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.

19. What Remains Grows Ravenous

AN: First of all, I am so sorry it's taken me this long to update! I really wanted to get this chapter up as soon as possible, but of course literally two days after my last update things sort of went south in my real life and it didn't stop for like six months and unfortunately writing kind of got put on the back burner. I want to say I'm hopeful things will slow down and I'll be able to get the next chapter up soon, but I don't want to jinx it so I'm just going to tentatively cross my fingers.

Second of all... Oooh boy this chapter. It is a doozy.

Additional warnings for this chapter include: blood, gore, dead things, PTSD, disturbing hallucinations, and a discussion about a previous miscarriage. Also I really need to note that there is an intense warning for emetophobia for this chapter.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Nineteen

What Remains Grows Ravenous

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February 2017

She can't say this is the kind of welcome home party she expected, but in hindsight, maybe it should have been.

This is Star – formerly known as Starling – City, after all.

Home of the most ridiculous bullshit, a vigilante's playground, practically a war zone at least once a year, and second only to Gotham in terms of strange danger, crime, and unusually punctual yearly domestic terrorist attacks.

She should have known her homecoming was never going to be anything but this.

Laurel hits the grimy brick wall hard, pain screaming up and down her back, an involuntary grunt escaping her lips. She ducks to the right, lightning fast, and Caleb Finley's meaty fist hits the wall with a sickeningly loud crunching noise. She takes full advantage of the following scream, striking fast while he is still crying over his broken hand.

''I thought I told you two to stay out of the Glades,'' she reminds him, plain and matter of fact right before she catches him with a left hook. It seems to take his mind off his hand, enough for him to growl at her, so she hits him again, a right hook this time, and then an uppercut.

He stumbles back a step, cursing.

She looks over his shoulder in the direction of his taller, even meatier, and somehow dumber, brother Owen. She should have known it was going to be like this. It always ends in a fight in this city. ''Just because I haven't been around lately doesn't mean you get to back out of our agreement. We had a deal,'' she says, and then brings her knee up hard into Caleb's groin. ''A man's only as good as his word,'' she says. ''Did you forget that?''

Caleb, groaning and heaving and making these pathetic wounded gasps, doubles over, going down on one knee.

Laurel, spotting the glimmer of a knife in Owen's hands, uses Caleb like a vault, rolling onto his back and kicking out, catching Owen in the side of the head, sending him stumbling, stunned more than anything, the knife slipping from his fingers. She lands on her feet and yanks Caleb by the back of his shirt, shoving him away, sending him head first into the nearby dumpster.

She turns just in time to dodge a wild swing of a crowbar from a third guy, a gangly, scared, very familiar looking kid who should be at home right now. Especially on a school night. On the second swing, she easily catches his scrawny wrist, bending it back until the crowbar drops and he's grimacing. He looks like he is hating his life right now.

Good.

''Seriously?'' She is able to lock eyes with him for a second, despite the way he is trying to look anywhere else. She hopes her best Disappointed Mom look is making him squirm. ''Seriously?''

''I - I wasn't - ''

A movement over his shoulder catches her eye and she reacts on pure instinct, throwing him to the side, ignoring the yelp when he hits the wall. Owen Finley gets in one good punch, only one, but it's enough to lay her out. She catches herself on her hands in the filthy alleyway.

And with no hand sanitizer in sight.

Gritting her teeth, she scrambles to grab the crowbar from the ground and pushes herself up just enough to roll over and send a kick directly at Owen's shin as he advances on her. As he goes down, she rises up, twirling the crowbar once before she clobbers him with it. There is no movement from either Finley brother after that.

Laurel winces, bringing a hand up to the blood on her lip. A brand new injury to add to the list of bruises already littering her face from the flight with Edie's new enforcer the other night.

She turns back around to the boy slumped against the wall, looking more mortified and defeated than anything else. She narrows her eyes again, tossing the crowbar aside when he puts his hands up in surrender. ''Really, Eli?'' She puts her hands on her hips. ''We're back here again?''

The boy, eighteen years old with a frustrating list of petty offenses and a bone tired mother waiting for him at home, looks back and forth between the Finley brothers. He looks extremely panicked. ''I - I wasn't doing anything!''

''Eli, I just saw you.''

He groans and slumps back down, covering his face with his hands.

''You were supposed to be done with this,'' she says, pointing an accusatory finger at him. ''You swore you were done.''

''Okay, I get that, but - ''

''No buts. You promised me. You promised your mother.''

''I know, I know, but it's not - '' He stops, watching her bend down to check the unconscious Finley brothers for weapons, his face twisting into confusion. ''Hey, wait a minute. Didn't you...?''

She looks over at him, nonchalantly slipping one of Caleb Finley's knives into her pocket, safely away from him.

''I thought you were dead,'' Eli says, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

She lets out a small, humorless laugh, but doesn't look up from patting down the brothers. ''So did I.''

''Oh.'' Eli nods. ''Huh.'' He seems to be taking this in stride. Better than most, to be honest. ''Well, I'm glad you're not.''

She sends him a look. ''Uh-huh.''

''No, really.''

''Sweet talking me isn't going to get you out of this, kid.''

He pulls himself to him feet as she begins to drag the Finley brothers over to the nearby drainpipe one by one. ''You seem mad.''

She drops Caleb in a heap and moves back over to Owen. ''I'm not mad,'' she corrects. ''Just disappointed.''

''Oh man,'' he moans. ''That's so much worse. You know that's so much worse. You sound like my mom.''

She drags Owen next to his brother and then, with little thought put into her plan, steals his belt. ''You should listen to your mom more often.'' She strips Caleb's belt from him and sets about tying both meatheads to the drainage pipe. ''You're eighteen now, right?''

''...Yeah.''

''You know what happens if you get arrested?''

He is quiet in response to that for a moment, eyes on the ground, kicking at a rock. ''I know.''

''What happened to going back to school?''

''Oh, that.'' Eli laughs nervously. ''I dunno.''

''Don't say dunno, Eli. You know.''

''I got bored, I guess,'' he shrugs. ''I wasn't good at it anyway.''

She looks at him incredulously. ''So you decided to kick it with these two potatoes for brains? That was your better option?''

''Well - ''

''These men are dangerous, Elijah,'' she warns. ''You know that. They worked for Brickwell.''

''I know,'' he cringes. ''But - ''

''You know they're the ones who ripped off Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, right?'' She eyeballs the kid. ''Were you part of that?''

His answer is quiet. ''No.''

''I don't believe you.''

''But it's the truth,'' he whines. ''I wouldn't hurt Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza. They're Mami and Papi. I grew up with them. They practically raised me. A lot of us actually.''

''Yep, they did.'' She steps back from the brothers, surveying her work. It's not going to be enough to hold these meatballs or long, but hopefully it will be enough to hold them until she can get Green Arrow or Spartan down here to haul them in. It's not like she can do it herself. It would be quite a bold move to waltz into the SCPD as a publicly dead criminal. She's not sure she's there yet. Besides, she's still trying to figure out what to do with Eli here. ''They loved you like one of their own,'' she tells them. ''And here you are: running with the guys who stole from them, busted up their livelihood, and put her in the hospital. What a way to repay them.''

''Hey, that's - '' Something flickers in Eli's eyes, both guilt and indignation. ''It's not like that!''

''No? Then tell me what it's like.''

''You can't just - You have no idea what's been happening down here lately,'' he sputters. ''We're in trouble. The Glades is like - I don't know. Something really bad is happening. People are disappearing. It's happening, like, all the time.''

''I know,'' she says evenly. ''Why do you think I'm back?''

''How are you back anyway?''

''Doesn't matter.''

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. Typical teenager. ''Yeah, well, doesn't matter that you're here either,'' he says. ''You're too late. Place is already half gone. What's left to save? And where were you? Huh? Where you been all this time?''

She crosses her arms and tries not to let her discomfort and guilt show. ''It's complicated, Eli.''

''We thought you were dead,'' he spits out at her. He is trying to sound angry, to sound furious, but he just sounds wounded. ''They told us you were dead. They said you weren't coming back.''

She licks her lips, trying to buy time to come up with something to say. ''I came back.''

He's not overly impressed with that. ''There was a funeral, BC. We mourned you. Do you know that?''

''I do.''

''And you were just - what? Hiding?''

''I was...recovering.''

''It's been almost a year,'' he reminds her, as if she needs reminding. ''You left us. You said you wouldn't.'' He looks at her, eyes sharp and hurt, waiting for her to say something, but she doesn't know what to say.

She is not sure what she can say that wouldn't be a lie. What would be enough? The truth is out of the question. How do you apologize for an absence that isn't your fault but caused damage anyway? ''I'm sorry,'' she says. It's all she has.

It's not good enough for him. He shakes his head. ''Guess it's our fault. Shoulda known better than to trust one of you vigilante folks. You're only brave in those stupid comic books. This is the Glades. No one's coming to save us.'' He smiles a hurt, bitter smile. ''Even the ones who do just end up leaving. You're no different. Whole place is a lost cause.''

''I don't think it's a lost cause,'' Laurel tells him. ''Never has been.''

Eli shoots her a reproachful look. ''How would you even know? You're just some white lady from Avalon Park playing dress up to make yourself feel better about your own privilege.''

She keeps her face as blank as possible, even if she does tense a little, unsure if the best thing to do would be to defend herself or just let him rant. His opinion is valid and she cannot possibly fault him for that, but she will admit she is somewhat concerned with the fact that it is apparently known to the public that her family lives in Avalon Park. It shouldn't be a surprise what he knows of her, she knew about the unmasking, she's read the articles, seen the videos of Oliver's poorly thought out but viral eulogy/rallying cry. People dug when she died. She just didn't know they knew where she lived. Where her daughter lives.

