Mary looks at her dubiously. She lifts the spoon up again, glares at the banana, and then puts it in her mouth. She chews slowly, looking adorably thoughtful, and then she puts the spoon back in the bowl, shakes her head, and says, ''Nope!'' She pushes the bowl over to Laurel. ''I don't want that. There's too much,'' she gestures emphatically, ''banana. Not enough cheerio. It's okay!'' She reaches over to pat Laurel's arm sympathetically. ''It's okay. This one can be yours.''

And that's that. She looks away from Laurel and looks down at her stuffed dog, waiting patiently for her correct lunch.

Laurel is not sure if she should be fighting her on this one or if she should just let it go. She knows her child is incredibly spoiled but parenting is a dangerous game of picking your battles with fun additional landmines that no one told you about. This does not seem like a battle worth fighting. She remakes the bowl of cereal, makes sure to cut the banana lengthwise and then cut it up into bite-sized pieces, and then places the bowl in front of Mary.

Mary gives the bowl a critical onceover and then deems it satisfactory. She chirps out a quick thanks and then digs in. She even plucks out a single piece of banana and puts it in front of her stuffed dog. ''There you go, Piper.''

''Piper?'' Laurel slips into the seat across from her. ''I thought this was Sprinkles.''

''She had to change her name,'' Mary says through a mouthful of cheerios. ''The mob was after her.''

''The...'' She narrows her eyes. ''Mary Beatrice, has your father been letting you watch General Hospital with him again?''

''Uh-huh.'' Mary grins, bobbing her head up and down. ''He covers my eyes when they kiss and when there's blood.''

''Yet you know about the mob,'' Laurel mutters.

Mary looks up, wiping away a dribble of milk on her chin with the back of her hand. ''What?''

Laurel shakes her head. ''Can't you two just watch Scooby Doo together?'' She asks. ''Your dad loves Scooby Doo.''

Mary scrunches up her nose. Too scary, she signs, far too busy chewing to waste time verbalizing that.

Right. Too scary. Scooby Doo is too scary for her (much to Dean's incredible devastation). She can't watch Finding Nemo alone because the entire premise of getting separated from your dad is extremely distressing to her. She had nightmares every night for a week straight when Laurel made the mistake of showing her Bambi. Yet somehow General Hospital is okay.

Laurel props her elbows up on the table and watches Mary scarf down her cheerios and bananas with fervor. In between bites, she's busy with her Black Canary and Flash action figures, sitting them down and trying to make sure that tiny plastic Black Canary's tiny plastic tonfa stays in her hand.

Laurel's conflicted about those action figures. On the one hand, she's extremely flattered. I mean, how can she not be? She has her own action figure. She also has her own Barbie doll. Comes with two outfit changes: a power suit for Laurel Lance the lawyer and the Black Canary suit complete with mask. It's all incredibly cool. On the other hand, she's not sure how she feels about all these little pieces. The Flash action figure is fine but the Black Canary one has a detachable tonfa. She's not too sure about that. Even the Barbie omitted the tonfa. It gave Black Canary ridiculous heels and big boobs but at least there were no choking hazards.

Without looking up from her bowl of cereal, Mary reaches out and slides the rejected bowl of cheerios and bananas over to her. ''Eat lunch, Mommy,'' she says. ''Daddy says to make sure you eat.''

Laurel narrows her eyes slightly. All right. Going to need to have a talk with Dean about using their daughter as a mole. She looks down at the cereal, which is mostly mush at this point. Her stomach recoils at the mere thought of eating it. She hasn't done too bad with eating today. She ate a full breakfast, she snacked on popcorn, and she's been staying hydrated so she doesn't feel too bad about pushing the bowl of cereal away and saying, ''I'm okay. I ate a lot of popcorn.'' She brushes her hand against Mary's cheek lightly and rises to her feet, taking the bowl of wasted cheerios and bananas with her. She dumps it down the garbage disposal and rinses the bowl out. She's just put it in the dishwasher when she hears a knock on the front door.

She freezes for a second, unsure. Technically, she is not supposed to answer the door. Exposure risk and all that. She glances over at Mary, who hasn't reacted at all to the knocking. She obviously hasn't heard it. ''Hey, Mary,'' Laurel calls over to her. When Mary looks over at her, she signs, Stay here for a minute. I will be right back.

Mary nods and goes back to her cereal, swinging her feet happily, completely uninterested in whatever's happening.

Laurel pushes through the kitchen door and moves through the dining room to get to the front door. It's probably her father. Or maybe someone from the team. Nobody else would waste time knocking. That's not how they work in this family. At least not in the middle of the day. They have an open door policy during daylight hours. Unfortunately, she can't just throw open the door or yell at whoever it is to get their ass in here. She doesn't want to petrify one of her neighbors or give some Jehovah's Witness a wacky story to tell about that Black Canary lookalike he saw while he was doing his rounds. She quickly maneuvers her way around the fort in the living room to get to the window. She pulls back the curtains just enough to see who's out on the front stoop and as soon as she sees who it is, she relaxes.

She hurries over to open the door and is immediately greeted with an excited cheer of, ''Auntie Laurel!''

She grins back at the little girl in her friend's arms. ''Sara Diggle!''

John, juggling both his daughter and a large brown paper bag with a familiar logo, laughs. ''I knew Auntie Laurel would be a big hit,'' he says as she ushers them into the house.

''Auntie Laurel!'' Little Sara cries out once more, wriggling in her dad's arms until Laurel mercifully swoops in and takes her into her arms, settling her on her hip. ''Hello,'' Sara greets, winding her arms around Laurel's neck. She looks at her and asks, politely, ''How's your garden?''

Laurel chuckles. ''I'm afraid the garden needs some work right now.''

''Oh.'' Sara cocks her head to the side with a frown. ''Did...'' She leans in to whisper, ''Mary's Daddy make cookies?''

''Which cookies?''

''Yummy cookies.''

''She means the ones with the Nutella in the middle,'' John clarifies, after he's dropped the bag off on the dining room table. ''I think you brought us some at Christmas.''

''Oh, the Nutella shortbread sandwich cookies.'' Laurel quirks a smile and offers Sara a wink. ''Those are my favourite too. He hasn't made any recently, no. I think I've been keeping him busy,'' she says lightly. ''I could probably get him to make you some, though.''

Sara's eyes get wide and excited like she's just been given the Nobel peace prize.

''Uh,'' John cuts in. ''I don't know if we need any more cookies in the house.''

''We do!''

''She's a cookie fiend,'' he says.

Sara confirms this with a cheerful nod and a declaration of, ''I love cookies!'' She then follows that up with a more subdued and serious announcement of, ''Red noodles too.''

''Spaghetti,'' John supplies helpfully. ''She means spaghetti.''

''What a coincidence,'' Laurel says. ''Mary's favourite food is spaghetti and meatballs.''

''Does she eat it with her hands too?'' He asks dryly.

''Not so much anymore but she once sneezed with a mouthful of spaghetti and one came out of her nose. Incredibly traumatizing to her at the time but now she tells that story every time we eat spaghetti.''

''Kids are disgusting and strange creatures.''

''You said it.''

The kitchen door swings open and the aforementioned spaghetti monster strolls out, puppy dog under her arm.

Sara lights up as soon as she sees her. ''Mary!''

Mary startles, looks up, and grins. ''Baby Sara!''

Laurel puts Sara down and as soon as she does, Sara skips over to Mary and gives her a big hug. Mary, normally standoffish with people who aren't family, hugs her back with enthusiasm.

Okay then.

Mary has at least one friend.

''You're taller,'' Mary marvels when she pulls away from the hug.

Laurel smiles. She glances over at John, spotting the warm look on his face. ''Have you two eaten lunch?'' She asks. ''I know I'm not a great cook but I make a mean sandwich.''

''Thanks for the offer,'' he says, ''but we just came from lunch. Lyla's in Munich this week so I broke Miss Sara here out of daycare for the day and we're - ''

''Breaking all the rules?''

''After this,'' he smirks, ''we're going to go bug Uncle Ollie at his office.''

''Sounds like fun,'' Laurel says with a chuckle.

''You come too?'' Sara asks with a big grin, looking up at Laurel innocently.

''Oh, I'd love to, sweetheart,'' Laurel says. ''But I'm...'' She smiles tightly. She doesn't know how to explain to a two year old that she can't leave the house because she can't be seen in public because the whole city thinks she's dead. ''Another day,'' she says, running a hand over Sara's curls. ''What brings you two to our neck of the woods anyway?''

''Well, Thea mentioned that Mary was having kind of a tough day,'' John says, wandering back over into the dining room. ''So we thought we'd drop by and bring you two some treats.'' He turns the bag around so that Mary can see the logo printed on the bag.

Mary recognizes it immediately, eyes widening in excitement. ''Carlyle's! Mommy,'' she tugs at Laurel's shirt, wrapping one arm around her leg. ''They brought Carlyle's!'' She doesn't hang around for a response, scampering into the dining room to clamber up onto a chair next to John. ''What is it?'' She questions, with enough reverence that you would think John came bearing the holy grail.

''I was going to get some bear claws,'' John tells her, ''because your mom's told me that you love bear claws.''

Mary nods excitedly.

''But they were all out and Miss Sara here insisted that we get macarons.'' He pulls out a box and a couple smaller brown paper bags. ''So we compromised and got some macarons, a few fritters, and some soft pretzels because I don't think they let you leave without buying them.'' He opens up the pink box, revealing a slew of brightly pastel colored confections.

Laurel glances at the treats shortly but mostly keeps her eyes on Mary who looks positively dumbfounded. She smiles and chuckles lowly, settling into a chair and pulling Sara up onto her lap. ''Evidently Miss Sara is a very clever girl,'' she declares. ''I love macarons.''

Sara tilts her head up, reaching one hand up to pat at Laurel's chin. ''Me too.''

''She's never had a macaron before,'' John says. ''She thinks they're cookies.''

''Pretty cookies,'' Sara says.

''They are pretty, aren't they?'' Laurel peeks over at the box of colorful treats briefly and then switches her attention to John. She strongly doubts that the only reason he's here is to bring them macarons. ''Hey, Mary?'' She crooks her finger at her daughter and Mary reluctantly looks over at her. ''Don't we have another Toy Story left to watch?''

''Uh-huh. Toy Story 3.''

''Do you think it would be okay if Sara and Johnny joined us?''

''Yeah,'' Mary says with a bright smile. ''But...'' She trails off, looks up at John, and then climbs off the chair to skitter over to Laurel and whisper in her ear, ''Can we have some of those?''

Laurel whispers back, ''I think that can be arranged.''

It's easy to get the girls set up in the fort with Toy Story 3 and a macaron each and then quietly excuse themselves under the guise of ''getting something from the kitchen.'' Normally, she wouldn't ditch her daughter but she's not buying John's ''I randomly decided to bring you some baked goods'' story. She doesn't think he's been sent by anyone. She doesn't think this is Ollie's weird way of checking on her via someone else because he's too scared to come to the house, but she thinks there's more to the story. She can tell by the look on his face.

With the girls safely tucked away with their treats, Laurel tugs him into the kitchen, away from any prying little ears. ''Can I get you anything?'' She asks. ''Coffee? Tea?''

''I'm okay, thanks.''

She ignores that. ''I'm making coffee.'' She starts puttering around, searching for the filters. ''Dean's always moving the coffee filters around,'' she explains, opening and closing a few cupboards in search of the elusive filters. ''I keep saying we should get a Keurig so we don't have to buy the filters anymore but he's old fashioned when it comes to coffee. And super stubborn.''

''He likes what he likes,'' John shrugs. ''I can relate. I've never understood all that fancy coffee crap either. Frappuccinos are just cold sugared milk and why should I need some expensive machine to make me a single cup of coffee when I could make a whole pot in the coffee maker I've had since Lyla and I got married?'' There's a pause. ''The first time.''

''You old men,'' she quips, patting him on the cheek. ''So resistant to change.''

She finally finds the coffee filters in the cupboard under the sink, plucking them free and going for the coffee in the cupboard above the microwave. She busies herself getting the coffee on, only glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He's moved over to the breakfast nook where Mary left her action figures on the table. He picks each of them up, examining them closely. ''I don't have an action figure,'' he says. ''I call racism.''

''You're probably right,'' she says, getting Mary's bowl of leftover cereal milk and stray pieces of bananas out of the way.

''Though I guess it's worth noting,'' he allows, ''that Thea doesn't have an action figure either. Neither does Oliver and he's the OG vigilante.''

''True.'' She dumps the bowl out into the garbage disposal, rinses it out, and puts it in the dishwasher. ''Is it wrong that I find that amusing?''

''Nah,'' he snorts. ''It's funny.''

''To be fair, Green Arrow is historically more of a controversial figure.''

''That is an understatement.''

Just goes to show: Don't start your vigilante career by being a serial killer for a year. When The Flash showed up in Central City, it took them less than a year to dedicate an entire day to him. Black Canary, Spartan, and Speedy are revered in Star City. Green Arrow, on the other hand... Opinions about him are split down the middle. Some people - including the SCPD - seem to have a hard time getting past that first year. Understandable, she has to admit that.

She grabs a dishrag to wipe down the table quickly and then takes a seat. ''So,'' she says, tilting her head to the side with a small smile. ''Why are you really here, Johnny?''

His smile tightens. ''A friend can't visit another friend?''

''Sure, a friend can,'' she says easily. ''But that's not why you're here. I can see it in your eyes.''

His expression darkens somewhat and his body visibly tenses. ''I was hoping we could talk,'' he admits.

''You can always talk to me.''

He offers her a small smile and then drops his gaze back down to the Black Canary action figure. ''That night,'' he begins hesitantly, placing the toy back on the table. ''The night you died.''

She, by some miracle, does not flinch.

''What happened was my fault,'' he says.

This happens a lot. She's been noticing that. All these men keep shouldering the blame for what happened that night, groveling for forgiveness so they can smile without guilt. She's not sure what she's supposed to do to help them. Dean had nothing to do with her death. He wasn't there. He'll feel guilty for the rest of his life no matter how hard she tries to get him to snap out of it but he has no culpability here. She cannot say the same for the rest of them. At the end of the day, Darhk killed her and he's where the blame should go. That doesn't mean other people's choices didn't make what he did possible.

She can't absolve her father or Oliver or John. She can't even absolve herself.

''John...''

''No, Laurel,'' he cuts her off. ''Just hear me out. If Andy hadn't...'' He trails off, shaking his head. ''If I hadn't put my trust in him, none of this would have happened. Darhk wouldn't have gotten his powers back. He wouldn't have been able to...do what he did to you. What happened to you happened because I - ''

''You wanted your brother back,'' she interrupts calmly. ''I walked into hell to bring my sister back. How can I possibly fault you for that?''

He looks slightly incredulous. ''You don't think you should? I put him before the team.''

''I put Sara before everything.''

''Laurel, I let him manipulate me into thinking that he had changed and you died because of that.''

''And people died because of what I did to Sara,'' she says. ''I haven't forgotten that. She killed people. Those women who died - Their blood is on my hands because of choices I made.'' She winces, looking away from him and rubbing the back of her neck. ''Sara put Thea in the hospital,'' she says. ''Thea. That happened because of me. Believe me, I understand how you're feeling.''

''You were my partner,'' he says. ''I should have had your back. And I didn't.'' He inhales sharply, regret flashing in his eyes. ''I'll never be able to make up for that,'' he says earnestly. ''I'm so sorry, Laurel. I just wanted you to know that.''

She nods slowly. She runs a hand through her hair and picks up the action figure. She stares down at the small plastic version of herself with the removable mask and the choking hazard tonfa.

Dean has always hated her tonfa. He's always said that her real strength is in hand to hand combat and by lugging around some largely useless ''stick'' as a safety net, she was restricting herself. ''I don't get you, Laur,'' he told her once, while they were training, right after she had kicked his ass and he had laughed and told her she was doing great. ''You're a badass, but you never run on full power. Are you seriously going to spend the rest of your days as Canary purposefully weakening yourself in the field just because you're afraid Oliver will get mad at you if you're better than him?''

She vehemently denied that. She'd scoff at him, roll her eyes, and say, ''Why would I be afraid of Oliver? I just need more field training.''

She lied.

He was right. The tonfa was an excuse. A safety net she thought she could afford. A reason to stick to the status quo. Look where that got her.

''I think about that night a lot,'' she admits without looking up. ''More often than I should. I try not to but I can't help it.'' She stands up the action figure and finally looks back at him with a sad smile. ''I have nightmares a lot. I've had my fair share of panic attacks since I got back. Sometimes my scar aches.'' She picks at her cuticles nervously, leaning back in her seat. ''He's still there. Darhk. He's in my head. I didn't get those seven months. It's fresh for me. I'm still healing. I don't know if I'll ever...'' She stops, huffing out a quiet bitter laugh. ''That night happened,'' she says. ''I wish it hadn't, but it did. We can't take it back.'' She reaches across the table to grasp his hand, locking eyes with him. ''But maybe we should stop carrying it. All of us. Maybe we should try to - I don't know. Let it be?'' She smiles weakly. ''I don't blame you,'' she says, and gives his hand a light squeeze. ''Don't get me wrong,'' she adds on quickly when it looks like he's about to object. ''I'm aware of your part in what happened. Just like I'm aware of my father's part in it. And Oliver's. And mine.''

''Yours? None of this was your - ''

''I was pregnant.'' This is not something she ever intended to come out, but the words just sort of slip out. Outside of Dean, nobody else knows about the baby. She hasn't even told Sara or Thea. Even when it comes to Dean, he's had half a year to come to terms with the loss. She's had less than two weeks. It's a private pain. She's been trying to work through it on her own, to grieve without allowing it to take over her entire life but it's a difficult thing to do. Grief is a messy thing, and it is something that terrifies her more than any villain ever could. When Tommy died, she lost control completely. When Sara died, she got tunnel vision and wound up dressed in black leather and beating up criminals in alleyways at midnight with a glorified stick.

She doesn't handle grief very well. Something she has in common with her husband. She doesn't know what to do with this loss.

She pulls her hand away from John's, watching carefully as his expression changes rapidly from shock to horror to pity. She's been getting that combination a lot ever since she came back. ''Laurel,'' he says, and that's all he says. He sounds so sorry.

She bites down on her lip. ''Back in April. When the arrow...'' She clears her throat. ''My body went through a lot of trauma that night. The arrow, the surgery, blood loss, shock. Miscarrying wasn't a surprise. I knew when that arrow went in that I wasn't going to be having a baby anytime soon.'' She swallows hard. ''I was pregnant,'' she repeats, more for herself than for John. ''But I put on that suit anyway. I walked into that prison looking for a fight.''

''I'm sorry,'' he says.

''I'm not telling you this to make you feel worse,'' she assures him. ''I'm telling you this because... There are things we'll have to carry with us. It's the nature of this job. This work that we've chosen to do. I just think that maybe that night shouldn't be one of them. It's too heavy. Maybe we should put that one down.'' It's easier said than done - of course she knows that - but she has to say something to him. ''Chalk it up to bad luck. Mistakes we won't make again. What good will it do to keep that night with us?''