''See, that's the thing, Black Canary,'' Eli says mockingly. ''We know who you are now. Laurel Lance. ADA. Cop's daughter. You bleed blue just like him. You think putting on some black leather and bitch slapping some drug dealers is gonna make you one of us? How many people from this neighborhood have you and yours put away?'' He crosses his arms, staring her down. ''How many of 'em have your daddy and the boys in blue gunned down? You think Canary's gonna wash all that blood off your hands?'' He shakes his head again, pushing away the noticeable hurt. ''You don't know anything about this place.''

She takes it in calmly and ignores the irrational, somewhat selfish sting. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't say a word until he's said his peace. He has the right to that. Besides, it's not like he's wrong. She has known from the beginning that being the daughter of a police officer was not going to win her any points from anyone in the Glades.

The truth is, she has been back here for about 48 hours, holed up in the Glades, walking the familiar streets, and the rage and helplessness of the residents here has been palpable. It is evident in the abundance of missing posters, the candlelight vigils, the boarded up store windows, and locked doors. That deserves to be acknowledged. Especially considering so much of it is her fault. She did not choose to leave, did not mean to let anyone down, but she did. She left them behind. Green Arrow and associates got busy. The Glades suffered. The Glades is still suffering.

That's because of Edie.

Edie is the monster. She is what's wrong here, sending her people stalking and slithering these streets at night, stealing people out of their lives like some twisted fairytale witch. And she's doing it because of Laurel. There is no way around that.

Laurel watches Eli, the boy she has known as both Laurel Lance and the Black Canary, wipe at his eyes, anxious and jittery and understandably angry at the world. Then she looks over at the Finley brothers, two low level but violent criminals who just keep popping up. When she is certain Eli's finished, she looks back at him and asks, ''Do you have pen?''

He stares at her. ''...What?''

''A pen,'' she repeats. ''Do you have one? Maybe a Sharpie?''

A blank look.

''No? Okay.'' She plucks the purse - the thing that started this whole thing - off the ground and rifles through it. She checks the ID, just to see who needs this back, and then pokes around for a pen. She doesn't find one, but she does find an eyeliner pencil. It will have to do. She fishes it out and then thrusts the purse at Eli, the boy who stole it.

He gapes at her for like a solid thirty seconds before he even dares to reach out – very slowly - and take it. He looks confused and genuinely aghast that she is handing him back the purse that he stole. As she suspected, he doesn't even try to run.

''I was born here,'' Laurel tells him, a statement that seems to stun him. ''In one of the old apartment buildings over in No Man's Land,'' she goes on, nodding in the direction of the skeleton city block. ''Same one your grandmother and great grandmother used to live in. I was born there. You didn't know that?''

''Why would I know that?''

''Your great grandmother was my mother's midwife,'' she tells him. ''She was there when I was born. So was your grandmother. They were the midwives who delivered me. My sister too. You really didn't know?''

''I... No,'' he says. ''I didn't.''

''Maybe your mom assumed I told you,'' she says. ''But – yeah, I was born here. I love it here. When I grew up and became a lawyer, I chose to come back. Opened up a legal aid clinic here because I wanted to help, which - you know,'' she reminds him. ''I think your neighbor was one of my first clients.'' She steps over to Caleb and Owen, checking on their bindings before getting to work, scribbling down a few messages on their faces with the eyeliner pencil. She is certain that Oliver should know who these men are, they've given them enough trouble in the past to be memorable, but just in case. ''The main objective has always been to help - and to do it here. In the Glades. This is my home. This is where I became...'' She trails off, her hand halting briefly as she struggles to find a way to finish that.

There are many things she has become in this city.

Not all of them good.

''This is where I became,'' she settles on, leaving it at that. She scrawls the words Robbery & Assault on Owen's forehead and chin. She looks at the words for a second, fixing a smudge, making sure it's legible. Then she looks back to Eli, giving him a small, apologetic smile. ''But you're right,'' she admits. ''I've made mistakes. I know that. I've been naive. I've been a hypocrite.''

He looks surprised at the confession. ''You - '' He stops, looking tentative. ''Okay...''

''When I lost CNRI, I took the job at the DA's office because I needed a job. I had a family. I was scared of being without an income.''

''I...I get that.''

''And I was tired,'' she adds. ''Too tired to do the work of rebuilding. I needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere I could lick my wounds.'' It sounds stupid now when she says it out loud. It sounds selfish. She had never meant to make the DA's office her final stop. That's the truth. ''It was never supposed to be forever,'' she says. ''But then I got comfortable. And then I got...cocky, I suppose. I knew the system was broken. I knew it was rigged, but I thought I could be the one to change it. Dismantle it from the inside out. Make it better. I believed I could play both sides.'' She smirks a little, bittersweet. ''Like I said - cocky. And foolish. Very foolish.''

She steps over to Caleb, writing Finley brothers, both on parole on his bald head. ''I tried too hard to wear both the Canary and the Lawyer. To treat them like they were separate from myself. Just skins I could shed at a moment's notice and then put on again when they were needed.'' She writes check for outstanding warrants on Caleb's forehead. ''I was wrong. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry I wasted time pretending.'' She pulls Caleb's sleeves up and writes a few things down on his exposed skin. On his right arm, she writes Parole officer: Renee Montoya and on his left arm, she scratches out Renee's phone number.

Hope Ollie will be able to get here before the rain.

She takes a step back from the burly brothers and puts the cap back on the worn down eyeliner. ''I can't change the system,'' she says, tucking the eyeliner back in the purse. ''But I can work to protect people from getting tangled up in it. I'm the Black Canary. This - '' She looks around the dark alleyway. ''This is where I belong. You're right that I haven't been here, that I don't know what it's like down here now, you're right to be angry, and I can't change that I left, but I'm here now, Elijah.''

Eli seems to take her words to heart, visibly softening, but then he looks away. ''It doesn't even matter,'' he says. ''That's the thing. It doesn't matter what you do. This place will kill you.''

''I guess we'll see.''

His nervous eyes flick from her to the Finley brothers rather nervously. ''Does that mean...'' He grimaces. ''Are you gonna take me to the cops?''

''Probably should, huh?'' She, of course, doesn't. She takes a step closer to him, locking eyes. ''Can you look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with the robbery at the Mendoza's bodega?''

He nods eagerly. ''I swear. I swear,'' he pleads, putting his hands up. ''I had nothing to do with that. Cal - '' He gestures to Caleb. ''He said that if I helped them with a few jobs I'd get enough money to buy my mom a plane ticket to Texas. Just - easy things,'' he tries to excuse. ''Simple jobs, you know? Unlocked cars, empty apartments, just... That's all. Just petty stuff. But I never hurt anyone. I wouldn't. I - I just need...'' He doesn't finish, sighing heavily and shaking his head. ''I screwed up, I know, but it's - I need money for my mom. I don't know what's going on down here, but I know it's bad and I know I don't want Mom anywhere near it. We have family down in Houston and I was - I just needed to get enough money to get her there.''

She believes every word he's saying because she knows him, she knows his mother, and she knows they're good people, but she keeps her mouth shut, giving him a second to squirm. It's not about a lesson. She's just trying to decide whether or not she should tell his mother about this. Eli falling in with the wrong crowd has been a huge fear of Sharon's since he hit puberty. He's had so many close calls over the years, particularly since his father died in the earthquake.

Laurel tilts her head to the side and looks at the young man in front of her. She has known Eli Moore basically since he was born, more notably since she and Jo opened CNRI and she started reconnecting with her life in the Glades. She doesn't have it in her to break his mother's heart over this. Especially not with how sick Sharon has been over the past few years.

''Pearl Montgomery,'' she says eventually.

He looks confused. ''W-What?''

''The woman you stole the purse from,'' she says. ''That's her name. She lives at the Pine View Apartments over by the deli. Apartment 2B. You're going to go return this.''

He looks mortified. ''But - ''

''You're going to go return this,'' she says again, firm. ''You're going to leave an apology note in the bag. Then you're going to go home because it's getting late and you know your mother worries. When you return this purse, every cent will be in it. Nothing will be missing. If it is, I'll know. Do you understand?''

''How would you know if - ''

''I'll know.''

He shuts his trap with a nod. ''Got it.''

''Good.'' She gives him one last look, one last critical onceover, and then moves to brush past him. ''I'll be seeing you, Eli. Hopefully under better circumstances next time.'' She moves through the shadows toward the mouth of the alley, stopped only by the sound of his voice calling after her.

''How come you're not wearing your mask?''

She turns, hands stuffed into her pockets, still edging backward. ''What do I need a mask for?'' She winks at him, lips curved into a half smile. ''You know who I am.''

And that ought to do it.

For the record, she is generally not a fan of dramatic, over the top, stunningly arrogant monologues outside of the courtroom - she leaves that to Oliver, he seems to be a big fan of them - but she has some groundwork to lay here. She has been home for two days now, kicking around the Glades, playing cat and mouse with a witch who won't take the bait, and she needs a little assistance.

Eli Moore is a good kid. He is, as she has learned from tailing him today, a terrible thief, likely because he does not actually want to be one, but he is a good boy. A good son. After he returns the purse, he is going to go home, tell his mother about his encounter with the not so dead after all Black Canary, and that'll be that. Within 48 to 72 hours, the Glades will know she's home. Sharon Moore is a lovely, kind, and unflinchingly generous person, just like her mother and grandmother, but she is also a gossip who can't keep a secret to save her life. Also just like her mother and grandmother.

Laurel is counting on that.

As an added bonus, with any luck, this will put an end to Eli's life of bumbling petty crime.

She is taking a big risk here by outing herself in what Thea would call an ''uncontrolled, precarious, and borderline unhinged'' way. Especially given that no story has been spun to explain her return. There will undoubtedly be repercussions to publicly resurrecting herself so nonchalantly, but to be honest, she is not overly concerned with the potential fallout. She's willing to take the risk.