It's such a horribly hypocritical thing to say. It's true, of course. It won't do anyone any good to be chained and shackled by that night, but she doesn't yet know the way out for her. Part of her is still in that night. In that prison, in that hospital bed, dying. But that's because it's her trauma. It happened to her. Perhaps that is a selfish thing to say. That night no doubt hurt everyone else. But they didn't die, did they? They weren't the victims. She was. This is hers to carry.

''I've been trying not to let Darhk win,'' she says. ''Ever since I got back, I've been feeling like - like somehow, even though he's dead and I'm here, he still won. I don't want that.'' Just the idea disgusts her. Darhk took everything away from her. She wasn't even his target. Her father was. She was just the tool used to blow him apart and it destroyed her. She doesn't want him laughing at her from the afterlife, watching her suffer and gloating. ''We can't go back to that night,'' she says. ''Can't make different choices or change the outcome of what happened. We have to find a way to move on. I know that I, for one, can't keep reliving that night. If I do, it'll break me.'' She leans back in her seat, twisting her wedding rings around on her finger. ''We can only do our best with what we have now, and I think what we have now is a second chance.''

She wants so badly for that to be true.

She smiles lightly and heads over to the freshly brewed coffee. She pours two mugs and brings them over to the table. He doesn't touch his but he watches as she brings the cream and sugar over to the table to mix into hers. There's a strange, nostalgic, fleeting smile on his face that he's trying to hide from her and he looks like he's struggling to find the words to say what he needs to say to her. ''You know, when you first joined the team,'' he begins. ''I didn't like you. Did you know that?''

''Uh, yeah,'' she deadpans. ''No shit.'' She rises to her feet to put the coffee cream back in the fridge.

''It wasn't you,'' he says quickly. ''They were my issues. I shouldn't have put them on you. Oliver... He used to make some stupid decisions when you were involved and I blamed you for that. I thought you were a distraction. That wasn't fair.''

She tries to chuckle to ease the tension but it just winds up coming out sounding awkward. ''It's okay.'' She sits back down, instantly reaching for her coffee. ''Really. That was a long time ago. You've more than made up for it.''

''I want you to know that I trust you,'' he says sincerely.

''I do know that.''

''Do you?'' He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his coffee. ''When you were gone, your husband pointed out that we may not have treated you all that fairly. Looking back, I - I'm worried he may have been right.''

Laurel looks down at her coffee and tries not to laugh. She licks her lips slowly and runs through a possible list of answers to that question. She's not sure he wants to hear the honest one.

''Did you ever feel like you weren't part of the team?'' He asks. He sounds so serious.

She takes a sip of her coffee. ''Sometimes.'' She takes another leisurely drink of coffee and then sets her mug down. ''What you three have,'' she says. ''It's something rare. You and Ollie and Felicity - you love each other and you trust each other with your lives. That's an amazing thing. But I think...'' This is so not a conversation she thought she would be having today. To be honest, it's not one she's ever wanted to have. OTA, as Felicity likes to call it, is an impenetrable force within the team. It's good for them but for the people on the outside of those walls, it's become a legitimate safety concern. ''I think you three can sometimes bring out the worst in each other,'' she says. ''I know you care about each other but that doesn't mean you always like each other or work well together. Especially when there are other people on the team getting shafted in order for the team within the team to keep the peace. And yeah, it was hard to feel like I was part of the team. I know Thea felt that too. My father. Sara. Even Roy. And what exactly happened to Curtis? Last I knew, he was poised to join the team.''

''He did,'' John says, and then winces. ''For awhile.''

''What happened after awhile?''

''He...decided it wasn't a good fit.''

''Why is that?''

John releases a resigned sounding sigh. ''We haven't been working well together lately,'' he admits. ''When you died - ''

''You know this has nothing to do with me,'' she interrupts softly. She leans back, taking a few more sips of her coffee while she watches him process what she's saying. ''Imagine putting in 100%, giving it your all, working your ass off to be part of a team and then realizing that the team you joined won't have your back because you're not part of the inner circle.''

That one seems to shake him. ''Is that really how you felt?''

''I respect you,'' she tells him, honest. ''I respect all of you. I love all of you. But OTA isn't really a team anymore. It's a clique.''

He doesn't disagree with that, though he looks ashamed that it's come to this. ''So how do we turn it back to a team?''

''That's not for me to say.''

''Why not?''

''It's not my place.''

''You're part of this team too.''

''I was.''

''What does that mean? You're still - ''

''Johnny.'' She says his name gently and calmly, locking eyes with him from across the table. She doesn't say anything else. She just wraps her hands around her mug and watches his face.

''...You're not coming back,'' he says. ''Are you?''

She smiles wryly. A quiet, wisftul sigh escapes her lips. ''When all of this is over and I'm free to at least attempt to pick up the pieces of whatever's left of my life, I'm packing up my husband and our daughter and we're going on a vacation.'' She nods decisively. She's been thinking a lot about that lately. Maybe the weather's been getting to her. She wants to go to the beach. Somewhere warm. Blue water, white sand, little umbrellas in virgin Pina Coladas. ''I'm thinking Hawaii.''

He smiles, but he looks sad. ''And after that?''

''I don't know,'' she says. ''Maybe we'll try for another baby. Maybe we'll go off the grid and just relax for a bit. I just know that wherever I end up - ''

''It won't be with us,'' he finishes.

She presses her lips into a thin line. She hasn't even shared that idea with Dean. They've talked about the vacation - it was his idea - and they've talked about potentially trying for another baby after all of this is over, but she hasn't told him about her plan to leave Team Arrow for good or that she's been thinking about moving. She knows he would be on board with it. He's been itching to get out of this city ever since Tommy died. It's just not something she wants to speak about out loud just yet. Not when she's not sure what it means.

She can't be a part of that team anymore. It's not a safe place for her. She will die there. She just hasn't quite decided what that means for Black Canary. She doesn't know if this means she's going to retire for good or freelance, so to speak. It's a hard thing to do alone. But it would be even harder to leave Black Canary behind. She doesn't think she can do that.

''I don't want to die,'' she says. ''I didn't want to die then. I don't want to die now.''

''I don't want you to die either,'' he agrees. They lapse into a semi comfortable silence for a few peaceful moments, drinking their coffee and listening to the faraway sound of the girls laughing. ''For what it's worth,'' he says eventually. ''You were part of my team.''

''I'm glad.''

''I respect your decision to move on. I'm selfish,'' he throws her a half smile, ''so I want you to stay. But I can understand why you can't. Will you promise me one thing?''

''What's that?''

''Wherever you end up, whether it's Star City or Hawaii, take Black Canary with you. Don't leave her behind.'' He says it so solemnly, as if it's of the utmost importance that he gets that through to her. ''I know you had a lot of push back in the beginning from everyone - including me - but we were wrong. It's who you are. You are the Black Canary. The only one. There are a lot of people who haven't forgotten that. You gave the people of this city something that Oliver never has. An approachable hero. You weren't just a drive by vigilante. You talked to the people you helped. Made sure they got home safe or got the medical attention they needed. You showed them kindness. I don't think anyone's ever told you what that meant.'' He reaches over to place his hand over hers, squeezing. ''You were a hero. You still are.''

She gulps down the lump in her throat. Making a difference as Black Canary had been the hope. It was why she did it. The end goal. She just hadn't been aware that she'd succeeded. It all happened so quickly. She didn't know she had time to make a difference. The whole ''beloved'' hero thing she's been faced with since she got back is not something she ever saw coming. She hadn't known she was loved much less beloved.

''I know you're in pain,'' John tells her kindly. ''I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through with all of this. But I think this is who you're meant to be. You're not done fighting yet. Remember that, all right?''

She manages a quick nod and then takes another drink of her coffee, trying to swallow down the emotion lodged in her throat. ''You know it wasn't just me,'' she says. ''It wasn't like I was the only one out there giving people hope. None of this starts or stops with me, or even Oliver. It was never one person. It was all of us. This isn't a crusade,'' she says with a smile. ''This is a movement. I hope to see it continue and thrive for a long time whether I'm a part of it or not.''

''You'll always be a part of this, Laurel,'' he promises.

She smiles softly. ''Thank you, Johnny.''

Abruptly, to cut the heaviness of the conversation, she gets to her feet and retrieves the box of macarons from the dining room.

''Okay.'' She flips the box open. ''Now tell me again which one of these pink ones is rose and which one is raspberry? Because I married a curmudgeon and if he accidentally bites into a rose flavored macaron thinking it's raspberry, I'm going to have to listen to him rant about how flowers aren't food and honestly, I don't have that kind of time.''

.

.

.

By the time the movie is over, the rain has slowed to a light drizzle. By the time John and Sara head out, off to go bring Uncle Ollie a fritter and annoy him for funsies, it's stopped raining altogether. It doesn't take Mary long to start begging to go play outside.

Given that they've both been cooped up indoors all day, Laurel thinks that's a good idea. It'll give them both a chance to get some fresh air and burn off some of the sugar from the macarons. In no time at all, Mary is bundled up in her raincoat and her red rubber rain boots, looking for earthworms while Laurel pulls at the weeds in her poor overgrown garden.

It would be nice to be able to load Mary up and take her to the nearest Home Depot for some supplies but since that's not an option, she'll have to make do with what she has here. She keeps one eye on Mary, poking through the grass in search of a wormy friend, and pulls on some worn out gardening gloves. She's not upset with Dean or Thea for not keeping her garden up and running while she was gone, neither of them have green thumbs, but it is upsetting to see the current state of it.

She took a lot of pride in this garden. She always took care of her flowers. Even when her depression was at it's worst and she was neglecting almost every aspect of her life - including her work, her marriage, parenting, her health and personal hygiene - she still got up and did at least the bare minimum to keep things in her garden neat, tidy, and alive. This garden is something that's important to her.

Dean has his car. Laurel has her flowers.

She will admit, however, that today she can barely muster up the energy to pull the weeds out of the dirt. She picks at the culprits halfheartedly, tugging them out of the ground and she tries to work her magic with all the dead flowers, removing the ones beyond saving and caring for the ones that might have a chance, but she's mostly on autopilot.

Today has been a strange day. She loves John. He's her friend and she's glad they had that talk, it was needed, but it was heavy and now she feels wrung out. She stands straight, placing the hefty garbage bag full of weeds on the ground and looking over at her daughter. Mary has moved over to the rose bushes by the fence and she's crouched down, searching for worms. She doesn't look like she's digging around too much or creating too much of a mess so Laurel lets her be. She tugs her gloves off and drags the garbage bag over to the back porch, dropping it down unceremoniously. She pulls out one of the chairs at the table, wipes off as much of the rainwater as possible, and takes a seat.

Maybe it's time to admit that she's getting worried about these physical side effects of her return. She has been so adamant that the only reason she's been feeling like crap is because her body is still getting used to being alive again and she wants that to be true so badly, but it's hard to keep believing that when she feels progressively worse every day instead of better.

Often times, what's dragging her down is continuous flu like symptoms that just aren't getting better. She's tired, aching, nauseated, groggy, and dizzy. She has no appetite, her head hurts, and she just feels out of sorts. It's entirely possible that she actually is getting the flu because it's not like she's had the time to get a flu shot and she can't imagine her immune system is at the top of its game, but that's unlikely. A few days after coming home, she even made Dean go out and get her a bunch of pregnancy tests, just to be extra sure that she came back alone, but it hadn't been a surprise when they all turned up negative. She would love for this to be something as ''simple'' as the flu or pregnancy.

Since when has she had that kind of luck?

She looks back over at Mary, catching sight of her just as the little girl ducks behind the rose bush and out of sight. ''Mary!'' She calls over to her. ''Please stay where I can - ''

''Mommy, look!'' Mary pops out from behind the bush with her hands cupped around something. She scurries over to the porch excitedly, almost tripping up the few steps in her haste. ''Look what I found!'' She holds her hands out so Laurel can see what she caught. ''It's a slug!''

Laurel stares down at the lump of goo masquerading as a living being. She doesn't know whether to laugh or recoil in disgust. At least Mary didn't eat the slug this time. Which she has indeed done in the past. That was the first ever time Laurel had to call poison control. The nice man on the other end of the line could not quite manage to hide his laughter. ''Yep,'' she says. ''That's definitely a slug.''

''I'm gonna name him Buzz. After Buzz Lightyear,'' Mary says proudly. She carefully moves the bug to one hand. The slow moving lump continues inching along her small hand. She runs her index finger over it, petting the ugly creature like it's some cute fuzzy critter and not a slug. She looks up at Laurel innocently. ''Do you - Do you think the pet store's got slug food?''

Laurel looks at her, baffled. ''Mary, I'm not sure we can keep Buzz as a pet.'' She tries to say it as kindly as possible, reaching over to fix the hood of Mary's jacket.

Mary doesn't even notice. Apparently the gentle tone of Laurel's voice did nothing to soften the blow because her face falls instantly. ''But why?''

''I'm not sure we can take care of him,'' Laurel tries.

Mary seems to perk up at that, nodding her head enthusiastically. ''We can!'' She cries out, sounding incredibly optimistic about her chances of talking her mother into this. ''We'll google it.'' She shifts the slug to one hand and then over to the table. She wipes the slime all over her hands on her jacket and Laurel tries not to look too repulsed.

''Mary,'' she sighs out.

''Please, Mommy.'' Mary stares up at her with her puppy dog eyes. She cuddles up close to Laurel, tugging at her shirt and trying to give her a hug. ''Pleeeease. He's friendly. I promise. I love him.''

Laurel can't help but frown at that. First of all, she cannot seriously be talking about the same thing Laurel's looking at. Second of all, she has known this slug for like two minutes so this seems to be moving really fast. Laurel tilts her head to the side. ...Her child is odd. Wonderful and amazing, but odd. ''Buzz is a slug.''

''Buzz is my friend.''

Buzz is a giant booger pretending to be something other than a garden pest.

''I'm sorry, kiddo,'' Laurel says. ''But slugs aren't pets.''

Mary does not take that well. She tenses up and all of a sudden, she goes from desperate and pouting to angry and pouting. ''But that's not fair!'' Huffing angrily, she crawls under the table and plops herself down on the damp wooden porch, crossing her arms in frustration. She sits there, pouting and sniffling miserably for about three seconds before she pushes herself up onto her knees, ducks out briefly, and snatches Buzz the slug off the table. Quite roughly. That poor snot clot must be getting agitated by now. There's this giant human yanking him away from his food source, parading him around, talking loudly. He was probably eating or sleeping when she grabbed him.

Do slugs sleep? Also, do they have teeth? Like, can they bite? Laurel has no idea what the answer is to these questions. She doesn't know much about slugs other than they're pests and she doesn't like them in her garden. She didn't think she needed to know all about slugs because she didn't think her child would ever want to keep one for a pet. Then again, she didn't think her child would ever eat a slug either and look what happened there.

''Mary,'' she tries, and gets no response. She has a feeling it's less because Mary can't hear her and more because she's choosing to ignore her. ''Mary,'' she says again, louder. ''Can you please at least be careful with - ''

''Mommy, shut up.'' It's a quiet little snarl and Mary instantly looks remorseful, throwing a wide-eyed look over her shoulder as if she too cannot believe she just said that, but it does nothing to quell the shock.

Okay, listen.

She knew about the terrible twos and she knew about the threenager phase, but nobody told her four would be just as bad. What would they even call that? The horrible fours? The four-ible stage? At what age does it get better?

Laurel gapes at Mary for several seconds, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck and then she narrows her eyes. Yeah, no. That's not going to fly. ''What did you just say to me?''

Mary doesn't answer. She hunches over even more under the table, guarding the slug like she's Gollum hoarding the One Ring. Laurel sighs and crawls under the table with Mary, moving around to sit in front of her. The slug is now crawling down Mary's leg, making it's way toward freedom inch by inch. She's watching the thing closely but doesn't seem to have any major drive to grab it and hold it close the way she was only seconds ago.

''Mary,'' Laurel says. ''I'm sorry you're feeling upset, but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me that way. I know we've talked about this before. You're entitled to feel whatever you need to feel but you do not have the right to hurt people just because you're upset.''

Mary looks up at her through her eyelashes, looking pitiful. ''I'm sorry,'' she mumbles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She sniffles, looks down at the slug for a second, and then abruptly raises her head and meets Laurel's eyes. ''But Buzz has to be my pet,'' she says firmly. ''I need him.''

Laurel blows out an already exhausted breath and closes her eyes momentarily. ''I know you want a pet,'' she says. ''Your dad and I have been talking about that and we both know it's something that's important to you, but we need to wait for things to settle down before we can get a pet. And you're not going to get one with that attitude.''

Mary considers that for a moment. ''It has to be a slug,'' she says. ''Or a spider. A big one.'' Her eyes light up and she straightens. ''Or a turkey!''

Laurel raises her eyebrows. ''A turkey,'' she echoes. ''Why?''

''They're ugly,'' Mary says, matter-of-fact. ''People are scared of 'em.''

Well, she's not wrong. ''You want people to be scared?''

Mary nods. She looks worried and maybe a bit embarrassed but she also looks incredibly firm on this.

''Of what?'' Laurel asks, signing along. ''Of you?''

At that, Mary's eyes darken with determination and she clenches her jaw - an extremely Winchester trait - and she nods once more.

Laurel is honestly so lost right now. ''Why do you want people to be scared of you?''

Mary looks back down at Buzz the slug. She picks the thing up, plucking it from her rubber boot and plopping it down in the palm of her hand. ''If I got Buzz,'' she practically whispers, ''they'll leave us alone.''

''Who? The kids at school?''

Mary shakes her head. She pets Buzz and doesn't look up for a long time. Eventually, she sighs and relinquishes the thing, placing it down on the porch. She wipes her hand on her leggings and looks at Laurel. ''The bad guys,'' she says. ''Like the bad man that hurt you. If they're scared, they can't hurt you. Or Daddy. And you won't leave again. Buzz'll scare them away 'cause he's so ugly. I can protect you.'' She looks so innocent right now, peering up at her with her scared eyes.

Laurel doesn't know what to say to that. Her first instinct, which she already knows is wrong, is to just brush past this. She doesn't want to see that kind of fear in her daughter's eyes. It's tempting to just give in, let Mary keep the stupid slug, and act like this never happened. She's done that before. Shut down and let Dean handle things like this because she doesn't want to face them. She's done that too many times honestly. She can't do it again.

She clears her throat and tries to get her shit together. ''Come here.'' She crawls out from under the table and helps Mary to her feet. She sits down in the chair and tugs Mary closer to her so they're eye to eye. ''Mary,'' she says, taking her hands. ''I love you, do you know that? I love you so much.''

Mary nods, looking down at their entwined fingers. ''I know.''

''Okay, good. That's good. I just wanted to make sure.'' She licks her lips, struggling to find the right words that will make Mary feel better. She feels like she should be better at this. She was a lawyer. All she did was talk. People tell her all the time that she's so good at knowing what to say. She can come up with passionate opening and closing arguments that win cases and find the right words to comfort John, but she can't even talk to her own kid. ''Listen, Mary Bea,'' she starts. ''I know that things were bad when I was away. I know that you were sad.''