She has lived months in this not quite dead but not exactly alive state, with pieces of her deranged cousin embedded in her like shrapnel. She has walked carefully. Been patient and positive. She has looked on the bright side. None of that has done a damn thing. She needs to do something. She needs to be an active participant, someone who makes things happen instead of someone who things happen to.

Part of that involves being wholly alive.

If there are consequences to this, she will handle them. If the SCPD wants to charge her, that's fine. If the public turns on her, she would understand. That's life. There is a reason why all the saints are dead.

Her sole focus, her one priority right now is Edie. She got so close to her in California. She knows she did. She had her on the hook, she was ready to reel her in and start pulling her to the other side of the country, as far away from Washington as she could get her, and then something happened. She still isn't sure what. All she knows is that suddenly, out of nowhere, Edie retreated, fleeing from her Pacific Palisades home in the middle of the night, and there has been static in the air ever since. Laurel followed it all the way home.

She has no idea what it was that made Edie run, why she came back to Washington, but she intends to find out. It is nerve wracking to be back here, way too close to the people she loves, too close to keep them out of the blast radius, but it is what it is.

Maybe she should have known that all roads eventually lead home.

After the car crash in Bellingham, Edie was sent away to Maine. After the attack in Aberdeen, her mother helped her escape to North Carolina. When Katherine and Alan Lovejoy married and he retired, he wanted to move full time to California, to the sun and the view from that Pacific Palisades home, closer to his sister in Brentwood.

After she graduated law school, Laurel was offered a job at a law firm in San Francisco. It was her dream job. Environmental law. Everything she thought she wanted. It was her only offer.

She turned it down.

Kept waiting tables. Told herself she needed to find something closer to home. She's never told anyone about that before. She could not bring herself to leave her father, who needed her so much, or her grandparents, who she needed so much.

Just like Edie could not bring herself to stay away from home for too long, pulled back to Washington to the rain, the morning mist, and the thick green trees, establishing Katherine Lovejoy as a mainstay of Tacoma, of Seattle and Star City. She could have stayed away. She could have lived a life free of all this. No one would have ever known. But she didn't.

You can never truly get away from where you've been.

Laurel steps out of the alley, the wind catching her hair. The wet winter air stings her cheeks and she can feel the threat of rain in the air. She should text Felicity and get her to dispatch Oliver to pick up the Finley brothers. She gets a few steps before she turns, intending to make sure Eli's gone, and that's when she sees it.

She stops abruptly, transfixed by the concrete wall of the empty storefront and the street art that is now taking up space. It doesn't matter how many times she comes across one of these public eulogies. It's always going to be jarring. The art, the larger than life mural, is of her. The person they've made her now that she's dead.

The Black Canary, faceless, head bowed, with angel wings sprouting out of her back, her hair slightly tousled by an imaginary wind. As if she's floating high above them, looking down at her city.

Laurel takes a small step away when she sees it, caught off guard by the sight of it.

It's not her, not really, not her face, not her name; it's just a ghost, an abstract concept of a person who was more figurehead than figure. This is far from the first time she has laid eyes on one of these tokens of grief and misplaced gratitude, but there is something different about this one. She can't quite put her finger on what it is that is so unsettling to her until she steps closer and there it is, written on one of the wings. A very familiar Latin phrase scrawled in shimmery gold handwriting, small and nearly hidden, like a little Easter egg for the people who dare to look close enough:

alis volat propriis

She flies with her own wings.

Laurel does not have to look up the translation to know what that says. She knows that one by heart. It has been tattooed on her back, along with her own pair of wings, since she was nineteen years old. It's also, she knows, what Dean had engraved on her headstone. Whoever painted this must have visited her grave at some point. Before it was all gone.

She is not sure how that makes her feel. It's a strange thought, a strange image. She still doesn't understand it. She has been told of the offerings left at her grave, then at the statue, the shrines people made for her, but she still doesn't understand it. It seems so unbelievable.

It's not really an important thought at the moment, but she can't help but wonder why this person visited her grave. What were they looking for there? What kind of answers? What could she have done for this nameless artist to not only visit her grave but also base an entire mural around her and something that was etched on her gravestone? What kind of impact did she have on this person's life without even knowing?

Remembrance is something precious.

She is still struggling to understand how she managed to earn so much of it.

She crosses her arms with a frown, tilting her head to the side to study the art, scanning it with a critical eye for any artist's signature. When she finds it, it's at the bottom, tiny gold initials on the Black Canary's shoe: PEC. She crouches down to look at the initials, cold wind still rustling her hair. She has no idea who PEC is, but she has suddenly become aware of a familiar and bone chilling feeling.

The feeling of being watched.

She tenses, body stiffening up as she rises back up and turns around. He is easy to find tonight. He's not even bothering with hiding in the shadows, standing on top of the building across the street, looking unbothered by the cold weather, but still evidently surprised to see her.

Oliver.

The tiniest of smiles starts on her lips. It takes a lot to throw the Green Arrow off his game, but he looks well and truly shocked tonight. He wasn't expecting her. He doesn't even wave.

Is she supposed to wave? She would rather not engage at all, as rude as that may sound. Aside from the simple fact that she is not in the mood for a lecture, she was kind of hoping to fly under the radar here. Should have known that was never going to be an option.

''Is that guy posing?''

She startles at the sound of Eli's voice, nearly jumping out of her skin when she realizes he is standing right beside her. A bit embarrassing for Black Canary.

He doesn't even appear to notice her slip up, gaping up at the Green Arrow with a confused wrinkled nose. ''Is he always like that?''

''Eli,'' Laurel says. ''I thought I told you to get out of here.''

''I was, but then I saw that dude over there with his big what if Captain America only wore Ed Hardy and Affliction t-shirts energy and I was like - ''

She tries, unsuccessfully, to pinch her lips together to keep from smiling. ''Are you going to make me regret giving you a second chance?''

He straightens a little. ''No, ma'am.''

''Then you better get going,'' she advises. ''And don't call me ma'am.''

''Got it,'' he nods. ''Sorry.''

''Don't apologize to me,'' she shoos him away. ''Apologize to Pearl.''

''Right.'' He doesn't look like he wants to stick around and wear out his welcome, throwing her one last grateful smile before he starts to jog away, but he does pause, about halfway down the block, just long enough to look over his shoulder. ''By the way,'' he calls out to her. ''Welcome home.''

It is a kindness she had not been expecting.

She watches him go, making sure he's heading in the direction of Pearl Montgomery's place and then turns back to the rooftop across the street.

Green Arrow is nowhere to be found. She looks around the street and then turns back to the alley just in time to see him hop down off the fire escape. She watches him traipse over to the Finley brothers, examining them with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. ''These two again,'' she can just hear him mutter.

Satisfied, she steps away from the alley. By the time he turns to look in her direction, asking if this is her handiwork, she's gone.

He doesn't come after her.

Laurel hurries away from the scene, keeping her head down, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her green canvas jacket.

Despite the Finley brothers and their typical brutishness, it has been mostly a quiet night in the Glades. Lonely, even. There are a few people here and there, mostly by the nightclubs, but no one is out and about. She's been out for a few hours now, winding her way through back alleys and side streets that she knows by heart, and there has been little action. That could be because of the cold and drizzly weather, it could be because of the time, hell, it could even be because of Valentine's Day, but she doubts it.

When people are being snatched from your neighborhood, you learn not to go out after dark.

She sticks close by for a few moments, tucking herself into the shadows just to make sure Oliver gets the Finley brothers apprehended safely, and then she heads out. The feeling of being watched follows her as she walks along the darkened sidewalks, like there are eyes in the shadows, even though the streets are mostly deserted. She chalks it up to her increasing isolation. It's getting to her, she knows this. She is not a person who does well alone and she can feel the loneliness eating away at her, leaving behind jagged edges and insomnia.

She roams the streets for a while longer, making sure that Eli returns the purse and gets home safely, and then, just as her fingertips are starting to go numb, she ducks into her old favorite lunch spot, also the only place open late near the motel she's staying at, picks up some food, and goes home.

Home being the cheap motel down by the old factory that is, in all likelihood, full of mold and germs and invisible stains that she doesn't even want to think about.

And that is basically her life now.

She goes out alone, she fights alone, she eats alone, and she goes to sleep alone.

At least there's hot water.

In the hush of the seedy motel room, she takes a long hot shower in the slightly grimy but serviceable bathroom without being disturbed. No one knocks on the door after five minutes because there's only one bathroom, there's no one calling for her because dinner's ready, no TV or music playing in the background, and no chirpy little voice squeaking for Mommy through the door. She misses that absolute chaos more than she ever thought she would. Out of everything, it's the quiet that gets to her the most. It has been the hardest adjustment.

She has spent the past two weeks running, mostly alone, darting from place to place in Southern California, sometimes going without food, without a proper place to sleep, and yet the only thing that has truly stung has been the silence.

To be fair, she would be in rougher shape if she acknowledged the other things, the other losses. If she listened to her voicemail or picked up her phone or allowed herself to think about what she left behind, she wouldn't be able to get out of bed. She has done her best to avoid all of that. She puts her old life, the mother and the wife, the sister and the daughter, into a box every morning and puts it on a shelf. She doesn't take it out until she is lying in bed at night, exhausted but unable to sleep.

She can't avoid the silence, though. Can't put that in a box. It follows her wherever she goes, a reminder of what she no longer has, of what she walked away from and may never get back.

Coming back to Star City has been a lot harder than she thought it would be. It was easier in California where she was nothing and no one, nameless and faceless just like the rest of them. She had things to do. Surveillance, digging, taunting. There were people to spy on, plans to put into motion, locks to pick and pick pockets to tackle. It's not like there is ever a shortage of crime in a city as dense and fast paced and troubled as Los Angeles.

In California, she was the ghost of the Black Canary. She had no identity, no name, no past, and nothing to lose. Back here, back home, Laurel Lance is around every corner. So is everything Laurel Lance left behind.

How is she supposed to avoid her problems if everywhere she looks, there is someone looking at her like they know her?

Despite her outwardly confident and really quite pompous superhero speech to Eli, she has no idea what she's doing here. Coming home has illuminated that one big question that she has been trying her damndest to outrun.

What's going to happen after?

A few months ago, in the peace and quiet of Malibu, with Dean and Mary by her side, she knew exactly what she wanted. She knew what the goal was. She knew where she wanted the story to end. Now all of that is gone and getting it back feels out of reach.

Laurel has ignored most of the voicemails, the ones left by her worried friends, her scared family, and especially the ones from her hurt husband. However, she did listen to the first few he left, back in those first couple of days of distance. She sat in a cheap motel somewhere in Oregon and listened to his frantic pleas and his desperate bargaining turn into cold rage. She understood his anger then, just like she understands it now.

Frankly, there is a part of her that is surprised he has stuck with her for as long as he has. He has put up with so much of her shit. He has forgiven unforgivable things. She's not sure he's going to be able to forgive this one and, judging from the last voicemail she listened to, he isn't sure either.

The sad truth is that Dean married a woman who no longer exists, who maybe never existed at all. He married that naive and pregnant lawyer in the rent controlled apartment downtown. She was safe and soft, gave him warmth and kindness and an ordinary home in an ordinary city with an ordinary woman and the baby girl he'd always dreamt of. He gave up his entire life for her, traded in the open road for a quiet little home in a quiet little suburb over the bridge. He chose to start a new life with her. To build with her.

And she responded by blowing it all up in his face.

Over and over again, she took what he made for her, threw it back in his face, and ran. Just like her mother. She drank that ordinary woman away and replaced her with some leather clad freak who jumps rooftops in the dead of night and bursts eardrums with a scream.

She would not blame him if he has finally hit his limit.

It was bound to happen eventually.

She would like to be with him, to be forgiven, to start again when this is all over, but she also knew what she was risking when she slipped out that door in the middle of the night and left behind only a note.

After a long and too hot shower, Laurel pulls on a pair of sweatpants, her last clean t-shirt, which she thinks might actually belong to her husband, and the warmest sweater she has, sitting down in the corner of the chilly and dimly lit motel room. She boots up the laptop that was given to her in California by...a colleague, plugs her phone in to charge, and picks at the lukewarm sesame chicken and lo mein.

The first thing she does is Google herself, as conceited as that sounds. It is not the most enjoyable thing she's ever done because - hey, guess what, people on the internet are cruel. Unapologetically so. Proudly so. Unfortunately, though, it has become necessary to keep her finger on the pulse point lately. Her intentions in California were to get Edie's attention. The consequence of that is that she also created some buzz about the validity of Black Canary's demise.

For the past couple of weeks, she has been monitoring the chatter on all the big social media platform. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Reddit, even the hellscape that is 4chan. She's hit local forums, Black Canary fan pages, and has even waded into the despicable comment sections of online news articles.

4chan was easily the worst internet experience she has ever had in her entire life. Not much shocks her these days, but that was like the worst acid trip ever. Last she checked, people were trying to dig up her autopsy report just for kicks and one wildly disturbing individual was desperately appealing to their fellow trolls to find pictures of her corpse. Preferably, they said, from the morgue. Not in a casket. She can only assume, given the intensity of this person's request, the strange specifics, and a few choice buzzwords, that it was for sexual reasons. So that was fun. She has also never been called a ''cunt'' that many times before. It was a lot for a weekday night.

The comment sections on various internet articles, YouTube videos, and Facebook posts were also highly distressing rabbit holes to go down. Perhaps she is just terribly naive, but she wasn't aware of the sheer amount of people who believe that she deserved to die a horrible death. It's not the greatest feeling in the world. Also, what is with the people who attack her looks? There are people digging up old pictures of her and putting them beside recent pictures to prove she had plastic surgery. What the hell does that have to do with anything? And what's wrong with her chin? Or her eyes? Or her hands? And why is it mostly women pulling that shit? What is that about?

It's all extremely rude.

She can fully understand why people lose faith in humanity after being on social media for too long.

On a lighter note, her Instagram account is once again gaining followers for some reason? Not entirely sure what that's about, but she does wonder if that might have something to do with the rumors surrounding the blonde woman in California who foiled a robbery at a Circle K in Culver City and may or may not be the same woman who tackled a pick pocket off the Santa Monica pier in a ''stunningly dramatic display.''

Currently, with that Circle K video still circulating and the thing on the Santa Monica pier gaining traction thanks to that one Buzzfeed article, the biggest speculation is coming from Twitter, Reddit, and the Black Canary fan pages.

Nothing has hit the actual news yet so far and what is out there are just pure seemingly baseless rumors with zero evidence to back up the claims, so it's not like there are any actual investigative reporters on the case, but there are some average everyday people on these social media sites who are getting uncomfortably (and impressively) close to figuring shit out.

The people on the Black Canary fan sites are sweet - although they might be a little too invested in her life and death, if you ask her - and genuine and they want her to be alive so much. They seem so excited by the possibility. If not a tad boundary stomping. They seem young so she's not extremely worried about them being dangerous, but a few of them have floated the idea of attempting to contact ''BC's husband'' to either get information from him or let him know that she might be alive and that is...concerning. For several reasons.

Twitter detectives are busy analyzing cell phone footage of the two incidents along with known footage of Black Canary, matching movements and posture and body language. A handful of them are trying to clean up the footage to get a clean shot of her face. They have literally done facial analysis on blurry screengrabs. And they are not at all shy about directing their questions and accusations right at the SCPD and Oliver's official verified Mayor Queen account.

The r/starlingvigilantes subreddit has an ongoing thread about Black Canary that has been pinned to the top since April and yesterday the most recent activity was a bunch of people talking about the sightings in California. And these people are local. Some of them know her. There is a whole other thread in the subreddit titled Six Degrees of Black Canary. It's actually a lot more fun than the main thread about her. She would much rather read comments like I used to smoke weed with her sister or her husband used to come into my dad's restaurant to get her our parmesan and garlic waffle fries when she was pregnant rather than people talking about pooling resources to hire a PI to track her down.

People are out here trying to make appointments with Oliver and get in touch with her father to find out if she's alive. One person actually went downtown to City Hall and ordered a copy of her death certificate just to prove that she died and then posted it on the subreddit. Which is weird. It's weird that it was done, it's weird to sit there and look at a copy of her death certificate that someone put on the internet, and it's weird that her immediate reaction upon seeing all the comments about how sad it is that she died of a pulmonary embolism is to just nod along with them.

Yes, PortlandLuvr, it is :(

At least they're not digging around for her autopsy report.

Out of all the sites she has looked at, it really is the locals who are the most confident that she's back.

You know that new place downtown called Creole Kitchen? I swear I saw her having lunch there with the mayor a few months back, someone says, which, you know...

Oops.

I believe it, says a person with the oh-so-lovely username of tittyfcker305. This is Star City. Anything can happen.

I mean, disgusting username aside, that person does have a point.

Someone else on the thread mentioned how suspicious it is that Canary's family apparently had her body exhumed back in early November and taken to some family crypt in Gotham. They took her across the country just because of a little vandalism? In Starling? Come on.

And why did Queen remove the memorial statue on the pier anyway? someone named hottamalezz wants to know. He spent so much money on it and it was so hyped up. Why remove it almost immediately?

There are skeptics, sure. People desperately trying to cling to common sense and normality and a world where people don't just randomly pull a Lazarus. Like SeahawksorBust who pops up every now and then, calmly trying to debunk speculation. It wasn't a little vandalism, they - correctly - point out. An entire section of the graveyard was smashed to bits. It was like a bomb went off. Probably some targeted anti vigilante attack. I can't blame them for moving her. And the statue was taken down because her family didn't approve of it. I get the world is weirder now than ever before but Black Canary is dead. Her family confirmed this months ago. I feel like all this speculation is getting disrespectful now.

yeah idk i kinda agree, another user says. i'm from avalon park and i see her husband and daughter around but haven't seen her since april. i think it's fake news :(

Agreed, someone else chimes in. I know this city is fucked up, but coming back from the dead? I don't know about that.

But overall, the local subreddit is easily the most nonchalant place when it comes to this whole situation.

Aside from that one user who comments on every post about Black Canary rambling about how it's true, she's alive, they put her in a machine and spun her around and brought her back to life and it's the freemasons that did it with like a dozen exclamation points and gets the same response of fuck's sake, Trina, don't make it weird every time.

The majority of people have accepted that vigilantes exist, but are still very torn on whether or not they should. Twitter seems divided on the issue, Instagram is into it purely for the aesthetics, and Facebook fucking hates it. Don't even get them started on the subject of metahumans. So the idea of a vigilante dying and then coming back to life? Nobody knows what to do with that.

Except for the locals in the r/starlingviglantes subreddit apparently.

They're just so chill about it. They've started a betting pool. If she is back, how do you think it happened? The ideas range from absurd (she was cryogenically frozen until they could figure out how to heal her wound) to hilarious (she faked her death but came back when she heard Kim Kardashian wants to play her in a movie because someone needs to shut that shit down) to downright insulting (she faked her death because she wanted to leave her marriage) to pretty much the exact cover story that Thea plans to use (Damien Darhk faked her death, kidnapped her, and has been holding her this entire time) and even to exactly what happened (idk probs witchcraft lmao). Ironically, the only comment that was downvoted so much it was hidden was the one about witchcraft.

The debate over whether or not to refer to the city as Starling or Star gets more heated than vigilante talk here.