''Yeah,'' Mary bobs her head up and down. ''And Daddy too,'' she says sadly. ''He... He was the saddest.'' Her voice sounds choked when she says that. ''He missed you all the time. I think he was even more sadder than Grandpa.''

Laurel tries to bite back a grimace. ''I'm so sorry you were all sad,'' she says. ''It's awful to be so sad. I - I know that what happened to me was scary but I need you to know that the bad man who hurt me is gone now. Forever. He can't come back.''

Mary looks hesitant to believe that. ''Are you sure?''

''I'm sure. He can't hurt anyone ever again,'' Laurel says, and follows it up with a sign of, I promise.

Mary thinks about that for a minute. ''Okay,'' she says. ''But there are other bad guys.''

''Yes,'' Laurel says. ''There are. And I think it's very sweet and very brave of you to want to help us. You're an amazing girl, my little bird,'' she says, pulling Mary closer so she can lean in and kiss her cold cheek. ''I love that you always want to help people. Your dad and I are so lucky and proud to have you as our daughter. But, Mary, it is not your job to protect us. It's really important that you know that. We're your parents. It's our job to protect you while we can and to prepare you for the incredible, amazing life we want you to be able to have. Right now, your only job is to be a kid and to be kind to others. Is that okay?''

Mary doesn't respond. She has heard the words. Laurel is sure of that. But she has no response. She doesn't look particularly okay with that.

Laurel doesn't know what else she can say. She's out of words. ''Are you okay?''

Mary nods, but stays silent. She's rubbing at her eyes and she looks like she's about to burst into tears.

''Are you sure? Because, you know, it's okay to not be okay. You've had a lot of change this year. You're going to school now, your dad's working, and I'm...'' She trails off, unsure how to proceed with that. She tries to smile, lifting Mary's hand up and kissing the back of it tenderly. ''I know change can be a scary thing,'' she says. ''It's understandable if you're feeling overwhelmed or sad or even angry about that.''

Mary's bottom lip wobbles. She sniffles again, blinking furiously, bravely trying to keep from crying. She lunges forward and jumps up, wrapping her arms around Laurel's neck. Laurel lifts her up onto her lap effortlessly and hugs her back, enveloping her in her arms. She hears Mary let out a single ragged sounding sob, tears leaking into her skin. Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and holds Mary a little tighter. Today has not been an amazing day.

''I just want everybody to be happy again,'' Mary whimpers. ''We were happy before!''

Yep. They were. They were so happy. Worked their asses off to find that happiness and then it was all snatched away in the time it took for Oliver to fire the arrow that killed her. ''I know,'' she says, rubbing Mary's back.

Mary keeps crying quietly, hiding her face. She tightens her grip on Laurel like she's afraid she'll disappear if she even bothers to loosen her grip. Mary has always been an easy child. Maybe easy isn't the right word but adaptable. Her life has changed a lot over the years she's been here. Every year there's something new. A loss here, a new roommate there, a vigilante for a mom, health issues that will be with her for life, but she's dealt with it all. Handled each and every change with ease and courage and a big smile. It was inevitable she would hit her limit eventually.

''Mary.'' Laurel pulls the girl away from her gently to meet her eyes. ''We will be happy again.'' It seems like the best thing to say. ''I know things are rough right now but they will get better. We'll be just as happy as we were before. Maybe even happier.''

''You - You make me happy,'' Mary hiccups. ''You and Daddy.''

''You make us happy too,'' Laurel says, brushing a tear off her daughter's cheek with the pad of her thumb. ''You make us so happy.''

''I want us to be together.''

''We will always be together.''

Mary rubs at her eye with a closed fist. ''You won't leave again?''

''I won't leave,'' Laurel says. ''Neither will Daddy. We're with you, Mary. Always.''

''They won't take you away again? Like before?''

Laurel bites down on her bottom lip. ''No,'' she says, even though she cannot realistically promise that. ''Nobody's going to take me away.''

''And...'' Mary tugs at Laurel's sweater, grasping the collar just to keep her close to her mother. ''I don't gotta scare away the bad guys?''

''No,'' Laurel tries to laugh. ''No, you don't have to scare anyone. I don't want you to scare people. I don't want you to be scared either. Hey.'' She smiles as brightly as possible. ''I have an idea. How about when Daddy gets home, we go out and see a movie. Just the three of us. How does that sound?''

Mary appears to consider the idea for a moment or two, playing absently with a loss thread on Laurel's wool sweater. She stops eventually, leaning in to rest her shoulder on Laurel's shoulder. ''Trolls?''

''Yes, we can go see Trolls if you want.''

Mary plays with Laurel's hair and shows zero interest in moving anytime soon. ''Can we get nachos?''

''Maybe.''

''Can I get my own drink?''

''I think we can swing that.''

''Is Daddy gonna put candy in your purse?''

''Probably. Daddy likes to cheat the system.''

''Cheating is wrong.''

''It...'' Laurel struggles to choke down a laugh. ''Yes, it is. Don't cheat. However, when you're older, I'll teach you about what a rip off movie theater concession stands are.''

''Okay,'' Mary says. ''But I can still get my own drink?''

''Of course.''

''Mommy?''

''Yes?''

There is a lengthy pause before Mary whispers, ''I'm sorry I was mean.'' She still has her head laying on Laurel's shoulder, still playing with her hair and sniffling. ''I don't want you to shut up.''

''I'm happy to hear that,'' Laurel says, ''because I never shut up.''

Mary giggles a little and turns her head to bury her face in Laurel's shoulder.

''Thank you for apologizing,'' Laurel adds. ''I'm sorry you've been feeling sad lately.''

Mary doesn't say anything to that, but she does wipe her nose on Laurel's sweater so it seems like things are back to normal.

Laurel rests her cheek against the top of Mary's head. It's getting chilly outside. They should probably get back to worm hunting so they can go inside. But maybe in a few minutes. For right now, she's content to just chill out here. She closes her eyes. She can feel her nose starting to run, likely from the cool weather, so she reluctantly pulls away, reaching up to wipe at it. Her hand comes away red just as Mary's straightening up and there is no time to hide.

''Mommy!'' Mary yelps. ''You're bleeding!'' She jumps off of her lap, eyes wide in concern. ''Oh no, we gotta call Daddy!''

''No, no, it's okay,'' Laurel assures her. She holds a hand to her nose, trying to both stem the flow of blood before it gets on her clothes and keep it out of Mary's sight. ''I'm okay. It's just a nose bleed.''

''But Daddy - ''

''Can't fix this,'' Laurel says, tilting her head back. ''Listen, if I go to the bathroom, will you promise me you'll stay in the yard?''

''I promise.''

''All right. Please make sure you put Buzz back where you found him.'' Hesitantly, Laurel ducks back inside and hurries down the hall to the bathroom. It's not the worst nosebleed she's had since coming back. She realizes that as soon as she's holding a tissue to her nose. She tilts her head back again, grimacing at the feel of blood running down her throat, and blinks up at the light. This is her fourth nosebleed in less than two weeks. The last one happened in the middle of the night. That was a bad one. Poor Dean woke up in the middle of the night when she flicked on her bedside lamp and freaked out when he looked over at her and she looked like an extra in a bad slasher flick. She had to change her pajamas, her pillowcase, the sheets, and she went through almost an entire box of Kleenex.

Laurel tosses one bloodied tissue in the garbage and grabs a fresh one. This nosebleed is nothing compared to that one. The bleeding seems to have slowed already, which is a relief. Although she thinks she's gotten blood on the sleeve of her sweater. In the grand scheme of things, it's just a nosebleed and it's just a sweater but she can't help but feel resentful.

She had been doing such a good job of hiding these physical symptoms from Mary. There's no way Mary hasn't noticed the increasing fatigue and the lack of appetite, but Laurel has worked so hard to keep everything else to herself and now Mary has watched her bleed. She hates that.

The nosebleed stops fairly quickly, within just a couple minutes, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It could have been worse. She blows her nose, tosses the tissue away, and washes the blood from her hands. She gives her reflection a quick onceover.

She wonders, briefly, if she should attempt to hide the bloody tissues at the bottom of the garbage can. Not worth the effort. If she knows her daughter - and she thinks she does - Mary's going to tell Dean about what happened as soon as he comes home. That's just what she does. In her mind, Dad can fix everything. Every owie, every ailment, every scraped knee and tummy ache. That's another reason she's been trying to keep this from Mary. She doesn't need her reporting everything to Dean.

Laurel flicks off the bathroom light and starts for the back door. She doesn't get far before she stops in her tracks and whirls around. There's someone in the kitchen. Her lips turn down into a frown. It's too early for Dean or Thea to be home, and she's certain Sara had plans with Felicity for the day. Laurel glances once in the direction of the back door. Mary's a good girl. She'll stay in the yard. This will only take a minute.

She moves down the hall and into the dining room silently, avoiding the creaks in the floor. She pauses at the kitchen door. There's definitely someone in there. She wonders if she should go get a weapon to defend herself against this possible intruder. Except all the weapons are in the garage. She's probably getting ahead of herself anyway. She pushes through the door and into the kitchen. ''Sara?'' There is no one in here. Still, something doesn't feel right. Her body tenses up, hair on the back of her neck standing up. This really doesn't feel right. ''Dean? Is that - ''

She never even has a chance to scream.

A strong, muscled arm clamps around her waist and yanks her back roughly into an unfamiliar body. In the blink of an eye, someone is covering her mouth with a cloth. It doesn't take her long to identify the sweet smell of chloroform.

Laurel struggles against the strong grip and fights the instinct to gasp for air, holding her breath inside. Her attacker - male, tall, well built, strong - is keeping her flush against him, fingers digging into her abdomen, undoubtedly leaving bruises. A flash of rage ignites inside of her. She will not be kidnapped by someone too cowardly to look her in the eye while he hurts her. And Mary. She needs to get back to Mary.

Using the man's seemingly built body as leverage, she leans back against him, jumps up, and manages to kick off the counter, ramming him back into the fridge. It startles him enough to drop the cloth. She takes in a few gulps of air and fights through the wooziness, bashing her elbow back into his face. She hears a sickening crunching noise and he roars in pain, loosening his grip on her. She shakes him off, throwing herself at the counter and scrambling to grab a knife from the knife block as he reaches for her. Without hesitation, she whirls around, sends a kick to his shin, and when his knee buckles and he reaches out, placing a hand on the counter for support, she slams the knife down into his hand. The man howls in pain, and that's when she gets a good look at his face.

Holy shit.

She recognizes him. Even though the blood, the broken nose, and the howling, she recognizes him. ''Andrew?'' It's Andrew Denton. Her next door neighbor's older brother. She's met him. She's met him several times. He has never been anything but kind and helpful to her, just like the rest of his family. I mean, okay, maybe he's a little prickly sometimes but he's just a normal guy. He has helped her carry in groceries, he seems to strike up friendly conversations with Dean, and he has spoken to her daughter.

There is no time for shock or betrayal or anger because the kitchen door is starting to open and she can tell by the looming shadow that whoever is on the other side is not a friendly. She rips the knife out of Andrew's hand, earning herself another yell, twirls it until she's gripping the blade, waits exactly three breaths for the man - an unfamiliar one this time - to make it almost all the way through the door, and then she throws the knife. The knife sails through the air and hits the target perfectly, embedding itself into the man's shoulder. Not enough to keep him down but it's certainly enough to make him shout and stumble back, out of the kitchen.

Laurel turns, grabs the closest and heaviest thing she can find off the counter, which happens to be the toaster, and swings it as hard as she can. It smashes into Andrew's face and he just drops. She tosses the broken toaster on the ground, the tiniest ghost of a smile flickering on her lips.

And Oliver thinks she needs more training.

She goes for the door but doesn't get far before the door to the garage creaks open, there's a quiet whirring-like noise, and then there is a hand around her neck and something is clicking into place around her throat. She gasps at the uncomfortable feeling, almost like asphyxiation, bringing a hand up to her throat. It's... It's a collar. Similar to her old Canary Cry device but more cumbersome and she can tell that it's doing something to her, keeping her sonic scream at bay, depowering her instead of powering her, and that's what gives her a cold flash of fear and anger.

She has had it up to here with being depowered and dehumanized by men.

David Denton, the twenty-year-old son of Jim and Sylvia, steps away from her. ''Sonic dampener,'' he says. He tries for a smirk but he is sweating profusely and looks like he is torn somewhere between stunned and horrified at what he's done. Still, he tries for tough. ''Wouldn't want you screaming the house down, Canary.''

Oh.

So this is not some random unrelated robbery then.

Frankly, she's disappointed.

Dean has never fully trusted the Denton family. He's cordial, even friendly, he'll go to their Fourth of July parties and laugh with Andrew and Jim and he'll happily accept whatever baked goods Ida sends over and trade recipes with her, but he has never believed that their kindness is 100% genuine. ''They're too nice,'' he says. ''Nobody is that nice.'' She has always stuck up for them. People can be kind without having some kind of nefarious ulterior motive.

She's irked he was right about these people.

Just like with his uncle, she opts to go for the nose. It's the easiest. When in doubt, go for the nose. People can be such babies about broken noses. She doesn't have the time to fully engage with him right now because there is a big bodybuilder dude in her dining room and she needs to deal with him before he decides to go for Mary instead of her. As soon as her fist connects with David's nose and he rears back, grabbing his nose and whining that she's broken it, she roughly shoves him back into the garage. He tumbles down the three steep steps to the concrete below and she shuts the door. She doubts it'll hold him for long. Hopefully just long enough for her to deal with the bear in her dining room.

She pushes through the kitchen door and immediately has to duck to avoid the knife that's swinging at her jugular. That's the downside of throwing a knife at your problems. It always comes back to bite you. She can't help but let out a startled yelp of, ''Shit!'' She dodges the knife a couple of times before she's able to grab a hold of his wrist and drive him back, slamming his arm against the arched doorway of the dining room until he drops the knife. It barely even slows him down. One backhand from him is enough to send her sprawling to the floor, blood in her mouth from where her tooth cut into her lip.

She cannot stress enough how big this guy is. He's tall, massive, and all muscle. That's unfortunate, but the truly intimidating thing about him is his eyes. There's nothing in them. No hate, no anger, no sick sense of pleasure. There is nothing at all. It's like looking into a dead man's eyes. When she sees him go for the knife again, she scrambles to her feet and races across the room, making a mad dash for the dining room curtains. She yanks the rod down and grabs the curtains just in time. When he makes at stab at her, the knife winds up buried in the fabric. She twists until the knife is out of his grasp and the curtains are wound around his wrists. She yanks him closer, pulls her hand free, and lands a nasty right hook. It does make his head snap to the side, which is satisfying, but it seems to do little damage to him other than momentarily set him back.

She tries to take advantage of that momentary distraction by landing another punch, a left hook this time, and then another, and another, and even a couple of kicks, but the guy just will not go down. She has taken down several men at once before but she is nothing but a mildly annoying mosquito to this guy. He literally swats her away. She falls back, hitting her head on the edge of the table. She lands on her hands and knees, dazed, with blood running into her left eye.

See, okay, now she's getting kind of vexed.

This is just getting ridiculous now. She is the Black Canary and she can't even take down one goon? That's embarrassing. She will not prove Oliver right.

Laurel grabs onto the leg of a chair, gripping it tightly. When she hears footsteps approaching, she waits, listens, and then she jumps to her feet and smashes the chair over his head. Twice. Until it crumbles apart over his head. He folds like a wet napkin.

...For about five seconds.

She watches him rise to his feet, eyes widening incredulously. She backs away from the Incredible Hulk. ''Be honest,'' she says in her best disapproving Mom voice, pointing a finger at him. ''Are you on PCP?''

All he does is growl at her. He's breathing heavily but he does not seem at all bothered by the blood dripping down his bald head. ''I'm supposed to deliver you,'' he says. His voice is surprisingly quiet, but flat, completely devoid of any human emotions.

''Deliver me,'' she parrots. ''Deliver me where?''

He smiles at her. More of a grimace really. ''Home,'' he tells her, and then he charges.

The next thing she knows, she is being tackled. Lifted up in the air and then slammed down on the dining room table with his hands around her throat. It knocks the wind out of her, and the collar rises up, bashing against her chin. It also knocks over the vase of lilies that Dean brought home yesterday to cheer her up. She struggles, one hand pushing against his chest, the other groping around for the heavy crystal vase. Just as the edges of her vision are starting to go fuzzy and dark, she grab the vase, swings as hard as she can, and smashes it over his head.

Finally, he drops.

She groans, dropping her head back onto the table. ''That was a wedding present, you asshole,'' she mutters weakly. It was such a good vase too. Sturdy, reliable, and according to the receipt left in the box by Detective Hilton's wife, it was expensive. A good item to pawn if they ever get really down in the dumps. Also, the flowers were nice. She always loves when Dean brings her flowers.

She blinks and gives herself a few seconds to find her bearings before she rolls off the table. She doubles over right away, hands on her knees, trying to breathe through the throbbing pain of her head wound. She thinks the injury is most likely superficial because those tend to be the ones that bleed the most and she can tell that nearly the entire left side of her face is covered in blood, but it stings something awful.

''I'm so out of practice,'' she mutters, bringing a hand up to touch it only to hiss in pain and retract her hand. She wipes the blood on her sweater and slowly stands up straight. Then, because she's just having one of those days, the kitchen door opens, and there's a gun pointed at her.

''Don't move,'' David orders.

Laurel looks at the gun, and then at him. ''David, I really don't have time for this.''

He moves to grip the gun with two hands instead of one, which is probably a good idea because he is shaking like a leaf. ''I said don't - ''

''You're holding it wrong,'' she states, bluntly.

He looks thrown. ''What?''

''The gun,'' she clarifies. ''You're holding it wrong. And your stance is all wrong. Have you ever fired a gun before?''

He blinks some sweat out of his eyes. ''I - I don't see how that's relevant.''

''It's relevant because you're holding a gun to my head,'' she says calmly. ''It's going to be loud when you shoot me, David. Much louder than they make it seem in the movies. There will be recoil. Not as much as there would be with a shotgun, but it'll still be enough to startle you if it's your first time. This is your first time, isn't it?''

''I can manage,'' he says, even as he takes a step back.

''All right,'' she says patiently. ''I just don't want you to injure your wrist.''

''Why would you even care?'' He sneers.

She frowns at him. ''You're still a person, David.''

''Stop saying that.''

''Saying what?''

''My name. Stop saying my name like that. It's not even...''

''It's not even what?''

''Nothing!'' He shakes his head wildly. ''Just stop doing that.''

''Okay,'' she nods. ''I'll stop.'' She puts her hands up, trying to make herself appear less threatening. ''But, please, just listen to me. If you shoot me at close range like this, it is going to be messy. I don't know why you're doing this, but I know you're not ready to see that,'' she advises softly. ''You've never seen me without makeup on let alone without a face.''