Tonight, the subreddit is the first place she goes. She's not sure how much chatter she's expecting. Sharon Moore's gossip probably won't make a splash until at least tomorrow and she has managed to otherwise keep something of a low profile, but she does wonder if she's been spotted by any of these eagle eyed citizens since she got back into town.

Alas, no.

No Black Canary sightings have been reported.

And apparently tonight is horny night on r/starlingvigilantes.

The only activity on the Black Canary thread is someone responding to the person who supposedly lives in Avalon Park, asking, You've seen BC's husband? We never hear much about him. What's he like?

he's super lowkey i think. sometimes he takes his kid to the same park i take my little brother to, the original poster, who is very clearly a teenager, responds. i've never spoken to him directly. he's too hot it's intimidating. one time i accidentally made eye contact with him and walked into a tree. he asked me if i was okay but i don't remember if i said anything. seems like a good dad tho.

It is not precisely what Laurel is looking for, in fact she nearly chokes on her noodles when she reads it, but she does wish she could frame that comment.

Other than that, aside from Trina's daily rambling post about the freemasons and how they relate to the vigilantes, the most activity seems to be in a thread titled: On a scale of 1-10 how fuckable are the Starling Vigilantes?

So.

...Not the most eventful night in terms of social media monitoring.

Single people on Reddit get weird on Valentine's Day.

Happy to report she is a solid 7 in terms of fuckability, though. 8 if she's wearing her suit. She thinks that's a fair score. Green Arrow got a 4.

Can't wait to tell Roy that the most fuckable Starling Vigilante, with a respectable and surprisingly high score of 9.5 is, according to Reddit, ''the red one but when it was a dude.''

He'll be so proud.

(None of the Starling Vigilantes manage to beat out Batman, however. Apparently his score is a perfect 10 out of 10. Very fuckable. That's nice for him.)

And that's enough social media for the night.

She totally understands why people use this as a distraction from the shitshow of life and she is absolutely going to screenshot that comment about Dean and keep it forever, but there are probably more important things she should be doing right now. She has spent most of the day wandering the Glades, looking at all the missing person flyers, snapping pictures, snagging a few, and she has a long night of research ahead of her. She needs to make a list. She wants to know the people she's looking for.

In addition, there is her new number one target.

Lady Shiva.

Without a doubt, she is the best way into Edie's cult. She does not appear to be soulless or brainwashed, her loyalty is shaky at best, and when the choice was there, she chose to help Laurel. She is, whether she knows it or not, the weak link. Not literally, of course, because that woman is terrifying and obviously has a skillset Laurel could never even dream of, but when it comes to this? When it comes to Edie and her master plan of terror? Shiva is not all the way on board. There is something between the two, possibly even some form of love, but Shiva - Sandra? - does not agree with Edie's actions.

Laurel plans to use that to her advantage.

She just has to find her first.

Her and Sin.

This is something she could potentially get Felicity to help her with. She knows she's trustworthy and she knows she wouldn't tell anyone if she asked her not to. Felicity is a wonderful, sweet, and well-meaning person, but she is also cunning, manipulative, and secretive. It's what makes her so good at what she does. When it comes to this job, the greater good, the girl has few lines. If Laurel asks her to keep a secret, to lie, she would - and she would do it fabulously. But she really doesn't want to make her lie and she does not want to put poor Felicity on Edie's radar by getting her too involved in this.

The only other person she has worked with since leaving town is someone who would not leave her the hell alone in California. She's tried her best to keep everyone else out. Except here's the thing: she does have a plan. She wasn't going to come back without one. Part of that plan might require someone with Felicity's particular skillset.

Laurel stuffs a piece of chicken into her mouth and chews slowly, contemplating the pros and cons. Hypothetically, if she were to involve Felicity in this, what would be the best way to do that? Email or text? Which one is more likely to slip past Oliver? She knows he's not above checking people's texts, so...

Finally, once she is halfway finished with her food, she pushes her trepidation to the back of her mind and fires off a short but hopefully not too pleading email to Felicity. Despite how late it is - and also the fact that it's Valentine's Day and she is still, last Laurel heard, dating that detective from the SCPD - a response from Overwatch's untraceable email account comes through immediately.

On it. It might take a few days to get her exact location but if she's in or around the city, I'll find her. I could even cast a wider net throughout the Seattle area if you want. Update you tomorrow? How are you btw? I saw the video from that Circle K. Are you okay?

Laurel does not respond to her friend's concern. She exits out of the email and grabs for her phone just as it starts buzzing and vibrating on the table. She's half expecting it to be Felicity, but instead she's greeted with another familiar number on display. She sighs, wary of the caller, but answers anyway. ''Hello?''

''You never let me know if you got home safe,'' the voice on the other end says, smooth and silky and somehow almost mocking. The usual.

''I never said I would,'' Laurel replies, going for casual and failing horribly.

''You made a real mess in Culver City, you know,'' the voice says. ''I went down there yesterday to poke around and heard Black Canary mentioned at least four separate times. Seems a ghost saved those people. Is this what you wanted?''

Uh, no. Hard no. The Circle K thing had not been part of her plan. To say the least. ''It's not like I knew what I was walking into. I was hungry. Wrong time, wrong place.''

''Hmm.'' She doesn't believe her. ''Regardless. Twitter's talking shit about you.''

''Twitter's always talking shit about someone. Is that not the whole point of Twitter?''

''Just letting you know. Most people are convinced it was a copycat, but some of these kids have you made.''

''I'll be sure to give that the consideration it deserves.''

''You've got fan pages, Canary. Did you know that? I don't have fan pages.''

''Why would you have fan pages? No one knows you.''

''Ouch.''

Laurel sits back in her chair, opting to ignore that. ''Where are you right now?''

''I told you where I was going when we split up.'' The careless yet practiced nonchalance is more noticeable in her voice than she probably wants it to be. ''I'm in Vegas. I have tickets to see a show tomorrow. I'm sleeping on three thousand dollar sheets in a suite right on the strip. Where are you? No, wait, let me guess: still hiding. Did you at least pick a motel without bed bugs this time?''

Laurel throws a look over to the squeaky lumpy bed that is fairly suspicious, but does not have beg bugs. ...She's like 80% sure. ...Maybe 70%. ''Are you actually in Las Vegas? Because I seem to remember you telling me you were leaving town when we were in Van Nuys and yet you still showed up the next night.''

''You're lucky I did. If I had gone on my merry way, that freak in the skull mask would have killed you.''

Laurel closes her eyes, gritting her teeth to keep another sigh in. All right, she will admit that's not...entirely incorrect. Edie's new muscle is a menace. Snake Eyes, she thinks she heard one of the others call him? A horribly obnoxious name, but he is, unfortunately, good at what he does. As competent as he is brutal. Her face is littered with bruises from the other night. ''Helena, I'm serious,'' she says. ''Are you watching your back?''

In response to that, Helena laughs, flippant and unconcerned as usual. ''Always,'' she says. ''You know that.''

''You weren't followed?''

''Nope.''

''Are you sure? My cousin has to know you were helping me. She could have sent one of her people after you.''

''I'll survive, Laurel,'' Helena says, softer. ''I always do. Will you do the same?''

Laurel's left thumb twitches, rubbing at the empty space on her ring finger. ''I'm trying.''

''Might be easier if you let someone help you, don't you think?''

She is silent for a long time before she asks, ''Why did you call me?''

Helena snorts. She mumbles something under her breath, a verbal eye roll. ''God, you're infuriating,'' she gripes. ''Look, that city is poison - especially now and especially to you. You're tough - Lord knows you're tough - and you've got that handy dandy new scream of yours, but you're in trouble.''

''Yeah, believe me, Helena, I know that.''

''I called because I wanted to make sure you were still alive,'' Helena says tersely. ''But, fine, if you're so determined to die alone - ''

''I'm not - '' Laurel stops, annoyed. ''I didn't ask you to check on me,'' she snaps. She's well aware she's being kind of a bitch right now, but this is not the conversation she wanted to have tonight. She's too tired and she's too sore and, even worse, she knows Helena is right. And that is so not the road she wants to go down right now.

''Honestly,'' Helena grumbles. ''You're worse than Batman right now. All this damn brooding. It's insufferable. No wonder Oliver's so hung up on you.''

All at once, Laurel wants to laugh. She brings her knee up on her chair, resting her head on it, so exhausted she cannot figure out if what's in her chest is a laugh or a cry.

''You know, I get what you're doing,'' Helena offers. ''I do. It's easy to understand. You have a family. You don't want them in danger. But the danger's already there, honey.''

''This just isn't...'' Laurel lifts her head, licking her lips. ''This isn't the typical kind of danger.''

''Danger is danger,'' says Helena. ''It's always going to be there. We are what we are. The world is what it is. There will never be a shortage of danger. If I had a family, I would want to be there every day to protect them.''

''This is me protecting them,'' Laurel insists.

''Just because you keep saying that – ''

''I'm the magnet. I'm the objective. I'm the dead thing this witch wants. They don't have anything to do with this. I don't want her anywhere near - ''

''But she is,'' Helena states bluntly. ''You ran and she ran after you, but then she went back. Your plan didn't work.'' There is a tense moment between them, with Helena waiting for Laurel to say something and Laurel unsure of what to say. Finally, Helena gives up and breaks the silence. ''You can't fight alone, Canary.''

''Why not?'' Laurel challenges, somewhat irrationally. ''You did.''

''And look where that got me,'' is the grim answer. ''A life on the run. All alone. Is that really what you want?''

''What I want - '' Laurel breaks off in a burst of choking laughter. ''What I want has no bearing on how this plays out,'' she says. ''Besides, what does it matter to you anyway? Why would you care about what happens to me?''

There is no answer to that. Just a relentless silence that feels like it goes on forever. ''I'll send you a picture from my hotel room,'' Helena says eventually, without acknowledging the question whatsoever. ''You won't believe the view I have.''

The call ends before Laurel can say anything else - not that there was anything left to say anyway. Moments later, Helena texts her a semi blurry picture of the Las Vegas strip, taken, presumably, from her hotel room.

Laurel still doesn't believe she's really there.

She could dig deeper, reverse google search the picture, but she doesn't. She'll let Helena keep her secrets. She owes her that much. She looks at the notification of the missed call from Dean earlier.

Helena isn't wrong. Huntress is violent and reckless, she is arrogant and infuriating, one might even call her dangerous and obsessive and stark raving mad. But she's smart. She has always been smart. Of course she's right about this. She was right when she called Laurel out on her foolishness in Van Nuys, she was right when she griped about Black Canary's apparent brand new death wish while they were monitoring the Lovejoy house in Pacific Palisades, and she was right about everything she said tonight.

However, Laurel doesn't really want to talk about that. She doesn't even want to think about it. She has made her choices and she is going to have to do the best with what she has.

She puts her phone down and rises to her feet, stretching her sore muscles before clicking the ancient television set on and perching on the edge of the bed. Fruitlessly, she presses the buttons on the hopeless remote, hoping maybe, just maybe, by some miracle, there might be another channel available tonight that isn't the channel that, for some reason, only plays reruns of Dallas.

Hell, she would even take Channel 52 and their bizarre obsession with Oliver's love life over this. She lived with her grandparents from ages 5-12 and is married to Dean Winchester. She's seen enough Dallas for this lifetime.

Unfortunately, she is still stuck with the Ewing family.

She gives up with a groan of annoyance. Guess it could be worse. At least it's not that shitty reboot. She tosses the remote control on the bed beside her and watches, numbly, as Pam Ewing wakes up, finds her dead husband in the shower, and learns that the events of the awful past year have all just been a dream. Laurel scoffs and rolls her eyes at the overwrought acting.

Frankly, Pam has no idea how lucky she is. Is it a ridiculous plot? Yes. Would Laurel give anything for a giant retcon right now? Also yes. That sounds downright lovely. If she could do something to wake up a year ago with Dean safe in the shower and have none of this happen, she would. She doesn't know why Pam's making such a big deal about it.

Be grateful for the second chance, lady.

Most of us aren't that lucky.

She turns the volume down low but leaves the television on for some cold comfort, a pitiful attempt to stifle the loneliness, hauling her tired but too restless to sleep body back over to the desk.

For the record, she doesn't think she's acting anything like Batman. From what Helena told her, he tends to brood a lot and - really, who on earth has time for that? She's got shit to do. In her experience, men are the ones more likely to carve out time to sit and brood uselessly. (See also: Oliver. Her father. Even the Winchester brothers.) She does not currently have the luxury of wallowing. She has been on the move for two weeks and she can't afford to stop now.

She takes out the few missing posters she snagged earlier and pulls up the pictures of others on her phone. She scribbles the name down on a yellow legal pad, chugs her water, and gets to work. She only gets about fifteen minutes of work done - scrolling through the social media accounts of the missing and their loved ones, writing down notes about what is known about their disappearances, trying to find a common thread, an area to focus on tomorrow - and then her phone rings.

She grabs her phone without thinking, wrongly assuming that it's likely Helena. She realizes her mistake just a second too late, the call already answered by the time she catches what the Caller ID says. She clamps her mouth shut, her heart rate speeding up dangerously in her chest.

''Laurel?''

Dean.

Her voice dies in her throat, body stiffening. His voice sounds tinny through the phone, caught somewhere between hopeful and disbelief. Just the sound of his voice makes her chest hurt. Feeling restless, unable to remain seated, she pushes her chair back and stands up.

''Laurel,'' he says again, and she bites down on her bottom lip. ''Where are you?''

She doesn't – can't – answer, one hand reaching out to grip the back of her chair.

''Tell me where you are and I'll come get you.''

She presses her lips together tightly, looking up at the ceiling, trying to blink away the pressure building behind her eyes.

''Laurel,'' his voice pleads. ''Tell me where you are.''

She sits back down on the bed, a hand clasped over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her breathing, to keep herself from saying anything. He still sounds hurt underneath the hand he's holding out to her, wounded and no doubt angry, but he means what he says. That might be the part that hurts the most. Despite everything she's put him through, if she opens her mouth and tells him where she is, he would come running. She has no doubt.

That's why she keeps her mouth shut.

She wants to say something. She wants to tell him where she is and ask him to come take her home. She wants to go home. To sleep in her own bed and shower in her own shower and eat food that isn't late night takeout or hasn't come from a gas station. She wants to live again in that house on Sherwood Lane that they chose because of the big backyard and the apple tree and the cozy little neighborhood. It was supposed to be a place for their family to grow. The destination after a long journey on a winding, bumpy road. That was supposed to be the end of the dark part of the story. That was supposed to be the happy ending.

She wants that house, that life, that family, the one she's never really had a chance to live in, too busy with whatever crisis was happening in this godforsaken city, always working, always distracted, running, scared. She wants to go back. She knows she can't.

''You don't have to tell me anything else,'' he promises. ''I won't ask questions. Just tell me where you are.''

She sits there for what feels like a painfully long moment, frozen, listening to him breathing as he waits to her response, with her chest and throat burning, full of all the words she cannot say. Then she ends the call. She never says a word.

There is no home for the dead.

She is learning to come to terms with that.

.

.

.

December 2016

Laurel wakes peacefully to the faraway sound of waves and the surprising but pleasant lack of panic.

She has not been awakened by the harsh jolt of horror and adrenaline that goes hand in hand with her usual nightmares nor has she been yanked out of her slumber by the disorienting violence of whatever it is that Edie does with her at night. She wakes because she wakes; slowly and softly, in an unfamiliar but safe room in Rebecca Merlyn's Malibu beach house with her husband and daughter next to her.

Groggy and still half asleep, body exhausted from a long day of traveling yesterday, she rolls over to grope for her phone, checking the time. Nearly six thirty. She puts her phone back on the bedside table and rolls back over, tired eyes landing on her family beside her, both still fast asleep.

The bed here is smaller than their huge bed at home so they're all a little squished and Dean looks like one wrong move could send him toppling off the bed, but Mary - the starfish in the middle, the one who was so keyed up yesterday's travels and so excited to be at the beach that she refused to settle and didn't fall asleep until after one - looks perfectly comfortable.

Laurel gently brushes a few strands of messy hair out of Mary's face.

Mary, curled around Sharkie, with the comforting weight of her father's hand on her back doesn't even stir.

Still groggy, Laurel throws a look at the flimsy curtains in front of the balcony doors. They left one of the doors open a crack last night to air out the stuffy house and she can hear the waves and spot the waning moonlight through the curtains.

The sun will be up soon.

Even in winter, the sun still shines in Malibu.

It might be nice to go for a run on the beach during sunrise. It sounds like something she would enjoy. Then again, she could just go back to sleep. This is supposed to be a vacation after all. She relaxes back into the pillow and watches the thin curtains sway in the breeze. She listens to the sound of the ocean just outside the doors, the waves lapping peacefully at the shore, in and out, and then she closes her eyes.

The next time she opens her eyes, the sun is rising, casting the room in a soft pinkish orange glow, and Mary has shifted in her sleep so that her feet are tucked under her dad's back and her head is resting, apparently comfortably, on her mother's left breast. It's a really weird position. It's not so weird for Mary. She does this a lot. One time she fell asleep half on half off the couch in the living room.

Laurel, who can't be nearly as uncomfortable as Dean must be, reaches a hand out to grab her phone, trying not to jostle Mary too much. It's twenty after seven. Still too early for her two hibernating bears here, especially on vacation, but she doesn't think she could get back to sleep if she tried. She gives it a few more minutes, scrolling through emails, firing off yet another ''thank you'' text to Thea, waiting to see if Mary moves on her own. She does not. The girl is content with her new Mommy pillow.

Normally, Laurel would be fine with that. She lost so much cuddle time with her girl while she was underground. She'll welcome any and all snuggles. On the other hand, currently she is getting hungry. Also, she really needs to pee.

With great difficulty, she extricates herself from the bed. She replaces her body with a pillow that Mary immediately burrows into, but the girl still stirs, at least enough to start kneading her feet into Dean's back like a cat.

He has, so far, remained sleeping, but this is his limit. He jerks awake, mumbling out a groggy, ''Shit.'' He blindly grabs behind him for whatever is kicking at him, clamping onto a tiny foot. ''Girl, what the hell are you doing?''

Laurel, who has done a piss poor job of stifling her laughter, decides to step in as he's rolling over, just in time to stop Mary from kicking him in the face. ''Mary,'' she murmurs, pushing down a snicker. She gently maneuvers her daughter into a normal sleeping position.

Mary whines, opening bleary eyes.

''Go back to sleep, honeybee,'' Laurel urges, tucking Sharkie into Mary's arm. ''Don't kick Daddy.''

''I think I like to kick Daddy,'' Mary whispers, eyelids already drifting shut.

Dean, also half asleep, ducks his face down into her shoulder, trying his best to hide his laughter and sound offended. ''Wow.''

Laurel leaves her two anti morning people, ducking into the en suite bathroom before her own giggling can get too loud. She's not gone for long, but by the time she gets back into the bedroom, Dean and Mary are both fast asleep once again. She throws on her light robe and sticks her feet into her slippers. She shuts and locks the doors leading out to the balcony, mostly out of an abundance of caution in case Mary wakes up.

She pauses in the doorway, glancing back at her family. Mary is lying on her back with Sharkie still safely tucked under her arm and Dean is lying beside her with one hand placed atop her belly. Her tiny fingers are holding onto his tightly. They both look peaceful. Laurel snaps a picture of the scene - because she's that mom - and then tiptoes out of the bedroom.