He doesn't say anything but even with two hands gripping the gun, he still can't seem to hold it steady. His eyes dart to the left, over to the slumped body of the Stone Cold Steve Austin lookalike on the ground and in that split second opening, she takes the shot. She rushes at him, grasping onto his arm, and he startles. Reflexively, he pulls the trigger. The bullet whizzes past her and through the dining room window behind her, leaving her with ringing ears but otherwise unharmed. She manages to redirect his next few shots at the floor before she is able to get close enough to jam her knee into his groin. He collapses, making it easy as pie to twist his wrist until he drops the gun, catch it before it hits the ground, and pistol whip him. He sinks like a stone. For such a young, fit, spry kid, he is shit at fighting.

Laurel glances at the gun in her hand. Just to be on the safe side, she presses the button next to the trigger and extracts the magazine. To be extra safe, she grabs the slide, makes sure the barrel of the gun is pointed at the ground, and pulls back. The bullet in the chamber tumbles out and goes clattering to the ground next to David's prone form. Loaded weapons are not generally permitted in this house past the point of the garage. She pockets the magazine and tosses the useless gun on the table.

On the other side of the table, someone groans.

She gapes in disbelief, watching as the hulking delivery man lumbers to his feet. Jesus, is this guy made of vibranium or something? She moves as quickly as she can, pulling the nearby chair out and stepping up onto the table before even has a chance to turn around. She jumps onto his back, which definitely catches him off guard, gets her legs wrapped around his meaty neck, and squeezes.

Laurel likes to think she has some awesomely strong arms. She worked super fucking hard to get these arms. But, no matter how much training she does, sometimes she is going to come up against men who have bigger arms than her, so she's learned her thighs are her greatest weapons. Even her thighs are having trouble with this guy.

''Okay,'' she grinds out through her teeth, squeezing tighter. ''Come on, big guy. Go to sleep.''

Eventually, he does. But it takes a long ass time. Longer than this has ever taken. As soon as he starts to collapse, she releases her hold on him and manages to catch herself with a somersault before she hits the ground. She springs up and turns around to look at him, splayed out on the ground, seemingly unconscious. With a cautious frown, she takes a step in his direction and kicks at his leg. He doesn't move. She gives it one more kick. Nothing. He's definitely out.

About time.

All right then. Gotta get to Mary. That's the plan so far. She needs to get to her daughter and then they need to get out of here. Get somewhere safe where she can contact Dean. Team Arrow's bunker probably. She tugs at the collar as she starts for the hallway. It is getting uncomfortably hard to breathe. She's going to assume it's this. She doesn't know exactly how this thing works, but she knows it's halting her powers. The Canary Cry is useless, stuck in her throat, and it's beginning to feel like...like maybe the air is thinning?

Wait.

Laurel stops. When she tries to draw in a deep breath, it only ends in a wheeze. She brings a hand up to her chest and tries again. She sounds like a lifelong chain smoker having an asthma attack. ''Oh, shit.'' Frantically, she fumbles with the thing around her neck. It was a mild annoyance during the fight but now it is actively trying to prevent her from breathing so it needs to go. She struggles to find some kind of latch, breaths becoming increasingly shallow pants. ''Shit,'' she coughs out again. ''How am I supposed to - ''

''It's not the collar,'' a voice says from behind her.

She whirls around, eyes landing on the familiar figure, casually leaning against the doorjamb of the front door. Jim Denton, her soft spoken, sweetheart of a neighbor.

Here is a list of things she knew about the Denton family: Jim and Sylvia, both in their mid-forties, were college sweethearts, they live with their two children, David and Heather, ages twenty and eighteen, and his mother, Ida. Andrew, Jim's bachelor brother, comes around a lot for free food. Jimmy is a veterinarian. Sylvia is a hair stylist. Ida bakes the best pumpkin bread you will ever taste. Both kids are now attending the local community college. They are all incredibly kind and helpful. Would give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it. The definition of neighborly.

Here is a list of things Laurel did not know about the Denton family: They are, apparently, witches. Lying, scheming witches.

Or at least that's what Laurel is going to go ahead and assume. Considering Jim is standing there holding a hex bag in his hand.

She has never seen a hex bag in real life. She has been told about them, warned about them, but she has never seen one until now. The small red cloth tied into a little bag doesn't look scary, but do you know what is actually quite terrifying? Not being able to breathe.

''That's just a sonic dampener,'' Jim says, gesturing at the thing around her neck. He crosses the threshold of her home and shuts the door behind him. ''It keeps you quiet. You're choking,'' he says, ''because I want you to choke.''

That is one of the most sociopathic things anyone has ever said to her. And she has had extended interactions with a lot of criminals. Including Damien Darhk, and that guy was batshit.

Jim smiles at her, the same smile he wears when he drops off cookies his mother made at Christmas time. ''Can't beat your way out of this one, can you?''

She narrows her eyes at him. ''Let's see.'' She attempts to charge at him but immediately has to stop. Or rather, is stopped.

Jim, not the least bit afraid of her, just raises his hand, says something in Latin that sounds like impediendum and it's like her body just stops working. All of her limbs seize up and then go weak and she collapses in a heap, paralyzed and still fighting to breathe.

Well, fuck him and his mother's pumpkin bread.

''That's the problem with you vigilante types,'' he says, crouching down in front of her. ''You assume violence is the only way to do things.''

She tries to choke out a laugh. ''This...isn't violence?''

He smiles lightly. ''You should try to relax,'' he advises calmly, setting the hex bag down on the ground next to her. ''I know you're worried about your daughter, but you don't need to be. We haven't touched Mary and we don't intend to. My boss has no interest in her.'' He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. ''Not yet anyway.''

She glares at him. She is getting air, enough to keep her from passing out, but it feels like her airway is slowly closing. Despite this, she still gets out a snarl of, ''Go to hell.''

He plucks something from his inside jacket pocket, a little black pouch of some sort. ''Now that's not very neighborly, Laurel.'' He sets the pouch on the floor and flips it open, brushing his fingers over a scalpel before selecting a syringe and a small vial. She doesn't even have to look at the label to know that it is ketamine. Just like what was found at the graveyard. Ketamine. A horse tranquilizer. Something a vet would have easy access to.

It was the Dentons. They were the ones who brought her back. They were the ones in the graveyard that night. They did this to her.

Laurel can't tell if the tears pricking at her eyes are because of the lack of oxygen or the betrayal. These people were at her 30th birthday party last year. They host the annual Fourth of July party for the whole neighborhood. When she was in the hospital after her suicide attempt and Dean was running around trying to wrangle Mary by himself, dealing with insurance, and trying to keep her family at bay, Sylvia took care of the garden. Every time they've gone out of town, the Dentons look after the garden and pick up their mail.

These people were their friends.

She wants to tell him how disgusted she is but she can't breathe. All she can do is gasp for air while he watches. He takes a moment to look at her, and then he takes some zip ties out of the pouch and removes a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He ties her hands together and her legs and when he's sure she's secure, he takes out a lighter, grabs the hex bag, and sets it on fire.

Air returns to her lungs with a whoosh and she greedily sucks in a few gulps of air. ''You...'' She watches him stomp out the fire, barely even sparing her a glance. She takes in a few more desperate breaths of air. The feeling in her limbs is slowly starting to return as well. ''You brought me back.''

''We did,'' he agrees.

''Why?''

That he doesn't answer. He just says, ''And here I thought you would be grateful.''

''Grateful,'' she spits out incredulously. ''I was buried alive. I had to dig myself out of my own grave. How could you do that to someone? How could you just...?'' She stops, swallowing hard and looking away from his cold eyes and his callous smirk. ''You were my friend.''

Jim stares at her blankly. ''You were never mine,'' he says simply, before going back to what he was doing.

This is not the man she knew. He hasn't gone to check on his son or his brother. He hasn't even asked about them.

''You want the sonic scream,'' she accuses.

''I don't,'' he corrects. ''I couldn't care less about whatever supposed super powers you have. This is just a job. She's the one who wants you.''

''She,'' Laurel repeats. ''She who?''

''Don't worry about that right now,'' he says, ripping off a piece of tape and placing it over her mouth. ''You'll see her soon enough.'' He returns to the syringe and the ketamine. All of his movements are methodical and precise. His hands don't shake. He's not nervous. This is not his first abduction. He turns the vial upside down, expertly pulling the plunger back to fill the syringe with medication. ''I'm just going to give you something to help you relax,'' he tells her. ''By the time you wake up,'' he pulls the syringe out and sets the vial down carefully tapping on the syringe and squirting out a bit of liquid to make sure there are no air bubbles, ''this will all be over.''

She has no idea what that means but she knows she can't let him give her that crap. Among other things, she is a recovering addict. She cannot have ketamine. She tries to jerk away from him when he gets closer by he grabs her by the hair, forcing her to expose her neck.

''This is what you were brought back for, Laurel,'' he says. ''There's no use fighting it. No one's coming for you.''

The deafening bang of a gunshot reverberates through the air and suddenly Jim is on the floor. He's clutching at his bloody hand, alternating between screaming and spitting out expletives through clenched teeth.

In the dining room, Dean lowers his gun. ''I think I'd like to test that theory, Jimmy.''

Laurel feels her entire body sag with relief. It's a short lived feeling. The second she looks at Jim and sees the rage mixing with the pain in his eyes, all she can think about is how this man paralyzed her with a single word. When he moves, attempting to push himself up onto his knees, she makes her move. The vial of ketamine has been blown to smithereens by the bullet but the syringe is still intact, lying on the floor. She dives for it, managing to grasp onto it even with both of her hands zip tied in front of her, and throws herself at him. She struggles with it for a second but manages to sink the needle into his neck and push the plunger.

Jim whips his head around, locks eyes with her, and backhands her across the face. There is an explosion of stinging pain and her head snaps to the side, hair falling in her face and sticking to the wet blood.

Jim, already drifting off, is wrenched away from her and then, finally, Dean is there. He all but tosses Jim aside, crouching down in front of her. ''Laur,'' he sounds frantic, carefully moving the hair out of the way to get a good look at her bloodied face. ''Hey, hey, baby, are you good? Are you okay?''

He looks so concerned and so pissed off that someone has done this to her. As gently as possible, he peels the tape off her mouth and the first thing she says, more for his sake, is, ''He hits like a six year old.''

It manages to get a small shocked laugh out of him. ''I'm sure.''

''It was them,'' she says, needlessly. ''It was the Dentons. They're the witches.''

He pulls his pocketknife out and slices through the binds around her ankles. ''I gathered that.''

''There - There's someone else,'' she rushes. ''A woman, I think. They're working for her. They - Jimmy said I was a job.''

''Okay.'' He cuts through the binds on her hands. ''Okay, honey, we'll figure that out. We got 'em now. We'll get them to talk. Just...'' He hauls her to her feet, holding onto her arms tightly. ''Let me look at you.'' He turns her head to the side to get a look at her head wound and the collar around her neck. ''Jesus,'' he grimaces. ''Laurel - ''

''I'm fine,'' she says. ''Really, I'm - ''

''You bitch!'' The kitchen door flies open, banging against the wall, and Andrew, bloody face and all, comes stalking out. He looks enraged, snarling obscenities and going straight for her with one of the kitchen knives in his hand. ''You fucking bitch!''

He doesn't even make it past the dining room. The soft and recognizable thwack and whoosh of someone firing an arrow sounds and then the knife is shot out of his hand. He startles, stopping in his tracks and turning to the newcomer. ''What the fu - ''

The next arrow gets him in the thigh.

He shouts, sounding both pained and stunned that he has been shot with an arrow.

Laurel looks in the direction of the front door, expecting to see Oliver or Thea standing there. It is not Oliver or Thea.

Nyssa, silhouetted by the daylight, leisurely lowers her bow and looks over at Laurel. ''You get yourself into the strangest situations.''

Laurel means to smile back at her because she really is overjoyed to see her friend, but that is the moment she remembers - ''Mary.'' Her eyes widen in horror and her body just moves. She spins on her heel, pushes past Dean, and takes off, tearing down the hallway in the direction of the back door. She gets all the way outside and onto the back porch, calling for her daughter, before her brain catches up with her eyes and lets her see what's in front of her.

Mary, giggling and screeching in delight, playing with a jumpy golden retriever puppy and Charlie Bradbury.

''Mommy!'' Mary cries out without looking up. She's so happy and excited and completely oblivious. ''Mommy, look! Look, it's Aida! Aida came to - ''

Then she looks up.

She looks up from her puppy companion and her face switches from jubilant to panicked. That's when Laurel remembers that her face is covered in blood. She whips back around to hide her face but the damage is done.

''You're hurt!'' Mary freezes up for about a second, and then she's tripping over her own feet to get to Laurel. ''You're hurt!''

Dean, who had been right on Laurel's heels, practically pulls a Barry Allen racing off the porch to intercept Mary and swoop her up into his arms. ''Mary, Mary, she's okay,'' he says. ''Mom's okay. She just...had an accident.''

''No!'' Mary shakes her head, face crumpling in distress and anxiety. ''No, no, no, Daddy, there's blood!'' He says something else to her, something too low for Laurel to hear, but Mary refuses to hear it, adamantly shaking her head and squirming in his arms.

''Mary,'' Laurel calls out but doesn't care to leave for porch and get closer to Mary with her gore covered face. ''Honeybee, I promise I'm okay.'' It doesn't do anything to deter Mary's meltdown. She thinks it's best if Dean handles this one.

''Holy crap, Laurel.'' Charlie jogs up onto the porch, grabbing onto Laurel's hands right away. ''It's really good to see you and I'm so glad you're alive but - holy crap, Laurel. What the hell happened?''

''My neighbors turned out to be psychopaths,'' she deadpans.

''Oh.'' Charlie looks at her for a moment and then she wrinkles her nose in irritation and props a hand up on her hip. ''I hate when that happens.'' She eyes the collar still clamped around Laurel's neck. ''Uh, wow, okay, we should definitely get this thing off, huh?''

''Yes please.''

''Aida!'' Nyssa, looking as unruffled as ever, steps out onto the porch and whistles sharply.

The puppy, following Dean around, yipping and whining and nudging at his foot worriedly, snaps to attention at the sound of her voice. The puppy comes bounding over, clumsily makes it up the steps, and then trips and winds up plopping down at Nyssa's feet. She peers down at it, uncharacteristically fond. When she catches Laurel looking at her, she just shrugs and says, ''I have a dog now'' like it's a totally normal thing for her to have a pet. ''She is an idiot,'' she says crisply, which is a little more on brand for her. ''I would die for her.'' Which is also very on brand for her.

Laurel blinks at her, and then nods. ''That's nice.'' She looks back at Charlie. ''What... What are you guys doing here?''

''Dean called us,'' Charlie explains. ''We...'' She glances at Nyssa. ''We haven't had any cell reception for the past couple weeks so we just got his message. We came straight here.''

''I would apologize for being late,'' says Nyssa, ''but it appears we arrived just in time.''

Laurel huffs out a laugh. ''I'll say,'' she mutters, offering Nyssa a smile.

Nyssa inhales sharply when Laurel smiles at her, catching her eye with a slow smile of her own. ''It is good to see you,'' she says, stepping closer and bringing a hand up to touch Laurel's uninjured cheek softly. ''The world was less without you here, habibti.''

.

.

.

May, 2016

DINAH LAUREL LANCE
1985 - 2016
THE BLACK CANARY

Yep.

He still fucking hates this dumbass gravestone.

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, it's going to be removed and the one he paid for will stand in its place. Good riddance. It'll be better to see the other one standing here, the one that remembers her as a person instead of reducing her identity to a mask, but the rage that this fucking thing ignited is not going to go away.

''The Black Canary,'' he sneers. ''Congrats, babe. You're a fucking figurehead.''

He pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the brown paper bag in his hand looks down at it for a long time. What a tremendous waste of money. There are bills piling up at home. He has to deal with medical bills, funeral costs, legal fees, he used all of the GoFundMe money on the headstone, the burial plot, and the casket, and now there's no health insurance for all of Mary's medical needs. And he has to deal with all of that now. He's the only one left. So, no, he shouldn't have wasted money on this. Even this cheap ass rotgut bullshit was too much to waste. But here he is. He twists the cap off the bottle.

''225 days under grass,'' Bukowski wrote, ''and you know more than I.''

If there was one thing that dramatic old drunkard knew, it was suffering. Dean never understood what that line meant until now. There are many things he didn't understand until now.

He splashes some of the cheap whiskey over his raw, oozing knuckles and barely even grimaces at the harsh sting. ''Darhk's dead,'' he tells the stone. It feels stupid to be here, talking to her when he doesn't believe she's here but this is where his body took him. He wanted to go home so he pointed the car to her.

''Happy Mother's Day,'' he says, and then tilts the bottle to his lips.

''Did you torture that man?''

He freezes at the sound of the voice. He slowly pulls the bottle away from his mouth before he can take a sip and turns around.

Black Canary is standing a few feet away from him, in the shadows. He stares and then stares some more. ''Laurel?'' He breathes out her name, awed. ''How are you...'' He stops. Takes a step back.

Other than a slight tilt of her head, she hasn't reacted to the sound of his voice. He can't see her face but he knows - he knows - it's her.

Except it's not.

His shoulders slump and he drags a hand over his weary face. ''Fuck off,'' he monotones. He turns away from her only to jerk back in surprise when he finds her standing right in front of him.

''You should sleep more,'' she advises, crossing her arms. ''You'd hallucinate a lot less.''

''Go away,'' he orders sharply.

She doesn't move but her judgmental eyes peer up at him through the mask fitted on her face. This is not the Laurel he lost last month. This is Black Canary 1.0, complete with the platinum blonde wig and the overly stiff body language. It's strange to see her like this. He has an unlimited amount of respect for Black Canary but he can't say he's had a lot of extended interaction with her. Not like this. She belonged so deeply to Laurel. He didn't want to get in the way. But she didn't just belong to Laurel. That's what he's learned over the past month. Black Canary belonged to this whole city. She was a force of nature, a legend, and he never truly had the chance to know her. He regrets that now. He regrets a lot of things.

''You look like a deranged American Girl doll, you know that?''

''You look like shit,'' she replies. She steps closer to him, into his personal space, inches away from him. She asks again, quieter this time, ''Did you torture that man?''

''Do you think he didn't deserve it?''

''That wasn't my question.'' She shakes her head. She looks disappointed. ''He was just a man.''

Dean laughs cruelly. ''Just a man,'' he repeats mockingly. ''You know what? You can shove your condemnation. He wasn't a man. He was a monster. I'm a hunter. I was doing my job.''

Her dark red, almost black lips stretch into an unnerving, sinister looking grin. Her white teeth stand out against the dark color of her lips. ''Do you think she would approve of the job you did tonight?''

''She doesn't get a say,'' he barks out shortly. ''You don't get a say. You left.''

''I died.''

''You - '' He cuts himself off quickly, drowning the thought.

''I what?''

''Nothing.'' He squeezes his eyes shut. ''Nothing.''