The Merlyn beach house is not as gaudy as most of their other properties. It's not as dark or hyper modern in style and it's not quite dripping with the grotesque wealth Malcolm liked to boast about. It's luxurious, right on the beach, but it's cozy. It's not cold and sterile the way the Merlyn house in Starling was. It's not show offy the way the Lake Tahoe house was. It's homey.

Most of that has to do with Thea. In an effort to make the place appealing when she originally put it on the market, she fixed up the long neglected home. Bought new furniture for the staging, repaired everything that needed to be repaired, slapped on a few coats of paint, even hired a pool guy. She did even more when she took it off the market, putting in new appliances and a few more details to make it livable. When getting it ready for Dean and Laurel, she went even further - stocked the pantry and the fridge, hired people to bring in things from fresh sheets and blankets and towels to fresh flowers, got everything straightened out with the utilities. Thea remade this house as a gift to Laurel and a promise to Tommy.

Nevertheless, Rebecca Merlyn still lingers here.

So much of her is still here. She is in the colorful rugs, the colorful patterned kitchen backsplash and tiles, the art on the walls, classic rock posters and album covers from the 60's, the expansive record collection. It feels very Laurel Canyon, soft and hippie-ish, with a lot of flowers and colors and music. There are even some of her clothes in the closet in one of the bedrooms.

Laurel never knew Rebecca Merlyn, but she saw her spirit in Tommy's eyes every day when he chose her warmth over his father's eerie cold, the same way she sees it here, reflected in the welcoming feel of this house. It feels like a home. Not some sterile museum.

It's interesting.

Malcolm Merlyn loved his wife, revered her in such an obsessive possessive toxic way that it turned him into a monster. He spent decades doing terrible things in her name, doing everything in his power to destroy the softness that he deemed a weakness. He erased her. Turned her into nothing more than an excuse for his violence. He nearly destroyed the part of the city that she had once vowed to help. He is a weak man, always has been, so willing and ready to turn love into hate.

Yet he kept this beach house.

He easily could have sold this place. Could have stripped his late wife's romantic, dreamy, whimsical cottage in the sun from his life, from Tommy's. But he didn't. He kept it for all these years. More than that, he cared for it. He kept his distance, but he kept the place clean, kept it from falling into disrepair, and then, when the time came, he allowed Tommy to take control of it, to care for it lovingly, as if it were the last living piece of Rebecca.

John Winchester probably would have done the same, she thinks. Is that not why he gave Dean Mary's wedding ring? Tucked her pie crust recipe in the back of his journal? Wore his own ring until the day he died?

Is that not why her own father kept Sara's prom dress hanging in his closet for all those years? Why he showed up with a bag full of her old toys that he dug out of storage the first day he met his granddaughter?

Every cold man has a flame.

How else would they justify their fiery rage?

This morning, with less of last night's chaos muddying the waters, Laurel wanders around the beach house that feels a bit like a mausoleum, and gets to know the mother Tommy rarely spoke of and the wife Malcolm vowed to avenge.

Downstairs, with the sun already beginning to peak into the still somewhat stuffy house, stale from years of emptiness, she opens the doors in the living room that lead outside onto the patio that is directly on the beach. It's December, almost January, so it's not necessarily beach vacation weather, but it's still warmer than home and she can't just not take advantage of the view.

She drinks in the crisp, salt water air, watching the waves roll in for a minute before heading into the kitchen with all it's bright colors and shiny new appliances. She makes herself a cup of tea, not yet ready to make any attempts with the expensive new coffeemaker Thea has provided the house with - both for them and the caretakers she has apparently recently hired - and then drifts back into the breezy living room to paw through Rebecca's impressive record collection while seagulls cry out in the distance.

Rebecca truly did have a specific ''sunny California in the sixties/seventies'' vibe. It's always been noticeable in the pictures of her, all the bright colors and flowy dresses and patterned scarves, but it's even more noticeable here. Laurel flips through the record collection, passing by the Beach Boys, the Byrds, Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills and Nash, the Mamas and the Papas, Carole King, and then she stops, her eyes fixed on one particular album. The Association's Insight Out from 1967.

Now this one she knows.

There were not many normal wedding traditions available to her on her wedding day. She wore the pretty white dress because she had already paid for it. She carried flowers because Iris made her. Other than that, it was nothing like the wedding she had been planning. They got married in a simple courthouse wedding and then they went home. She didn't regret it, not then and not now, but there was a lot she gave up. The one thing she refused to give up on, the one thing she insisted on was a first dance. They had no song picked out and there was no one to see it or capture it on video, but she wanted that moment.

The song they eventually agreed on was Never My Love by the Association. She still has no idea how that album came to be hers - she thinks it might have come from her grandparents' house and likely once belonged to one of her aunts - but there it was, right when they needed it.

She turns the album over in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the cover. She turns her head to look in the direction of the stairs, wondering how long he's going to sleep. Ultimately, she doesn't play the record, placing it on the coffee table and opting for a Joni Mitchell one instead. There are a lot of things she should be doing right now. The whole place needs a good dusting, the dishes should be washed, and nothing has been unpacked. The kitchen is still a disaster from yesterday's grocery trip. Even the remnants of last night's pizza dinner are still all over the table in the little alcove in the kitchen. Both she and Dean were too exhausted from a long day of traveling to do much of anything last night after they got Mary to sleep. She should clean up.

She does not.

She puts on the Joni Mitchell album, tugs on her sweater, and sits out on the brand new expensive patio furniture, shaded from the sun but with a clear view of the water. It's a stunning view. And it's quiet. Everything is quiet. There are a few people on the beach, mostly joggers, a few people walking their dogs, an elderly couple walking barefoot, hand in hand by the shoreline, but everything seems so much slower here.

She hasn't even been here for 24 hours yet and already she's starting to feel all that bottled up tension drain out of her body. It's sunny here. It's warm. She slept through the night with maybe one nightmare that she is already starting to forget. It's an overwhelming relief to be able to catch your breath after months of relentless misery. She almost feels like a real person again.

She didn't even want to come to California originally.

That's the kicker.

She thought Thea's gift was too extravagant, absurdly so. She thought it was irresponsible to leave when there was so much going on. Dean agreed with her. At first. Which was exactly what she expected from him considering how prideful he is, completely adverse to taking money from people, hesitating even to take rent money from Thea - despite the fact that she is at the very least a multi millionaire. But then he caved. He caved really quickly actually. She was the one who kept trying to turn down the offer. It took a couple days for Dean and Thea to wear her down.

Ultimately, what made her agree to accept Thea's far too generous gift was Mary. She is the bravest kid in the world, resilient and much stronger than she should have to be at only four years old, but she has had a rough few months, a rough year honestly, and she deserves a break from the doom and gloom. It was Laurel's only thought when she agreed to this wild extravagance. This was for Mary.

Now, sitting in this moment of calm, in the sunshine, with the sound of the waves surrounding her, she is beginning to accept that maybe Mary is not the only one who deserves a break.

She has been working on that lately. Accepting the reminders that she's alive. Remembering what it's like to be a human and not just a ghost. Laurel sips at her tea and watches the waves roll in and out. She's not sure how long she sits there, watching the water an scrolling through her phone, but before she knows it, there's footsteps approaching her from behind, barely noticeable over the sound of Joni Mitchell, and Dean's there.

''Hey.'' He stops out onto the patio, looking momentarily blinded by the sunlight.

''Hi,'' she grins at him, all at once bubbling with excitement, an urge to reach out and pull him to her so they can watch the waves together, so she can tell him all about Rebecca's collection of music. ''You're up early,'' she says lightly as he approaches her, his gaze raking over the magnificent view for barely a second before he looks at her.

''It's almost nine,'' he says, standing behind the couch she's sitting on, his fingers absently and automatically moving to massage at her scalp.

''It is?'' She grabs her phone, raising an eyebrow in surprise. ''Oh, I guess I've been out here longer than I thought. Wait, wait, wait!'' When he starts to drift away from her, she grabs onto his hand and pulls him back. ''What do you think you're doing? Get over here and say good morning to your wife properly.''

He chuckles warmly, eyes crinkling. He obliges, quite happily, leaning down over the back of the couch to greet her properly, with a kiss. He tastes like toothpaste. ''Good morning,'' he murmurs when he pulls away. She smiles against his lips, reluctantly opening her eyes. ''Good morning.''

''How'd I do?''

''Solid,'' she affirms, giving him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. ''Nine out of ten.''

''Nine?'' He makes an exaggerated insulted noise, standing straight. ''Only nine?'' He shakes his head. ''I guess we'll have to work on that later.''

''Promises, promises.''

He laughs again, disappearing back into the house, returning moments later with a quilted blanket, which he drapes over her lap. She's not sure how he knew she was cold, but she welcomes the blanket, leaning forward to put her mug on the table. ''Aww, how sweet,'' she coos as he sits down beside her. ''You're buttering me up so I'm not mad at you when you leave me for Kristen Wiig next door. Look at you.'' She runs her fingers through his still damp hair. ''You even showered for her.''

''Only for Kristen,'' he says, relaxing back onto the couch, propping his feet up on the table. ''Something tells me I'm not gonna win her over by showing up on her doorstep bloody and half dead like I did with you.''

''You don't think that'll hook her?''

''Nah, that's purely a you thing, baby. You're kinda twisted.''

''Yep, that's what did it,'' she says. ''It was so sexy of you to show up at my place with your bloody wounds and your busted shoulder. It was the smell that cinched it. Nothing gets my motor running like the smell of an infected wound.''

''Like I said: twisted.''

''It's all those action movies my dad used to watch. Now I have a thing for bloodied men.''

''Hm.'' He puts an arm around her and she lets him draw her closer, nestling into his side. ''I'm so lucky you have daddy issues.''

''And don't you forget it,'' she jokes, while he laughs into her hair. ''You know,'' she adds on after a minute. ''I don't think she's actually Kristen Wiig.''