She is still there when he opens his eyes. Just standing there staring at him. ''You've gotten your revenge,'' she says softly. ''You've slayed the dragon. Congratulations. Where are you now, Dean?''

He has to swallow. ''What?''

''You know revenge is meaningless. You watched it eat up your father and your brother. You saw what they got out of revenge in the end. It's a hollow victory, and you know that. You've always known that. But here you are. You've taken out the focus of your anger. Now what's left? You've got all these ghosts and all this grief. Where will it go now? Where will you put it all?''

He can't answer that. ''Why don't you tell me what to do now,'' he suggests, trying to keep his voice even. ''Since you seem to have all the answers.''

''I don't have all the answers,'' she shrugs. ''I'm not real.'' She looks at him closely, almost curiously. ''Did it help?''

''Didn't hurt.''

She regards him silently for a moment and then pulls the wig and the mask off, tossing them to the ground. He flinches at the sight of her. ''Didn't it?''

He can't look at her.

None of this is real. He knows that his dead wife is not standing here. He's hallucinating. He hasn't slept. He took a beating tonight. Maybe he's concussed. This isn't real. He may be grief's bitch but at least he's self-aware enough to realize that. Reluctantly, he looks back at her. She looks like her now without the mask and the wig. She just looks like...Laurel. Like his Laurel. ''What do you want me to say?''

She's right, you know.

Revenge is meaningless. He spent hours torturing some wannabe immortal wizard, waiting to feel something, waiting for it to help with the hollow ache, and all he felt was empty. Tonight was the closest he has gotten to Alastair in years. His body remembered how to do those things and he let it. He expected it to trigger the PTSD. He wanted it to feel good but he expected it to take him right back to the pit. But it didn't. It didn't take him anywhere. It didn't give him anything. He split Darhk apart until he begged for mercy, and he couldn't feel a thing. It meant nothing. An evil man is no longer a threat. Great. But so what?

When he went to the crossroads back in April to bargain for Laurel's life, the crossroads demon laughed at him. Told him he had nothing to give her. He offered her his soul and she spit it right back out at him. ''That mangled, shredded thing? No thanks. I'll pass. Too damaged even for us. I mean, look at you,'' she crowed. ''So sad and pathetic, begging to burn just to get your little birdie back. There is nothing we could do to break you. Your hell? Sweetie, look around you. You're already there.''

She was right.

''You're not coming back,'' he chokes out. He hasn't said that part out loud before.

He's been having a hard time lately, if that wasn't obvious. He's trying to figure out what it all means. He's trying to find his footing again but it's hard to do when there's no solid ground left to stand on. He doesn't understand how this new life works.

How did they get here? How did this happen? How do people go through this? How do they survive? He's cheated death before, they both have, what makes this time so different?

Somewhere under the fog of shock and grief, he does understand the logistics of how she died.

Laurel was stabbed in the lung with an arrow. It was violent, painful, and bloody. When you stab someone in the lung, it causes a leakage of air into the pleural cavity and that's what causes a pneumothorax. In Laurel's case, the air couldn't go back into the lung and she wound up with a tension pneumothorax. With all the damage to the blood vessels, there was - in the doctor's exact words - ''an accumulation of blood in the chest cavity.'' That's called a haemothorax. He didn't know all that until he was standing in the waiting room listening to the surgeon explain everything while he stared at the droplets of his wife's blood on her squeaky white shoes.

Basically, Laurel almost drowned in her own blood.

She needed emergency surgery to release the trapped air and she needed to have the blood and the fluid drained. The stress the injury put on her body caused her to miscarry a pregnancy neither of them knew about, which isn't fatal but between that, the initial injury, and the amount of blood that had to be drained, she wound up losing so much blood that she needed a transfusion. She could have survived these things, other people have, but she didn't.

Her exact cause of death was a massive pulmonary embolism.

A complication, he was told.

A fucking complication. She survived thirty years of bullshit only to die of a complication.

''Sometimes these things happen,'' the doctor told him that night. Most of the things that happened after 11:59 are blurred and unfocused in his memory but he remembers that.

Sometimes these things happen.

Like it was just another day at the office for her. Like it was the same thing as cracking your phone screen or burning your toast or turning your laundry pink. Someone's mother died but - oops. It happens.

Dean understands the basic concept of what happened to Laurel. Her body was seriously injured, her body fought, her body tried, her body failed. What he doesn't understand is what's supposed to come next. There was never supposed to be a next. He doesn't know how he's supposed to navigate this new part of life that can be categorized as After Laurel. He didn't think he would ever have to. He never pictured an After Laurel. He always assumed she would have an After Dean. That was easy to imagine. Someone has to leave first. It was just never supposed to be her.

''You're not coming back.'' he says again, nausea rolling in his stomach.

She softens. ''Did you think killing him would erase what he did?''

''No,'' he says, but then has to pause. ''I don't know.''

She smiles sadly and reaches her hand out like she's going to touch his face. His eyes flutter shut, anticipating the soft touch, but it never comes. When he opens his eyes, she's gone.

He looks back at the gravestone with her name on it.

When she was twenty-two years old, Laurel tried to walk into the ocean in her funeral dress to go be with her sister. Got all the way up to her waist before she turned around, walked out of the water, and went home. On her twenty fifth birthday, not long before she met him, her car broke down and she had to walk home. She wound up walking across a bridge at midnight and briefly contemplated not making it to the other side. When she was twenty-eight, she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, chased them down with a bottle of red wine, and went to bed.

Each time, she made the choice to stay. She got out of the water, she walked across the bridge, and she calmly told him what she had done on that February night in 2014 so that he could help her. She kept going until she reached the point where the only rooftops she jumped off were the ones where she knew she would hit the ground running.

Dean doesn't have any stories like that. He just doesn't. Fact of life. He has never been given a choice between life or death. Every time he's died, every time he's even come close, someone - or something - intervenes and makes the choice for him. Sometimes he's still not sure what he would choose. He's not sure he would have made the same choice to walk out of the water.

It doesn't make sense for her to be gone. It doesn't make sense that someone like her could be taken away so violently and so suddenly while someone like him still gets to breathe. It should be his name on that gravestone. That's what makes sense. This doesn't make sense.

''Have you been drinking?''

This time, he barely throws a glance in the direction of the newcomer. ''No.''

''Are you planning to?''

''Thinkin' about it.''

Nyssa joins him at the grave, lowering her eyes to the headstone. She doesn't say anything else about the booze. ''You made quite the mess tonight,'' she says without even bothering to look up.

His lips quirk up into a grin. ''I had some help.''

''Yet another thing for Oliver Queen to crucify me for,'' she says mildly, and her lips almost tick up into a smirk.

''Fuck Oliver Queen,'' he says.

She definitely smirks at that. ''I took care of the rest of Darhk's...'' She pauses, frowns, and finally drags her eyes away from Laurel's name to look at him. ''What did they call them?''

''Ghosts.''

''Ah, yes. His ghosts.'' She does not roll her eyes. Although it looks like she wants to. ''I dealt with them. All but one.''

He snorts. ''Let me guess: Andy Diggle.''

''I could track him down.''

''Don't bother,'' he says. ''What happens to him isn't our decision to make. Let his brother take care of him.'' When she doesn't say a word, he looks over at her, finally letting himself give her his full attention, and that's when he notices that she's holding a bouquet of flowers. Daisies. Laurel loved daisies.

''I burned the bodies,'' she states.

''Thought you smelled like burnt flesh.''

She snaps her head around to face him so quickly he almost reacts. He's learned to anticipate these kinds of things with her. She regards him coolly for a moment and then relaxes. ''Did you get the totem?''

''I did.''

''You'll see to it that it's destroyed?''

''Pretty sure it's fuckin' cursed, Nyssa,'' he deadpans. ''Trust me, I'm getting rid of it as soon as I'm sure that it won't attack me if I try to set it on fire.''

''Good,'' she says, voice clipped and professional. ''I believe it's best to separate Darhk's ashes. Bury them far away from each other. You may think I'm being overly paranoid but neither of us know the extent of his powers and if there is even a chance that he could - ''

''No, I get it,'' he says. ''We divide the ashes. Bottom of the ocean. Buried in the desert. Makes sense.''

''I can handle the burial if you wish.''

''Fine by me.''

She goes quiet and when he glances over at her, she's eyeing the bottle of whiskey he's still clutching in his hand. She frowns deeply, meets his eyes just long enough to look disapproving, and then she tugs the bottle out of his hand surprisingly gently. ''Do what you wish with your own body,'' she says softly. ''Just do it somewhere else.''

He doesn't protest. Not even as she steps away from the grave to dump out the liquor.

She looks different in the moonlight tonight. Less terrifying. Smaller somehow. Grief stricken would be the word. He wonders if this is what he looks like now. If this is how they're both going to look for the rest of their lives. There is a reason why Nyssa helped him with what he did tonight, why she was the only one ready and willing to tear the monster apart.

Very few people understand what it is to love Laurel Lance. She is - was - a once in a lifetime experience. Her center of gravity is so strong that it bends the light until the light is all there is; illuminating the darkest parts of you, warming you up. Dean has suspected for awhile now that Nyssa is one of maybe five people in the world who understands what the true pull of her gravity feels like. He's never said anything about it, not to her and not to Laurel, but he can see it in her eyes.

He watches Nyssa approach Laurel's grave with the wilted bouquet of daisies clutched in her hand. He takes a step back to give her a minute. She kneels before the slab of stone and places the flowers at the base of it. ''Rest now, habibti,'' she says, tracing the letters in Laurel's name. ''Be at peace.''

He has to turn away, clenching his teeth together and shoving down the burst of anger. People keep saying that. He's lost count of how many times he's heard ''maybe she's at peace'' or ''at least she's at rest now.'' Well, fuck peace and fuck rest.

Laurel didn't want to die. She fought so fucking hard to get to that point and she fought so fucking hard to stay that night. She's not at peace. She's probably pissed the fuck off.

And why does she get to be at rest when they're all stuck here cleaning up her mess?

''Did tonight help you?''

He sighs at the question, pinching the bridge of his nose. ''Did it help you?''

She looks surprised he's asking her. ''Justice does not stop the pain.''

''This wasn't justice,'' he says. ''It was vengeance.''

''You act as though the two are mutually exclusive.'' She looks at his hand, evidently catching a look at his knuckles. ''Are you injured?''

''Flesh wounds.'' He's got a split lip, what feels like a black eye, at least one cracked rib, his knuckles are still bleeding, and his screwed up shoulder is aching again. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. ''What about you? Are you hurt?''

She chuckles and tilts her head to the side. She seems to think it's a ludicrous question to be asking her. He supposes that's answer enough. ''Dean.'' She takes a step closer to him. ''Will you take a drive with me?''

He frowns. ''What?''

''There's something I'd like to show you.''

He licks his split lip. Might as well. He can't go home. Not until he can get his shit together. Mary can't see him like this. ''Whatever.'' He shrugs his shoulders and tries to look nonchalant. '''Not like I have any plans.''

They end up in the Glades, not far away from where CNRI used to be. Nyssa has been quiet the whole way here, only speaking up to give him directions. When she gets out of the car, she disappears down the nearby alleyway before he even has a chance to shut the driver's side door.

''Awesome,'' he mutters sarcastically. ''Mystery.'' He slams the door shut and follows after her reluctantly. ''Look, if this is some kind of weird League initiation, you can cut the bullshit because I'm not into the cult shit.'' It's a weak joke, but he tries for a smirk as he says it. The smirk falls away when he turns down the alley and spots her standing there, staring at the wall of one of the buildings. ''What are you - ''

He turns to look at what she's seeing and he stops, frozen.

For a second, he can't breathe. He stares at the wall, unblinking, and he can't breathe. He takes a step back, eyes moving along the wall, drinking in every inch of the artwork in front of him. He can't seem to swallow the ache in his throat tonight.

''It's a story,'' Nyssa says from somewhere behind him. ''Do you recognize it?''

He can't find his voice to answer her.

The entire side of the building has been painted white. In various shades of gray, the cityscape of downtown Star City has been painted. In black, there is a bird. A canary flying high above the city. There are several depictions of the bird in flight, soaring, and then it falls. The cityscape falls away as the bird tumbles to the ground with a broken wing, bleeding. One of the drops of blood stretches out along the bottom of the painting until it becomes a ribbon. The ribbon becomes smoke and the wisps of smoke rise up and turn into roots that grow into a large tree. The intricately drawn tree looks strong and full of life. As the spindling branches extend up, all of the leaves morph into small black birds.

One bird, bigger than the rest, flies above the other scattering birds. It's a canary. The same one from before, now healed and in color. The bright yellow canary is the only splotch of color on an otherwise black and white mural. The bird is flying up, up, up, toward the sun.

There is only one thing printed on the mural.

1985 - 2016.

Dean stares at the mural for a long time. He can feel all of the anger and the adrenaline draining right out of him, wounds aching and throbbing and stinging. He can't seem to take his eyes off that yellow bird, flying into the sun, away from home.

''This will not go viral,'' Nyssa says. ''I appreciate the mural in Brooklyn. It is...a beautiful tribute. The artist is very talented. But I vastly prefer this artwork.'' She moves to stand next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush. ''It's a lovely eulogy,'' she says, ''don't you think?''

He tears his eyes away from the bird to look over at her. She's not looking at him, but he can tell just by her posture that she knows he's looking at her. Even so, she doesn't bother to hide the emotion on her face. He wonders what it means that she trusts him enough to allow him to see her grief.

''I do hope she's flying,'' she whispers.

He looks back at the mural. ''Why did you help me tonight?''

Neither of them look away from the yellow bird.

''Damien Darhk needed to be stopped,'' she says.

''Sure did. But that's not why you helped me.''

''I owed her a debt.''

''A debt.''

''She was my friend. I...'' She looks at the ground. ''She was my friend.''

He doesn't press the issue. ''I feel like I failed her,'' he admits.

Nyssa looks over at him, unsurprised but sympathetic. ''How so?''

''I wasn't with her.''

''What could you have done?'' The tone of her voice is perfectly calm. ''What he did to her was an act of cowardice. He used magic. He took her power. Held her down. She didn't have a chance. You know that as well I do. What could your presence have changed?''

Dean turns away from the mural to rub at his sore shoulder. He steps across the alley to sink onto the stoop of the building next door. ''I could have been with her,'' he says. ''I keep thinking...'' He looks down at his wedding ring, mostly to avoid the sorrow in Nyssa's eyes. The ring is speckled with blood. ''She must have been scared.''

There is no response to that. When he cautiously looks up, she's turned her head, wiping at her eyes. Super. Now he's made the deadly assassin cry.

''I couldn't save her,'' he says. ''I can't bring her back. She's just gone, and I'm still here.''

''That isn't failure,'' says Nyssa. ''That is one of the many unfortunate side effects of being human. Sometimes we outlive our loved ones.'' She takes a seat next to him and offers him that tight lipped but genuine smile. ''If you had been in that prison, Mary would have lost both parents. You did not fail her. You lived. Living is not a failure.''

He nearly laughs at that. Sure doesn't feel like a win. He rubs at the scruff he hasn't bothered to shave in a few weeks and leans his elbows on his knees. As he leans forward, something slips out of his shirt. It's the chain with Laurel's wedding rings on it. He hasn't been able to take it off yet. ''I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.''

She doesn't miss a beat. ''You go home to your daughter.''

''That simple, huh?''

''There is nothing simple about it,'' she warns, looking at him with her piercing eyes. ''Darhk has been destroyed. You have completed your mission. Now is the time to mourn. Tonight, you are going to go home. Treat your wounds, take a shower, drink some water, and then get some sleep. Tomorrow, you will start grieving your beloved. Trust me when I say nothing about this will be simple.'' She sounds both apologetic and gravely serious. ''I have been here before,'' she reminds him. ''I lost my beloved as well.''

''Are you talking about Sara?'' He asks, as casually possible. ''Or Laurel?''

She looks at him with uncharacteristically wide eyes. Quite a sight. It's unusual to see the normally poised and controlled Nyssa Raatko so unsettled. He can't help but smile just a little. ''Do you really think I don't know what being in love with her looks like?''

She looks uncomfortable. ''I wasn't - ''

''Relax,'' he cuts her off softly. ''It's fine. Easiest thing in the world is to fall in love with her.''

She still looks uneasy, but she doesn't bother trying to deny it either. She looks back at the yellow canary for a minute and then back at him. Her eyes slip down to the chain around his neck. There's a flicker of anguish in her eyes, but she's gone before he can even attempt to comfort her, rising to her feet. She steps back over to the mural. ''I suppose that means the hardest thing in the world is to lose her.''

He laughs. He doesn't mean to, it's not funny, but it just comes out. ''The worst kind of pain is the kind you have to live through.''

Nyssa turns back around once more with a small, sad smile on her lips. ''We may outlive our loved ones, Dean, but we never outlive our love for them. And love, after the fall, is the hardest part, isn't it?''

That's an understatement.

Love, he has learned, is all landmines.

''Yeah, well.'' He looks past her to the artwork, the yellow bird flying away. ''All the best love stories are just ghost stories in disguise.''

.

.

.

November, 2016

Dean closes the garage door behind him and stands in the silence for a minute, surveying the mess before him. Jim and the muscle head are still down for the count, lying on the concrete with their wrists and ankles bound, but David and Andrew are both wide awake. Dean puts his hands on his hips and gives them both a quick onceover.

Then he bursts into laughter. ''Damn, she got you good, huh?''

David can't even look him in the eye, lowering his head to stare at the floor miserably. Andrew, on the other hand, struggles against the ropes and growls behind the duct tape on his mouth.

Dean can honestly say he's not surprised that Andrew has turned out to be a gigantic asshole. He's always had a hair trigger temper. Guy has a mean streak. He tries to keep it hidden, but Dean's known bullies before. He had him pegged from the minute he met him. He's put on a friendly face over the years for the sake of keeping the peace, but he's never liked the guy.

He ignores Andrew's impotent snarling and turns away from them to check the bindings on Jim and the big guy.

The lesson here is: Never trust your neighbors.

He knew it too. It's not that he doesn't believe in kindness in general. It's just that he never believed in theirs. It was a smothering kind of benevolence. They were over compensating, he now realizes. Something about them just never sat right with him. And he was right.

Turns out, he's been living next door to a goddamn coven.

His father would smack him across the face and call him a stupid son of a bitch if he could see him right now.

Once he's sure the bindings on the two unconscious morons are secure, he looks back over to David and Andrew just in time to see David look up, turn his head to his uncle, and get a stern glare in response. It's a clear don't say a fucking word warning glare. David visibly flinches.

Dean pauses, watching the wordless interaction closely.

Huh. Now that he recognizes.

He checks the tourniquet around Andrew's thigh and the bandage on his hand, just to make sure the asshat isn't going to bleed out on his garage floor because that would be a bitch to clean up, and then he moves behind them to check their ropes. Andrew has been fighting his bindings so Dean tightens the ropes quickly. David doesn't appear to have struggled against his at all, but Dean tightens them anyway.

He doesn't say a word, finishing up quick, and stepping back in front of them. He can tell by the hate and the defiance in the uncle's eyes and the fear and resignation in the nephew's eyes how this is going to go. Dean leans in close to them, offers them both a small smirk, and then rips the tape off their mouths.

David startles, inhaling sharply at the pain and shrinking away from Dean.

Andrew just unleashes a whole bunch of vitriolic bullshit. ''Your fucking bitch wife broke my nose!''

Dean says, mildly, ''You're lucky that's all she broke.''

''What did you do to my dad?'' David's voice is shaky. Andrew cuts his eyes to him when he dares to speak, and David visibly swallows.

''Nothing he wasn't going to do to my wife,'' Dean says.

David avoids his eyes guiltily.

''When I get out of here,'' Andrew grinds out, ''I'm gonna - ''

''You're gonna what?'' Dean cuts him off, staring down at him evenly. ''What will you do, Ricky?''

''Andrew'' shuts up real quick.

''David's'' eyes go wide.

Dean chuckles lowly at their reactions. He grabs a chair and sets it in front of them, settling himself down and leaning in closer to them. ''That's right,'' he says casually. ''We know your real names. We ran your prints.'' He looks over at Definitely Not Andrew. ''Riccardo aka Ricky Moretti. I'm going to guess Sleeping Beauty over there,'' he jerks his thumb in the direction of Definitely Not Jim, ''is your brother, Dante. Which would make you,'' he looks over at the kid, ''Matteo Moretti.'' He leans back. ''Your mother's name is not Sylvia Denton. It's Marlene Moretti. Her maiden name is Weber. Your grandmother is Bernadette Weber not Ida Denton. And your sister's name is Hanna.''

Matteo's head snaps up at the mention of his sister. ''Leave her out of this.''

''Shut up, Mattie,'' Ricky warns.

Matteo ignores him. ''Hanna had nothing to do with this. She never wanted to do any of this. Our parents - ''

''Mattie, I swear to god,'' Ricky snaps. ''If you don't shut your goddamn mouth, you pathetic little shit, I'm - ''

In a flash, Dean is on his feet, leaning into Ricky's space to grab his broken nose and twist. Ricky roars in pain, spitting out curses. Dean takes advantage of the distraction to fix a new piece of duct tape over Ricky's mouth. He rolls his eyes at the heated glare he gets in response and takes his phone out of his pocket, sitting back down.

''Riccardo Moretti,'' he starts, lifting his eyes from the phone to give Ricky a grin. ''Born June 3rd, 1967 to Giuseppe and Sofia Moretti. Your younger brother Dante was born four years later. You're ex special forces. Served for nearly ten years before you were dishonorably discharged.'' He shakes his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. He looks up from the info Charlie's been texting him to see how Ricky is reacting to all of this. Bastard looks pissed but hardly intimidated. ''Your temper gets you in a lot of trouble, doesn't it? I guess you're a lot like your father.''

That certainly gets a reaction. Ricky's eyes flash and he tries to throw himself at Dean, forgetting, for a second, that he's tied to a chair.

Dean smiles. ''Yeah, I know about that too. Your mother spent a lot of time in emergency rooms. Coincidentally, so did your ex-wife. Anita, right?'' He tilts his head to the side. ''You liked to smack her around, didn't you? Your daddy teach you that? You ever hit your kids the way your dad hit you, Ricky?''

Ricky seems to freeze at that, eyes widening.

''Is that why Anita left you and filed a restraining order?'' Dean asks. ''Did you put your hands on Elena? That's her name, right? Your oldest daughter? She'd be - what? Twenty-four now.'' He grins coldly. ''Time sure does fly when you're being a deadbeat and avoiding paying child support.'' He looks back down at his phone, scanning the texts. ''Or what about Mila?'' He questions. ''Your eleven year old? Her mother straight up fled the country to get away from you. You hit them too?'' He looks up, meets Ricky's rattled eyes. ''I have a hacker. She can tell me what you had for breakfast. I'd watch who you're calling pathetic, you sorry ass piece of shit.''

Ricky looks spitting mad now. His face is almost purple he's so angry. But he's not going to talk. Even without the duct tape, he is not going to give anything up. Dean knew that the second he learned the dick's an ex Green Beret.

Matteo's the wild card.

''We know who you are,'' Dean tells them both. ''What we don't know is why.'' He turns his full attention to Matteo Moretti, the scared twenty year old who looks like he's in danger of wetting his pants in terror at any moment. ''I'm hoping you can help me with that.''

The boy looks up at him, looking at him with an expression of muted horror clear on his face. He stares for a minute, bead of sweat dripping down his left temple and then his eyes dart over to his uncle. It's an instinct, one Dean recognizes well. Scared kids in over their heads tend to look to the one in charge for help. ''I...'' Matteo doesn't take long to crumble under the harsh gaze of his uncle, practically folding into himself. ''I can't.''

Dean recognizes that behavior too. He leans back in his chair, considering his next move carefully. He doesn't want to pull this card but what choice do they have? Jim - or Dante - isn't going to be asleep forever and given the way he was treating Laurel, Dean's going to guess he's not any nicer than Ricky. He needs to get to Matteo before his father does. ''Laurel doesn't think your uncle here is a witch,'' Dean says conversationally. ''Personally, I don't either. If he had any kind of power, he would've put a hex on me the second I ripped that tape off and he wouldn't have needed to use chloroform to subdue Laurel. I'm guessing, since they're brothers, that means your dad isn't a born witch either.''

Matteo looks startled.

''I'm not an idiot,'' Dean says. ''I do know a thing or two about witches, you know. I know that not all witches are born with their powers. But here's the rub, Matteo.'' He leans in closer to him, lowering his voice. ''I've been told that in order to resurrect someone, soul and all, you need the power of a natural born witch. So you want to hear my theory?'' He draws back slightly. ''I'm thinking your mom is the born witch. Probably your grandmother too. Every family's got something, right? Then there's you and your sister.'' He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. ''Considering you had to come here armed, I'm going to go ahead and assume that you either didn't inherit the Weber hocus pocus or you're pretty low level. But your sister...'' He trails off and lets that hang in the air, watching the panic dawn on Matteo's face. ''Here's what I'm going to do.'' He rises to his feet, moving the chair back where he found it. ''I'm going to give you a few minutes to think about how you want this to go down. Either you tell me what I want to know or I'm going witch hunting.'' He leans in close to Matteo, out of Ricky's range of hearing. ''What do you think Hanna would tell me if I catch her?''

Without another word, trying to ignore the distress on the kid's face, Dean turns and walks away.

In the kitchen, Laurel is leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, eyes on the floor. Most of the blood has been washed away, there's a bandage on the gash on her temple, and she's got her hair pulled up into a sloppy bun. She's changed her outfit too, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. She looks better than she did before, but there are still smudges of dried blood in her hair and there are bruises forming around her neck from the collar.

Just the sight of it makes Dean want to turn back around and pummel these sorry excuses for neighbors. He may not have ever fully trusted the ''Denton'' family but Laurel did. She cared about them, she let them into her life, and this is how they repay her?

He takes a quick glance around the kitchen, closing the garage door behind him. Sam is sitting at the breakfast nook, fiddling with the smashed toaster. Cas is standing at the counter, making a pot of tea. Every few seconds, Dean can hear a bark coming from the direction of the living room where Nyssa and Mary are trying to teach Aida tricks and Charlie is digging up as much as she can on their neighbors.

''Well,'' Dean announces, gruffly. ''I'd say today's been a crappy episode of Fear Thy Neighbor.''

Laurel breezes right past that comment to ask, ''What do you think?''

He leans back against the counter next to Cas. He takes a minute to lean over and inspect whatever gross herbal tea Cas is making, shaking his head and pulling a face when Cas wordlessly holds out a mug to him. ''You're right,'' he says finally, turning his attention back to his wife. ''It's the kid. He's the weak link.''

''You think he'll talk?''

He avoids that question. ''I think he's got a bully in his life.''

Cas hands one of the mugs of tea over to Laurel. ''How can you tell?''

''Bruises on his wrists,'' Dean says. ''Noticed them when I checked the ropes.''

''They could be from the ropes.''

''Nope. Too old.''

Sam gives up on the toaster, dropping the screwdriver on the table. ''Dad or uncle?''

Dean shakes his head. ''Both, maybe. Definitely Andrew. Or Ricky. Whatever his name is.'' He swipes one of the empty mugs before Cas can ruin it with grass water and grabs the pot of coffee. He has no idea how long it has been sitting out but he pours himself a cup of it anyway. Mostly to have something to do with his hands. He's still too angry. He can't seem to calm down. He feels it's justified. He did walk into his house and find his next door neighbor trying to abduct his wife. He feels a certain level of rage is warranted here.

''We have to do this carefully,'' Sam says, standing. ''We put too much pressure on him, he could clam up.''

Dean looks down into the mug of black coffee. ''I think I applied the right amount of pressure.''

Laurel looks up from her tea. ''What does that mean?''

''I found his weak spot.''

''Which is?''

He doesn't answer.

''Dean,'' she prods.

He takes a huge gulp of the coffee and instantly regrets it. Not only is it cold but this is Laurel coffee. He loves her but her coffee is such weak ass bullshit. He chokes it down, takes another sip just to delay having to talk, and then says, ''His sister.''

''His...'' It takes her a second to realize the implications of what he's saying but when she does, her expression turns stony and she slams her mug down. ''You threatened an eighteen year old girl?!''

''I bluffed,'' he says calmly.

''You didn't need to bluff. You shouldn't have brought Heather into this.''

''Hanna.''

''Whatever! She's a kid.''

''It was a lie,'' he snaps. ''I know she's a kid. I'm not going after her. I just needed something to - ''

''To terrify him,'' she accuses, voice cold. ''He's a scared kid, Dean.''

''A scared kid who pointed a gun at you,'' he retorts. ''He put a collar around your neck. He attacked you while our four year old was here. He's twenty. He's not a child. He made his own choices.''

''Oh, like you made your own choices when you were in your early twenties?'' She retaliates. ''So December of 2000 was totally your choice?''

He clenches his teeth together to keep from reacting, looking away from her as soon as he sees the instant regret on her face. He turns his back to her, placing his mug down on the counter. He glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye and briefly manages to catch his gaze.

''Wait,'' Sam's voice says. ''What happened in December - ''

''Sam,'' Cas says, grabbing two of the mugs of tea and starting for the door. ''Help me bring the tea out.''

Sam wisely decides that getting out of the line of fire is more important than finding out what happened in December of 2000. ''Yep. Good idea.'' He grabs the pot of tea and the other mug off the counter and follows after Cas without so much as a word in Dean and Laurel's direction.

Gotta hand it to those two: At least they know when to get lost.

And thank fuck for that because Sam knows nothing about Edie. He doesn't know now and Dean for fucking sure is not planning on ever telling him. Sam doesn't need to know that particular sordid detail of their past. He thought Laurel agreed with that.

When he's sure they're gone, he turns back to Laurel. She's brought both hands up to cover her face, shaking her head. She drops her hands and he watches her haul herself over to the breakfast nook and collapse into a seat, leaning over with her head between her knees. He should let it go, given that she's clearly mortified. That would be the smart thing to do. ''This going to be a thing now, Laur? Every time you're pissed at me, you're just going to bring up that I murdered your cousin? I forget to bring home the milk and suddenly it's 'this is just like the time you murdered my cousin'?''

''No.'' She lifts her head slowly. ''I'm not... No. I'm not holding this over your head.''

''Sure seems like you're holding it - ''

''I'm sorry,'' she cuts him off. ''I'm sorry, okay? I'm... It's been a bad day.''

''Okay, so you're just going to hold it over my head when you have a- ''

''I shouldn't have said it!'' She bursts out. ''It was a mistake. I shouldn't have said it. What more do you want from me?''

''I want you not to say shit like that around Sam,'' he bites out.

''All right, I get it.'' She looks up at him. ''I screwed up. Is this how you're going to act for the rest of the night? Is there anything else you'd like to punish me for just because you're pissed at the world? If I wanted to be treated like I'm worthless and stupid, I'd go hang out with Oliver for the night.''

''Oh, that's...'' He smirks hollowly. ''Now I'm Oliver, huh?''

She doesn't give him the bait. She blinks up at him, expression stormy, and then she just shakes her head and looks at the ground.

He sags back against the counter. When he hears her sniffle quietly, all the fight drains out of him. ''Laur - ''

''They were our friends.''

He doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't want to discuss the betrayal. He doesn't want to think about how these people infiltrated their lives for years. Invited them to parties and dinners. Brought them food. Shared jokes with them. It makes his skin crawl. These people have interacted with his child. Hell, there's been one or two emergencies where they've even had to babysit Mary while he went to go pick up Laurel from work or Cas from the farmer's market or ran to the grocery store. These people have been alone with her.

His instincts told him that something was off about them from the beginning and he just ignored them. Because Laurel trusted them. Or because he thought he was being too hard on them given his past with ''friendly neighbors.'' He felt something was wrong and he did nothing. He let them into his life anyway. He let them near Laurel, near Mary. He let this happen.

He deflates. ''I don't want to fight with you.''

''I don't want to fight with you either,'' she says. ''I'm sorry,'' she adds on again. ''I shouldn't have said anything about - ''

''No, it's...'' He rubs at his jaw. ''I'm being an asshole.''

She does not disagree with that. ''Maybe we're just in shock.''

No, they've just been stabbed in the back.

He stares at the fridge, looking at the mismatched magnets and the drawing Mary brought home from school yesterday. ''First week of preschool, they did safety training.''

She looks stunned by the abrupt change of conversation. ''...Okay?''

''And Mary,'' he goes on. ''You know her, she took it all very seriously.''

Laurel laughs weakly. ''Sounds like her.''

''The day they did the fire drill, she came home and the first thing she said to me, even before hello, was ''do you know about fire safety?'' It was a big thing for her. She talked about it for days. So Thea and I - We did an at home fire drill with her, and I remember telling her that if there was a fire and she got separated from both of us to go to the Dentons and they would help her.''

Laurel brings a hand up to her neck, to the bruises. ''This is so messed up,'' she breathes out, and swipes at her eyes quickly.

Personally, he thinks it calls for stronger language than that but - yep, that's about the gist of it.

He stands straight and grabs his discarded mug, dumping the contents in the sink. ''Did you call John?''

''He's on it,'' she confirms. ''As soon as he gets the okay from Lyla, he'll be over here with an ARGUS team to take them in.''

''Just like that?''

''Lyla says ARGUS is at our disposal with this. She knows we can't exactly use conventional methods here.''

''You're sure about sending them to ARGUS?''

''It's not like we can just hand them over to the SCPD,'' she says, standing up. ''And we're not killing them,'' she adds on hurriedly. ''ARGUS can contain them. If they can hold metas, they can hold witches.''

''Right, sure, okay.'' He waves that off, unconcerned. ''But do you really want to be in debt to a shady government agency?''

''I don't think we have a choice here,'' she says. ''These people need to be detained.''

He hates that she's right about this. He likes Lyla and all but ARGUS is a screwed up organization and he doesn't trust them as far as he can throw them. If they take in witches, there's no guarantee they'll hold them for long. What if they just try to flip them and set them loose thinking they can control them? He's heard tales of Amanda Waller's pet project that John was a part of. Who's to say they're not still trying to perfect the formula?

But Laurel's right. For hunters, there is one way and one way only to deal with witches and there is no way Laurel is going to let that happen in her city. A normal jail cell isn't going to hold a witch either. Even an amateur like Dante/Jim could find a way to bend the bars or mind control a guard into letting him go. They've got no good choices here.

It has to be ARGUS.

''How long ago did you call John?''

''About twenty minutes ago,'' she says. ''Maybe less.''

''How long do you figure it takes to get an ARGUS clean up crew together?''

''Probably not that long.''

''Then I guess we'd better get in there and talk to him.''

.

.

.

Matteo is primed to talk, Dean is sure of it, but he has to admit that having a softer, maternal presence might help the boy along so he's hoping Laurel will play Good Cop to his Bad Cop.

Laurel is apparently on the same wavelength as him because she makes sure to grab bandages, a bag of frozen peas, and has Sam removed Ricky and march him out to the shed in the backyard before they go in there.

None of this turns out to be 100% necessary because the second Dean and Laurel step into the garage, Matteo looks up at them and says, ''I'll tell you what you want to know.''

Dean and Laurel share a quick glance.

''Just please,'' Matteo begs. ''Please don't go after Hanna.''

As soon as he says it, something seems to click for Laurel and then she's shoving the bag of frozen peas and the bandages at Dean and rushing to untie the ropes binding Matteo. Dean doesn't have a problem with this because he's pretty sure the kid isn't going to be a threat without Ricky here and with his father nothing but an unconscious lump but he still schools his features into a cold, callous mask and snaps out a disapproving growl of, ''Laurel, what the hell are you doing?''

''He's not going to hurt us, Dean,'' she says, glaring at him without any heat. ''He's just a kid.'' She tosses the ropes away but stays crouched in front of Matteo, looking him over with her soft doe eyes. ''It's Matteo, right?''

The kid blinks. ''Y-Yeah,'' he stammers. ''Um, I mean, it's - I'm Mattie.''

Laurel smiles at him tenderly. ''Well,'' she says. ''It's nice to finally meet you, Mattie.''

''All right,'' Dean cuts in, clipped. He drags a chair over for Laurel and crosses his arms over his chest. ''Talk.''

Mattie looks at him for a brief second but almost instantly lowers his gaze. He seems to greatly prefer looking at Laurel, which is good because that's what they were going for here. Also weird considering Dean has never actually touched him and Laurel has beaten the crap out of him. ''You're right,'' Mattie says, looking back to Dean. ''My mom and my grandmother are witches. The whole Weber family is. Some of them have a lot of power. I've never practiced much so I don't really know my way around all of this, but my sister... She's like my mom.'' He releases a long, almost relieved sounding sigh, like he's just relieved that he's finally getting this out. ''We're from Buffalo,'' he says. ''We moved here eight years ago.''

Laurel leans in closer to him to press the bag of peas to the bruise on his head. He appears to instantly relax at her gentleness. ''That's when you changed your names?''

''Yes.''

''Why?''

Mattie lifts his head to look at Dean again. There is a flicker of frustration in his eyes when he says, ''Because of him.''

Dean works hard not to react to that, only arching an unimpressed eyebrow. ''Me?''

''You and your brother,'' Mattie says. ''Eight years ago, there was a war coming. The Winchester brothers were either going to save the world, or end it. Nobody knew which way it was going to end. Mom and Gran - They could feel it.'' He winces when Laurel gets to work bandaging the small cut above his eye. ''They knew that there was a good chance that people like us were going to get caught in the crossfire so Mom and Dad came up with a plan.''

''Run,'' says Laurel.

He nods. ''Change our names. Hide in plain sight. Uncle Ricky came with us because he said we needed protection in case something went wrong.''

Sure, either that or he was just trying to get out of paying child support.

''We were fine here,'' Mattie says. ''We were happy. We didn't get into trouble. And then - ''

''Dean Winchester moved in beside you,'' she says quietly.

He looks down at the ground.

Laurel looks over at Dean, catching his eye. He doesn't know what to say to this. It's not often that he's faced with ramifications like this. Actually, he doesn't think he has ever been faced with ramifications like this. He wonders how many other people there are like Mattie and his family out there. How many families of supernatural creatures had to abandon their lives and hide just because they heard the whispers of the Winchesters? It's never occurred to him before. He's tried hard not to think about the blast radius of the apocalypse.

''Mom wanted to leave,'' Mattie says. ''She wanted to pack up, go somewhere else, and start again. We'd done it before, we could do it again. Dad and Ricky refused. They wanted to stay and fight for what we had built here.'' He pauses, licking his lips slowly. He can't seem to look either of them in the eye. ''They were going to kill you,'' he confesses. ''Both of you. They were going to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and make it look like a botched home invasion.''

Laurel tenses, drawing her hands back.

''My mom talked them out of it. She said all we needed to do was be good neighbors and there wouldn't be a problem.''

''There wasn't a problem,'' Dean informs him. ''Not until now. Your mom was right. You were safe here. Why risk it all by doing this?''

''It... It was my uncle's idea,'' Mattie says. ''He said that he met a woman and she offered us a lot of money and all we had to do was this one thing. Reanimate your body and deliver it to her. Ricky's not a witch. He's not interested in all this crap but he's interested in money. Hanna and I didn't want to but...'' He trails off, shaking his head slowly. ''We needed the money.''

Dean stares at him. He's having a hard time keeping his carefully constructed blank mask from slipping at that one. The level of revulsion he's feeling is like a sickness taking over his entire body. Money. They did all of this for money. That's cold. No, that's beyond cold. That's heartless, vile, and sociopathic.

He looks over at Laurel, easily spotting the look of disbelief and disgust on her face. ''You did this to me,'' her voice is low and shaky, ''for money?''

Mattie drops his gaze. He looks, at the very least, ashamed. ''Yes.''

''How much?''

He looks up. ''What?''

''How much money,'' she continues, still speaking in that careful low tone, ''did she offer you to do this to me?''

He hesitates, swinging his gaze over to Dean like he's looking for help. Dean offers him nothing. Mattie sighs. ''A hundred grand. Fifty up front. Another fifty after the job's done.''

''One hundred thousand,'' Laurel says. She's not sounding like she wants to keep playing Good Cop. ''That's what my life is worth? Or, no, not my life. Just my body, right? That's what was being sold. My body. No soul and no choice. Is that not essentially some form of human trafficking?''

He pales drastically at that. ''I... I'm sorry.''

She doesn't say anything, doesn't snap at him or sneer. She just hands him the bag of frozen peas and stands, taking a few steps away from him.

Mattie takes her anger in stride, appearing contrite and regretful. ''I know that this was wrong,'' he says, ''but you don't understand. We're drowning financially. This city is poison.'' There's a brief flash of frustration in his eyes. ''Dad's practice is failing. Mom was let go last month because the salon can't afford to pay two stylists. And you know Ricky's never been able to hold down a job for long. We don't even have health insurance,'' he says. ''We can't afford Hanna's meds. She needs her meds. You know that. We were desperate.'' He looks away from them, gingerly bringing the frozen veggies up to his head. ''It didn't used to be this bad. We were doing fine for a long time but then that Green Arrow guy showed up and the Undertaking happened and the local economy - ''

''Went to shit,'' Dean finishes. ''We know.''

He can't deny the kid has a point there. Star City is not an easy city to live in. The economy, which was in trouble even prior to 2013, has never recovered from the quake, there's no real leadership in local government, the SCPD is dangerously inept, and it doesn't help that there's a ''terrorist'' attack every May. This place used to rely heavily on tourism. It was seen as an offshoot of Seattle. Then the rich got greedy, corruption took over, tourism started to decline, and Oliver Queen came home. Now it's just known for being Green Arrow's warzone. Nobody wants to vacation in a warzone.

Also, if you think the Seattle housing market is bad then Star City's is downright insane.

Literally all this city has going for it is the fact that it's better than Gotham.

According to Laurel, The Flash's presence has revitalized Central City. He not only makes the place safer but boosts the morale of the citizens and somehow, the city's cleaner now.

Meanwhile, Green Arrow has all but destroyed Star City.

Largely due to the fact that he keeps leading ridiculous supervillains here and then failing to deal with them before they cause mayhem, mass panic, and general calamity. See, when you can't stop the bad guys before they kill off entire neighborhoods, your failure sends a message. One that basically just says: Hey, evildoers, this city's open for business because it's protector is a giant bozo.

The petty part of Dean is mildly amused by how incompetent Oliver is. The other part of him recognizes that he is a citizen of this city and it's fucking exhausting to live here. He's the one who has to deal with ridiculous wait times in hospitals due to the widespread violence, the constant construction and clean up crews, and the astronomical taxes. It's not a great place to live.

He doesn't love living in a country where his daughter has to learn what an active shooter drill is at three years old during her very first week of preschool, and he really doesn't love that they live in a city where they've had to tack on active vigilante drills to their curriculum. It's an absurdly horrifying thing to think about.

So, okay, yeah. He can understand this level of desperation. It doesn't make what they did okay in any way, but he can understand needing money.

''What went wrong?'' He asks, casting a quick look in Laurel's direction.

Mattie removes the bag of peas. ''What?''

''We know something went wrong,'' Dean says. ''If your plan had worked, Laurel wouldn't have a soul and she wouldn't be standing here with me. What happened?''

''I don't know,'' Mattie says. ''I wasn't at the graveyard that night. I was with Ricky. I don't have the power. My mom - She said...'' He frowns, squinting like he's trying to remember. ''The wording of the spell was off. And something about a power imbalance? But I don't - I don't know. I wasn't part of that.''

Dean tries not to let his disappointment show too much. He was really hoping Mattie would know more about the spell. If he doesn't know what's wrong or even what the spell was, then he can't help fix what's happening to Laurel. Which means they're back to square one on that front.

''The woman who hired you,'' Laurel speaks up. ''Who is she?''

Mattie goes very still at that. ''I don't know,'' he mumbles, dejectedly. ''Really,'' he says when he catches the looks on their faces. ''I don't know. I've never met her face to face. The night they brought you back was the first time my family met her in person. Before that, all of our communication was done through texts, phone calls, and Ricky.''

Dean raises his eyebrows. ''Ricky?''

''Uh, yeah. They're...'' Mattie pulls a face. ''Close.''

''Of course they are,'' Dean intones. ''That's a sad commentary on his decision making skills.'' That manages to get a small smile out of the boy. ''Your mysterious benefactor have a name?''

''Ricky never referred to her by her name,'' Mattie shrugs. ''He always called her Boss Lady. I think he was deliberately trying not to tell us her name. But Hanna said that the woman introduced herself as Siobhan at the graveyard. I don't know if that was her real name.''

''Siobhan.'' Dean looks over at Laurel. ''Ringing any bells?''

''No. None.'' She shakes her head. ''I have no idea who this is. You?''

''I...'' He frowns. ''I think I knew a waitress named Siobhan once. It's...probably not her.''

''Wait.'' Laurel whirls around to face Mattie. ''Phone calls.''

He looks at her blankly. ''Um.''

''You said there were phone calls. Did she ever call you?''

His eyes widen slightly. ''Oh - um, yes. This morning.'' He scrambles to dig his phone out of his pocket, surrendering it to them immediately.

Dean scrolls through the log of Mattie's received calls. ''Doubt there'd be a name,'' he says. ''It's probably a burner phone. I can get Charlie to trace where the call came from and find a location, but I doubt she called from somewhere that could be traced back to her real identity.'' When he sees the disappointment on Laurel's face, he hurries to add, ''But it's Charlie. I'm sure she'll fine something.'' He pockets the phone and looks back at Mattie. He hasn't even protested the loss of his phone. This whole spilling his guts thing he's doing, it's genuine. This isn't an act. ''Is there anything else you can give us? Anything you know that you haven't told us about?''

''No. Well...'' Mattie pauses and slides his gaze over to the two prone bodies on the floor. Dean assumes he's looking at his father but to his surprise, Mattie instead extends a hand and points at the nameless goon. ''You see that guy?'' He bites his lip nervously. ''He's soulless.''

''He's...'' Laurel looks at the body. ''What?''

''He's soulless,'' Mattie repeats, uncomfortable. ''That's what she does. She takes people's souls, takes control of them, and turns them into her mindless soldiers. I think it's for protection. She wants to be untouchable. I don't know how she's doing it, but I know that there are others. At least three or four. Probably more. And I know she plans on making more. These people - They're freakishly strong and totally loyal to her. That's - That's what she was going to do to you.'' He presses his lips together and looks down at his hands. ''What we did to you.'' He looks at Laurel, earnest. ''It was wrong. It was so wrong. It goes against all the laws of nature. I'll regret it for the rest of my life, and I know Hanna will too. But it...'' He offers her the weakest, tiniest smile. ''It is good to see you alive again.''

Laurel, not unexpectedly, softens at that. This is not something an apology can fix and it's not enough, but she softens.

Dean takes a long look at Mattie. He really does look like a kid. He's a young twenty. From everything that Dean has witnessed over the past few years, he's a good kid too. Loves his mother. Adores his sister. None of that was a lie. Even now, Dean can see that devotion written all over his face. It's a love he can recognize.

''Mattie,'' he starts. ''There's no way to make what you did okay and when this is over, you and your family are going to leave town and never come back, you got me?'' He waits until Mattie nods frantically before continuing. ''Look, I do get why you did what you did. You were trying to look out for your sister. And you did do the right thing by telling us all of this. So I promise you, nothing is going to happen to your sister. She needs to be brought in - so do your mother and grandmother - but we're not going to hurt her and if she's in trouble, we will get her out and bring her back to you.''

Mattie sags in relief. He almost looks like he's going to cry. ''You mean it?''

''You have my word.''

''Nothing bad is going to happen to you either,'' Laurel speaks up.

Mattie snorts at that. ''Trust me, a lot of bad things are going to happen to me. I ratted us out. Told you everything. If Ricky doesn't kill me, she will.''

''She won't,'' Laurel says firmly. ''No one is going to kill you. Tell me, are you planning on killing me, maiming me in any way, or stealing my soul?''

He scrunches up his nose. ''No.''

''Then you're not a danger,'' she says gently. ''Listen.'' She kneels down in front of him so she's not looking down at him. ''Your father and uncle made their choices here, but so did you. You made the right choice. They need to be locked up. You don't. If you let us, we can protect you. We can get you into a safe house and when we bring the rest of your family in, we can get them - and you - out of this city and away from whoever this woman is. You just have to trust us. Can you do that?''

Mattie looks at her for a minute, then at Dean, and then, slowly, he nods.

''Thank you, Matteo,'' she smiles. ''We're not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise you that.''

Dean can't help but think that's not a promise she should have made.

.

.

.

Later that night, at half past eleven, just as he's about to go to bed, he gets a phone call.

He is in the laundry room and Laurel is in Mary's room with her, trying to get her back to sleep. It has been quite the day for their girl. She conked out early right after dinner and didn't even stir when they got her into her pajamas and tucked her into bed, so it hadn't been all that surprising when she staggered out into the living room a few hours later with wet pajamas, crying about a bad dream.

It also hadn't been surprising when she'd asked, through her tears, ''Can we call Auntie Nyssa and talk to Aida?''

Both parents had simply been too tired to break the news to her that dogs can't talk so they just FaceTimed Nyssa at the hotel and let her, Charlie, and an extremely confused and disinterested puppy handle that one.

By the way, Dean still has several questions about the relationship between Nyssa and Charlie. Seven months ago, they barely knew each other and now they're travelling the world together and co-parenting a dog. It's weird and he has never gotten any straight answers from Charlie about what it is that they're actually doing on these travels. He knows they're not together, but...

You know what? They should be.

...Might have to Clueless them.

He's just transferring Mary's sheets to the dryer when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

As late night phone calls go, it's not great.

''Son of a bitch.'' He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation once he's ended the call, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. ''I knew things were going too smoothly,'' he mutters, stalking out of the laundry room. ''Finally getting answers. Course something would go wrong.'' Isn't that what always happens? One step forward, two steps back.

He finds Laurel in the darkened bathroom instead of Mary's room, splashing her face with cold water. She looks pale, even in the dark. ''Hey,'' he keeps his voice quiet, but it still startles her. ''You okay?''

''I'm fine,'' she says, accepting the towel he hands her to dry her face. ''Just a headache. I think I fell asleep in the wrong position in Mary's bed. What are you doing awake?'' She takes a step back from him slightly, puts her glasses back on, and gives him this silent, appraising look. ''And what's with that look?''

He sighs, sagging against the doorframe. ''John called.''

''John? My John?''

''No, my dead father,'' he quips. ''He just wanted to let me know that he's looking up at me and he still judges me for that one time when he said new music sucks and I said Pearl Jam's okay sometimes and then he told me to shut the fuck up.''

Laurel stares at him. For a very long time. ''Looking...up?''

He grins at her innocently.

She puts the towel back on the rack. ''What happened with the phone call?''

''Oh, well, I was in no mood for that shit so I said no hablo ingles and he said I know it's you, you little shit - ''

''Okay, Dean.''

'' - And then I said que and - ''

''Dean, honey, love of my life.'' She steps into his space to place both hands on his cheeks, looking into his eyes intently. ''You know I adore you, but can we please move past this bit?''

''I thought it was a good bit.''

''It needs some work.''

''Just trying to lighten the mood.''

''Why would you need to lighten the mood?''

His smile dims. He can feel all of the humor draining out of his eyes. ''Because you're not going to like what I have to say.''

''Oh god,'' she groans. ''What happened?''

He hesitates. He doesn't want to tell her at all, if he's being honest. He's not going to broadcast this, but she looks like crap right now. He mostly wants to get her an Advil and get her into bed. ''Before I tell you,'' he begins, ''I want you to know that Mattie is safe. He's at Oliver's bunker. They're working on getting him into a safe house.''

''All right...''

''The ARGUS vehicle transporting Dante, Ricky, and Soulless Joe was hit.''

She looks at him in disbelief. ''Hit by what?''

He pulls up the grainy black and white still from CCTV footage that John sent him and hands his phone over to her. ''Her.''

It's not the clearest picture, but he can just make out a figure standing near the crumpled and overturned ARGUS van. It's impossible to make out the woman's face or even any distinguishable features, but there she is. The woman who orchestrated this chaos. She's standing right in the middle of the intersection with her eyes on the carnage, and she looks completely calm. Relaxed, even.

''Siobhan,'' Laurel whispers.

Dean nods. ''Or whoever she is.''

Abruptly, she hands the phone back over to him and walks away. She doesn't even say a word to him. He decides it's best to give her a minute. He ducks his head into Mary's room, just to make sure she's sleeping peacefully, and then follows after Laurel. He finds her in the kitchen, slowly sipping at a glass of water. He stands across from her, leaning back against the counter, watching her.

''She used magic,'' she says.

''No doubt about it,'' he confirms. ''John said there were no sign of explosives at the scene, but something tore through there. He said there were no signs of a struggle either. No blood or anything. Just a hunk of metal and a bunch of missing bodies.''

''Wait.'' Laurel frowns, puzzled. ''She took the ARGUS agents?''

''Either that or she killed them and dumped their bodies somewhere,'' he says.

''But why? Why would she...?'' She trails off. ''Oh.''

''She's going to turn them,'' he says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion. He's sure of it. It has to be that. There is no reason for her to take a couple of random ARGUS agents. They don't work for her. They don't have valuable information about her. She just wanted to increase her numbers. ''She's building an army.'' It's a grim thought. That this woman could just waltz in, abduct someone, and turn them into a soldier devoid of free will.

She stares down at the water in her glass. ''So basically we probably got those ARGUS agents killed.''

''Laurel,'' he pushes off the counter. ''No.''

She gives him a look. ''Yes. We did.'' She turns away from him, finishing off her water and putting the glass in the sink. ''Okay,'' she says. ''Why?'' She turns back to face him. ''Why does she need an army?''

He admits, quietly, ''I don't know.''

She sighs, sounding utterly exhausted. She closes her eyes and rubs at her temples. She looks even worse under the kitchen lights than she did in the shadowy bathroom. Dean pushes off the counter and moves over to her slowly, bringing his hands to her hips and brushing his lips against her forehead. ''Let's talk about it tomorrow,'' he suggests. ''You need to get some sleep.''

''You need to get some sleep too,'' she reminds him.

He makes a noncommittal noise in response and gently leads her out of the kitchen, hands massaging at her shoulders. He'll sleep when he's dead. He considers saying this out loud but somehow he doesn't think that would go over well with her.

''Hey,'' she says as he's marching her into their bedroom. ''Horrible thought: Do you think there's another apocalypse on the horizon?''

''No.'' He doesn't even think about it for too long. ''We would've heard something.''

''Are you sure?'' She asks, slipping out of her robe and draping it over the back of the chair by her vanity.

He doesn't even look up from searching for his phone charger. ''If there was an apocalypse coming and it was far enough along that random witches need to be creating full on armies for protection, there would be other signs.''

''I hope you're right.'' She pulls back the covers and crawls into bed. ''I really don't want to be dealing with the end of the world right now,'' she says, and then lifts up his pillow to reveal his phone charger.

''It's not the end of the world,'' he assures her, snatching up the charger.

Laurel waits for him to plug his phone in and climb into bed next to her before she asks, ''Then what's the plan here?'' She takes her glasses off and puts them on her bedside table before snagging something from her drawer. ''She's just greedy and egotistical?''

''Could be. Could be she wants protection from hunters. Maybe even from other witches. Wouldn't be the first time some low level nobody thought they were hot shit and wound up pissing off the wrong person. Or she could be planning something.'' He scrunches his nose up, looking over at her hands suspiciously as she rubs lotion on her hands and arms. ''What the hell is that smell?''

She looks somehow offended by that question. ''What do you mean what the hell is that smell? It's pomegranate.'' She holds out her hands for him to sniff. ''You don't think that smells amazing?''

''I think it smells strong.''

''It's the hand cream Nyssa and Charlie brought me. It's from Greece. They also got me this wild rose illuminating face mask thing. It was like fifty dollars.''

Dean stares at her, appalled. ''For face cream?''

''Yes, and they also got you two types of aftershave balm - one's marigold and ginseng and the other's, like, cedarwood and a bunch of other stuff - and this antiaging sleeping facial so they definitely spent more money on you than me.''

Dean looks at her for a second, then frowns, and then crosses his arms over his chest. It's possible he pouts a bit. ''...Antiaging?''

She rolls her eyes, turns off the lamp on her side, and lies down.

''Just saying,'' he mumbles. ''That seems kind of pointed.''

''Honey.'' She reaches up to pat at his chest. ''You're hot as hell and you just keep getting better with age.''

''All I'm asking for.'' He follows her lead, turning off his lamp and lying down next to her. ''You're pretty okay yourself.''

She raises a single eyebrow. ''Pretty. Okay.''

He laughs, rolling onto his side and grabbing her hand, bringing it closer so he can kiss the back of it. ''I joke because I know I married up.''

''As long as you're aware of it.'' He rolls back onto his back and she scoots closer to rest her head on his chest. ''We should have a spa day tomorrow,'' she says. ''You, me, and Mary.''

''A spa day?''

''We didn't get to go to the movies tonight so we have to do something just the three of us. We'll do facials, cucumbers over our eyes, and maybe a mani/pedi. Listen,'' she pokes at his chest, ''I know you both love a good spa day. Don't lie to me.''

He doesn't even bother trying to deny it. ''I do love a good face mask. That's why I look so good.''

She buries her face in his chest to muffle her laughter.

Even her laugh sounds tired. Genuine, but exhausted. With her pressed this close to him, he can tell that she's running a fever as well. He looks down at her, trying to push back his frown. ''You sure you're okay?'' He asks, keeping his voice quiet. ''You feel warm.''

''I'm okay,'' she says, tilting her head up to offer him a smile. ''Just tired and bruised. So you know what would help with that? A spa day.''

He tries for a laugh. ''All right,'' he says. ''Spa day it is.''

.

.

.

Almost two weeks after his wife's mysterious resurrection, Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

He reaches for her, half asleep, and finds only the empty space where she should be. Groggily, he blinks open his eyes. ''Laur?'' He pushes himself up to scan the darkened bedroom for her familiar figure. For a brief heart stopping moment, he thinks maybe it was all a dream. Maybe she never came home and he's still stuck living in a world without her.

Except he can still smell that pomegranate hand lotion she put on and he can just make out her glasses sitting on the bedside table where she left them. He tries to relax. She's probably just back with Mary. He flops back down onto the pillow, closing his eyes. Unfortunately, that spike of fear based adrenaline, however brief it was, woke him right up.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. There are no glow in the dark stars on this ceiling. He runs a hand over his face and lies in the dark for maybe a minute before he decides he needs to go find her. He's never going to be able to get back to sleep until he's sure she's okay.

He checks the time on his phone before he moves, sighing heavily when he sees 3:08 staring back at him. Hauling himself out of bed at three in the morning to go search for her when she's most likely just checking on their daughter or in the bathroom seems like overkill, but there's this nagging sensation of dread coiling in his gut. It's been following him around ever since she came home and it won't leave him alone. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He reluctantly crawls out of the warm, cozy bed and heads out into the hall. If she is back with Mary then he should go get her. Mary's bed is not somewhere a grown adult should spend a long period of time. That's his excuse and he's sticking to it. Dean is just approaching Mary's room when he stops in his tracks. There is a faint all too familiar sound coming from behind the bathroom door. He rockets across the hall and bursts into the bathroom without even bothering to knock.

There are no lights on in the bathroom but he can still see Laurel, down on her knees in front of the toilet, puking up her dinner. ''Shit.'' He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him and rushing to her side to gather her hair up and out of her face. ''Babe, how long have you been in here?''

All she manages to get out in between retches is a small whimper.

He can tell that she's trying to catch her breath but her body is just not working with her. When she retches again, her whole body shuddering, he rubs her back and dutifully keeps her hair out of her face. ''I know, honey,'' he murmurs. ''I know it sucks.'' He doesn't have to turn on the lights to see that she looks awful. She's drenched in sweat, she's burning up with fever, and - oh yeah, she's violently vomiting her guts out. His very first thought is that it's her head. She hit her temple on the side of the table. She could have a concussion. She could have a brain bleed. It doesn't matter that she seemed fine. A lot of people seem fine immediately after hitting their heads and then their condition deteriorates later.

But he knows that's not the most likely explanation. Not in this situation. The most likely explanation in this situation is the same explanation for everything that's been going on with her health lately.

When there is finally a break in her retches and he can hear her sucking in oxygen, he reaches up to flush the toilet. She doesn't move, still hovering over the bowl, but she tries to talk. ''I - I think...'' Her voice sounds slurred and exhausted. He doesn't know how long she's been in here sick and all alone, but it's clear that her body is spent. A single sob wrenches free. ''Something's wrong. My whole body feels like it's on fire.''

Dean feels like his entire body has gone numb. He thinks the other shoe has just dropped. It wasn't supposed to happen this fast. Very gently, he helps her move back into a sitting position, sitting back against the bathtub. He feels her forehead with the back of his hand, then her cheeks. No wonder she feels like she's on fire.

''I don't know what's wrong,'' she gets out, reaching a shaky hand out to clutch at his. ''Maybe it's a concussion. Maybe I'm... I...'' She works her mouth soundlessly for a second, struggling, and then groans and closes her eyes. ''I really don't feel well.''

''I know, sweetheart, I'm...'' Sorry. He's sorry. He looks down at her hand, grasping onto his desperately. It is unequivocally cowardly to be this selfish. To be keeping this from her. This is not a concussion. This is not a brain bleed. He knows what's wrong with her. He knows why it's happening, what's making her sick, why she's been so tired lately, and he hasn't told her.

During one of their worst fights, back when she was pregnant and sick, he was being an asshole, and they were both moody and terrified, she accused him of being just like her father. She had been talking about his drinking. How he was drowning his grief in alcohol and work, ignoring the people left behind and just generally acting like a nasty piece of work. She was right. The very next day, he told her that he was going to quit hunting, quit drinking, and re-proposed to her. He never wanted to be anything like her father. Or his for that matter. But here they are.

Last year, her father kept his deal with Darhk to himself and didn't tell her that she was in danger, that Mary was in danger, until she confronted him with proof and he couldn't deny it. And by then it was too late. And then she died. She was brutally murdered, actually. A direct consequence of what Quentin did and what he kept from her. How can he not see the similarities?

''It's the spell,'' Dean says.

Laurel opens her eyes to look at him, shaken. ''...What?''

A soft knock on the door ends the explanation before it can begin. Dean turns his head just as the door squeaks open and Thea pokes her head in. ''I thought I heard...'' She stops the seconds she lays eyes on Laurel, concern flickering in her eyes. ''Oh my god, Laurel, are you okay?'' She pushes farther into the room, instinctively flicking on the overhead lights.

Light floods into the small space, illuminating Laurel's sweaty, sickly appearance. She looks like a ghost. She cries out when the light turns on, squeezing her eyes shut again and clutching at her head. Thea immediately turns off the light, plunging them back into darkness, but the damage is done. Laurel makes this noise in the back of her throat, torn between a moan and a sob, and jolts back over to the toilet, gagging and bringing up more bile.

''Thea,'' Dean looks over at her, keeping both his voice and his expression as calm as he can. ''Do me a favor and grab Laurel some water.''

Thea does not respond to that, instead inching her way closer to them. ''Is she okay? I know she hit her head and if she has a concussion - ''

''It's not a concussion,'' he says.

''Uh-huh.'' She does not look impressed or convinced. ''Well, Natasha Richardson didn't think she had a concussion either.''

''It's nothing like that,'' he tries to assure her. ''She's... It's a long story.''

''Did you get her pregnant already?''

''What? No. It's been two weeks. How would that even - Can you just - ''

''All right, all right,'' she holds her hands up in surrender. ''I'll get her some water.'' She gives Laurel one last worried look and then spins on her heel and leaves the room.

Dean allows himself exactly five minutes of panic, trying to figure out what the hell he can do to stop this, petrified that he's about to watch his wife die right in front of his eyes - for the second time, if anyone's counting - and then he squashes it down. He doesn't have the time or the patience for his own emotions right now. This is happening to Laurel. She's the one sick and in pain.

She is completely miserable. He can see it on her face. She's shaking too, her entire body trembling. He can feel it when he places his hand on her back.

''What...'' Her voice sounds rough and hoarse when she finally stops retching long enough to speak. She seems to be having a harder time catching her breath this time. ''What's happening to me?''

''The spell they used to bring you back is what's been making you sick,'' he says. He makes a weak attempt to just leave it at that, especially when she starts heaving again, suffering through yet another round of vomiting, but there's no way she's going to let him off the hook this easy.

When she's finished vomiting, collapsing back against the bathtub in a boneless heap, she looks at him with sharp eyes and says, in a surprisingly even tone of voice, ''Tell me what that means.''

He flushes the toilet and rises to his feet, snatching a wash cloth off the towel rack. ''It's...'' He pauses, inhaling sharply and licking his lips uncomfortably. ''It's breaking down.'' He turns on the faucet and holds the washcloth under the cold water. ''They didn't mean to bring you all the way back.'' He wrings the towel out and crouches back down in front of her. Gently, he starts dabbing at her forehead with the cool cloth. She closes her eyes and doesn't speak for a minute, letting him drag the cloth from her forehead to her cheeks to the back of her neck. ''It's not strong enough to keep you here,'' he adds on quietly. ''We've been trying to figure out a way to fix it. At least...patch it. Give you more time.''

She presses her lips together when he says that last part, opening her eyes to stare at him. ''More time,'' she whispers. ''How... How much time do I have right now?''

He doesn't look her in the eye, focusing on cooling her down. ''I don't know.''

''Who else knows about this?'' She asks, clearing her throat. ''You said we. I'm assuming that means Sam and - ''

''Sam doesn't know,'' he says. ''Just Cas.''

She nods. She doesn't look angry. Yet. She doesn't even look scared. She looks like she's processing. And like she's in pain. She takes the cloth from him and closes her eyes again, leaning back against the tub, holding the cloth to her throat. ''How long?''

''How long what?''

''How long have you known?''

No use hiding it now. ''Since the beginning.''

''You knew.'' She opens her eyes. She still doesn't look as angry as he would have expected, but she sure as hell looks betrayed. ''You knew what was happening to me this whole time,'' she says, eyes glistening, ''and you didn't tell me.''

''No,'' he admits. ''I didn't.''

''This is my body, Dean.''

''I didn't want you to be scared.''

That is not a good enough explanation.

You know, it's strange. He imagined this happening differently. He figured that when she learned the truth, there would be groveling. As it is, he's far more concerned with getting her fever down. He'll beg for forgiveness later. ''Look, I promise you can be as angry as you want,'' he swears, standing. ''You can yell at me, hate me, never trust me again, whatever you want. I'll understand. But right now we need to get your fever down and make sure you don't end up dehydrated.'' The fact that she doesn't even bother to protest when he scoops her up into his arms is...worrying. She just winds one arm around his neck, still clutching the cloth, and keeps the other curled around her stomach.

He honestly does not care, at this particular moment in time, if she's mad. He's in crisis mode. All he can think about is that they're going to need more damp wash cloths to help get her fever down, he doesn't know where the thermometer is, and he needs to get her sipping at some water so she doesn't wind up needing IV fluids. Or maybe sucking on some ice. That was the only thing that helped her when she was pregnant. It's worth trying now.

He's just gotten her settled in the bed when Thea returns, hurrying into the room with the glass of water. ''Have you taken an Advil?''

Laurel nods. She takes a tiny sip of the water but even that seems to be difficult for her. ''I took one earlier,'' she rasps. ''At like eleven? Eleven thirty?''

''That was awhile ago,'' Thea says gently. ''Maybe you should take another one. Or a Tylenol. I - I think you're supposed to alternate for fevers, right?'' She looks at Dean for guidance. ''Do we have Tylenol?''

They don't. It's not on the list of approved medications. Not that it matters anyway. He doesn't think medication is going to do anything for her. ''I don't know if I'd be able to keep it down,'' Laurel croaks out, before he has a chance to say anything. She reaches over to put the basically untouched glass of water on the bedside table. She gingerly shifts herself into a position perched on the side of the bed, both arms wound around her stomach like she's trying to keep her insides from falling out.

''Maybe some ice,'' Dean suggests cautiously, looking at Thea. He's not sure that will help either, but he can tell that Thea is rapidly going from mildly concerned to seriously concerned. ''Can you - ''

''Ice,'' Thea says. ''Got it.''

He waits until she's out of the room before he takes a seat next to Laurel, taking the cloth from her hand and moving it to the back of her neck. He really doesn't like the way her breathing has changed in the past couple of minutes. It's starting to sound ragged and uneven. ''How do you feel?''

''Dizzy,'' she says. ''Hot. Really hot. Dean,'' she sounds helpless. ''Is this going to go away? Am I going to feel better? Or is this...?'' Tears start spilling down her cheeks. ''I don't want to - ''

''I know,'' he cuts her off, mostly because he selfishly does not want to hear her say the words. ''You won't. If witchcraft is causing this then witchcraft can fix this.''

She asks, in a very small voice, ''But what if it can't?''

He doesn't have a good answer for her.

She wipes at her eyes. ''Where's Mary?''

''She's sleeping.''

''I don't...'' A sob catches in her throat and her face crumples, tears still rolling down her ashen cheeks. ''I don't want her to see this.''

He tries not to flinch at the implication of what she's saying. ''She won't,'' he says, smoothing hair out of her face.

''I promised her I wouldn't leave her,'' she cries.

''You're not going to leave her.'' He tries to make it sound as firm as possible. ''You're not going anywhere. Laurel, I promise I'm going to fix this.''

''You can't promise that. You can't know.'' She shakes her head miserably, sniffling. ''I think - I think you should call my dad,'' she says, wiping at her eyes again. ''And Sara. She's - She's with Ollie. They should know. I need them to be here if... I need them, okay?''

He swallows hard but nods. ''Okay. I can do that. I'll call them,'' he says, but doesn't reach for his phone. ''Laurel,'' he tries. ''I'm sorry. I'm - ''

''If this isn't related to her head wound,'' Thea's voice says as she ducks back into the room with the cup of ice. ''It's probably just a bug, right?'' She hands the cup over to Laurel. ''There's a stomach thing going around right now. I bet Mary brought it home from school.''

Laurel doesn't say a word, but she puts the cup of ice on the bedside table without taking a single piece of it and she looks like she's about to start crying again. Dean feels...claustrophobic, would be the word. There is no getting out of this. Cat's out of the bag. He scrubs a hand over his face wearily and dabs at Laurel's sweaty face again with the cloth. ''Thea, I need you to call Cas and tell him to get over here.''

''Why?'' She arches an eyebrow. ''It's the flu. What's he going to do? Rub honey all over her?''

''It's not the flu.''

She frowns and looks in between them, brows furrowing in suspicion. ''Uh, can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on here? Because you both clearly know what's up and I'd really like to - ''

''Dean.'' Laurel's voice is shaky and urgent sounding and when he looks back at her, he can see that her skin is starting to take on a sickly gray-ish hue. He realizes what's about to happen seconds too late. He lunges for the trashcan over by her vanity but doesn't quite manage to get to her in time.

Laurel doubles over in pain, retches once again, and vomits up a river of blood. Just blood. It is not bile or stomach acid. Just blood. And a lot of it. Most of it splatters onto the floor but some of it winds up down her front, staining the shirt she's wearing. He gets the trashcan in front of her seconds before she heaves again, pushing her hair back out of her face gently. Again, all that comes up is blood. ''Okay.'' Somehow, he manages to keep his voice calm. She's sobbing in between heaves and the entire room is full of this paralyzing fear, but he keeps his voice as even as he possibly can. ''That's okay.'' He rubs her knee. ''If you need to throw up, throw up. Don't worry about it.''

''Dean,'' Thea's voice sounds shaky. ''What is going on? This isn't... We need to get her to a hospital. This is like...internal bleeding or - or a pulmonary embolism. She needs help.''

No shit she needs help. She's vomiting blood.

''A hospital,'' Laurel chokes out, gripping the trashcan so tight her knuckles have gone white, ''can't help me.''

''This isn't medical,'' Dean says. ''It's mystical. It's the spell that brought her back.''

Thea's eyes widen in alarm when Laurel retches again, throwing up another worryingly substantial amount of blood. ''Spells can do this?''

''If the spell is flawed.''

''Flawed. What does that mean?''

''It's unstable.''

Thea shakes her head. ''I don't understand. It's been two weeks. Did you just find out about this?''

''I did,'' Laurel mumbles.

Dean tries to avoid looking over at Thea for as long as possible. When he does eventually look over her after a few seconds of eerie silence, her gaze is focused entirely on him. It is biting and sharp. Practically withering. ''You knew.''

He doesn't bother trying to explain. The look of betrayal on her face is like a gut punch. ''I did,'' he says, and then turns his attention back to Laurel and away from Thea's piercing look of reproach. He wipes at her bloodied lips with the damp cloth. He grabs the glass of water and helps her take a few small sips. She doesn't immediately throw it up so he considers it a win. His main concern right now is blood loss. With that volume of blood loss, the potential for her to go into shock is there. He takes the trash can from her and carefully helps her lie down on her left side, checking her pupils and her pulse, feeling her forehead, looking for any signs of shock.

Thea has crossed her arms, subtly closing herself off from him. ''How bad is this?''

''Bad,'' he answers honestly. ''We need to find a witch. Cas has been working on tracking one down who can help us. Problem is, there aren't a lot of witches out there that trust us.'' He moves to lift up Laurel's shirt to examine her scar. ''Which means there aren't a lot willing to take our call. We thought we - ''

He stops, clamping his jaw shut as soon as he sees the scar. The wound is red and angry, dark lines extending from the wound, swollen and bloated like it's getting ready to burst and open up.

He glances at Thea out of the corner of his eye, watching her turn away with a hand pressed to her mouth, unable to look at the wound.

''Laur.'' He calmly and carefully pulls Laurel's shirt back down and gives her a smile. ''I know it's hard but I need you to try to rest, okay? We're going to go get you some more damp cloths to help you cool down.'' He presses a quick kiss to her sweaty forehead, and then grabs Thea's hand and practically yanks her out of the room.

''Oh my god,'' her voice cracks. ''Oh my god, oh my god - ''

''Thea.''

''She's going to die. She's going to die here, isn't she?''

''Thea.'' He reaches out to place his hands on her shoulders, locking eyes with her. ''Listen to me. She's not going to die, but you're right. She does need help. Which is why I need you to make some phone calls while I get her dressed and ready to go, okay? Can you do that?''

She nods, although she still has one hand clutching at her throat like she's so panicked she can't breathe. ''Who... Who do you need me to call?''

''I need you to call John and tell him we're on our way to the bunker and Laurel needs IV fluids. Then I need you to get Cas on the phone and tell him to meet us there. Tell him he needs to bring everything he's got with him. Tell him...'' He pauses, biting down on his lip nervously. ''Tell him Laurel's out of time.''

.

.

.

end part seven

---

AN: - Ezell's Famous Chicken is a real franchise that exists primarily in the Seattle Metropolitan Area.
- Vibraniam is a fictional metal from the Marvel universe and Laurel is (and is also married to) a huge nerd.
- The Bukowski poem Dean was referencing in the May, 2016 flashback is ''For Jane.''
- ''Impediendum'' means ''paralyze'' in Latin.
- ''Habibti'' means ''my love'' in Arabic.
- Chapter title from the poem ''Apology'' by George Abraham.