''Ruin my dreams, why don't you?''

''Sorry. Guess you're stuck with me.''

''What a horrible fate,'' he says, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. ''So I'm thinking about going to get us breakfast. I saw a place when I ran out to grab the Pull Ups last night.''

''I'm not opposed to the idea of food,'' she says. ''But you'll have to do it later. I just got comfortable. I need you to be my pillow. Turns out expensive patio furniture is just as uncomfortable as cheap patio furniture.''

He laughs, but he also doesn't move, which she considers a win. ''It can be a late breakfast,'' he says. ''Brunch. Everyone loves brunch.''

''Of course everyone loves brunch. Brunch is fantastic.'' She relaxes back into his arms, tucking her feet under her. She pulls the blanket up, tossing it over his lap and looks back, out towards the beach. She watches a couple of teenage girls walk past with a golden retriever, laughing as they try to keep up with the dog.

Dean is still looking at her.

He barely even glances at the view of the beach, the blue waves, the clear skies. The silence stretches out between them comfortably. She can still feel him watching her, studying her, content to listen to the waves and the faint sound of Joni Mitchell coming from inside. He waits for a minute or two before he looks away and asks, trying to be casual, ''How'd you sleep?''

''Really well, actually.''

''Yeah? No nightmares?''

''Small blips. Nothing major. First time in a long time.''

He almost looks more relieved than her. ''Told you the distance was a good idea.''

''And you were right,'' she concedes.

''I never get tired of hearing that,'' he says, grinning widely when she shoots him a look. ''Maybe we shouldn't go back.''

''Don't tempt me.'' ''I'm serious,'' he says. ''We could stay. Become Malibuites. Malibuers. You know Thea wouldn't mind. We'll take long walks on the beach and complain about taxes and the traffic and...'' He trails off uncertainly with a confused frown, eyebrows furrowed. ''What do people who live in Malibu do? Take a lot of beach pictures and hiking selfies and post about being hashtag blessed on social media?''

''I don't know, love. You're the one who watches the Real Housewives.''

''Oh, so we're supposed to get a lot of lip fillers and throw garden parties?'' He considers this for a moment and then nods, seemingly on board with this plan. ''Man, I'd throw a killer garden party.''

''Dean, if you are once again insinuating that it's your one true dream to become a Real Housewives cast member - ''

''I'm not insinuating. I've never insinuated. I've stated this out loud. I'm gonna be the first Real Househusband. I'm gonna make a splash, Laur.''

''Okay, well, I have some bad news for you. Those women would eat you alive.''

''That's not true,'' he yelps. ''I would be an amazing addition to any of those shows! I can wildly overreact to things, I can instigate drama and stir shit up and make myself cry without tears into my mic in bathrooms. And I would absolutely shiv someone with a broken wine glass in Amsterdam if they start trying to talk shit about you.''

''...Thank you?''

''They would be lucky to have me and my fake drama.''

''Honey, they would chew you up and spit you out.''

''Fuck you, I'd be a fan favorite.''

She huffs and dissolves into laughter.

''Fine, be that way,'' he sniffs, sticking his nose up at her. ''But I'll have you know that when they inevitably do a Real Housewives of the Pacific Northwest in like ten years and I'm invited to be a cast member because I'm the trophy husband of the globally beloved Black Canary – ''

''Stop that.''

'' - And they need a ratings boost to reignite the dying franchise, you're not invited. Often mentioned, never seen. All eyes on me, baby.''

''Eh,'' she shrugs. ''Bravo couldn't afford me anyway.'' She sits up to reach for her tea and his hand falls to her back, scratching lightly. She takes a sip of her tea and turns to peer at him over the rim, scrutinizing him thoroughly with another noisy slurp. ''All right, fine.'' She puts the mug of cold tea back on the table. ''In a game of emotional warfare, I am willing to concede that you would best Kyle Richards.''

''Oh, like that's hard.''

''And maybe Lisa Rinna.''

He looks triumphant, whipping out a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on his face with an exaggerated flourish. ''Thank you, I think so too.''

''You wouldn't be able to take Vanderpump, though.''

He opens his mouth to object, but then immediately closes it. ''...I guess that's fair.''

''She would make you cry.''

''I wouldn't go that far.''

''And you'd only last one season before you were downgraded to Friend.''

''I get it.''

''I'm not even certain she'd have to say anything. She'd just give you one of those raised eyebrows and maybe a haughty laugh and you'd be down for the count.''

''That's a little harsh, don't you think?''

''I call it like I see it, sweetie. She is extremely frightening.''

''I'm frightening.''

She laughs. Like full on snort laughter. When she notices the frown and the raised eyebrow he sends her, she holds her hands up. ''I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh. I just don't see it. You're not scary at all. Not that scary anyway.''

''Oh, come on.''

''Hey, man, don't get huffy at me,'' she says, unapologetic. ''You're the reason I even know these things about these women.''

''But still.'' He tugs her back over to him and she lets him, settling back on the couch. ''Your lack of faith in me is disturbing.''

''You're right,'' she relents with a laugh. ''I'm sorry. I don't mean to underestimate your bitchiness.'' She scratches at the growing stubble on his cheeks. ''I promise you're the biggest bitch I know.''

''See, that's all I wanted,'' he declares. ''That's all I wanted. Just an acknowledgment.''

''I know.'' She loops her arm through his and threads their fingers together. ''I swear I'll always acknowledge what a bitch you are.''

''You better.''

''Which housewife was the one who created the Skinnygirl brand?''

''One of the ones from New York.''

''I actually liked that vodka.''

''I know.'' He pulls his sunglasses down to peer at her over the rim. ''It's one of your most basic white woman traits. Right behind the avocado toast and the pumpkin spice.''

''Oh, come on. Pumpkin spice lattes are delicious. Hey, hey.'' She nudges at his shoulder with a wink. ''You're the pumpkin to my spice.''

''Jesus Christ,'' he groans loudly, rolling his eyes dramatically - even though he's visibly trying not to smile. ''That was sad.''

''It was clever.''

''Okay, Mom Jokes,'' he says, leaning in to catch her lips in his, cutting off her laugh.

A surprised noise catches in her throat and she stifles another laugh, snaking a hand around the back of his neck, kissing him back. It's nice to have a moment of calm with him. Just the two of them, the rising sun, and the ocean. She cannot honestly remember the last time they had a moment like this. It's been a long, long time. She only pulls away from him when the sound of a high pitched barking and jingle bells yanks her out of the calm.

She turns her head just in time to see an enthusiastic small ball of fur run past the house, little legs struggling in the sand. A girl around, around seven or eight, wearing a Christmas elf hat, jingly elf slippers, and Mickey Mouse pajamas is racing after the dog, looking rather panicked.

''Oh, good,'' Dean says with a nod, unfazed by the spectacle. ''Now I have an answer for when Mary asks me what Santa does when it's not Christmas. He and the elves go on vacation.''

''Celebrities,'' Laurel quips. ''They're just like us.''

''You know,'' he says, rising to his feet. ''This is exactly why I'm not ready to get Mary a dog yet.'' And yet still, without a word, without even thinking about it, he bounds down the few patio steps onto the private sandy area, and then slips out the gate to help the girl wrangle her dog. Which turns out to be not that hard. Almost the second he steps out onto the beach, the hoppy Pomeranian crashes into his leg and plops down in the sand, much to the immense relief of the littlest elf. He is never not on Dad Duty.

Laurel watches him for a minute before she gets up. As much as she would love to stay out in the sunshine, the breeze is getting just a little too cold for her to stay out here in just her nightie and thin robe and she really should clean the kitchen up before Mary wakes up. She steps back inside, putting her tea down on the coffee table and tossing the quilt on the back of the couch.

She picks up the sleeve for the Joni Mitchell vinyl and flips it over to check out the track list. Then she looks at the Association record on the table. She checks the time. If they let Mary sleep in until ten, they still have some time left just the two of them.

''Hey, babe,'' Dean's voice drifts into the room from behind her. She turns around as he comes back inside, stealing her tea to take a few swigs and then making a face because he's realized it's tea and not coffee. ''Did you go for a run this morning?''

''Not today,'' she says. ''Maybe later. I thought I'd just relax and enjoy the view for a bit. And the sun.''

''Ah, that thing,'' he nods. ''I hardly recognize it.'' He faces the open doors, squinting at the light. ''Has it always been this bright?''

''Don't get used to it,'' she warns. ''I checked the weather forecast and it's supposed to rain for the rest of the week.''

''Wow,'' he drawls out, slighted. ''What a rip off.''

She snickers to herself, turning back to the record player. She puts the Joni Mitchell album away and slips the Association album out of the sleeve.

''Still,'' he says. ''Even if we're trapped in the house, this is a pretty good house to be trapped in. There's gotta be thousands of dollars worth of music in here. And have you seen the kitchen?''

She makes a faint hum of acknowledgment and then turns her head to look at him. ''Mary's still asleep, right?''

''Yeah, I thought I'd let her sleep in,'' he says. ''She had a hard time settling last night. Plus we're on vacation. I figure it can't hurt.''

''And you want me to be the one to wake her up.''

''Yes, I do,'' he readily admits. ''Listen, I love that little girl more than life itself but she is mean in the morning. The other day I gently nudged her awake and she rolled over, looked me dead in the eye, and said ''go away, ugly.'' She's like a tiny angry bear.''

Laurel laughs at him, shaking her head, but can't disagree with that assessment. She goes back to the record player, focusing her attention on fiddling with the needle, trying to find the right song and then –

There it is.

Familiar music fills the air and she turns around, warmth flooding through her at the sight of the soft smile on his face, recognition lighting up his eyes. ''Since we've got a few minutes at least,'' she says, holding her hand out to him. ''You think we can handle a dance?''

''I don't know,'' he says, even as he grasps her hand, tugging her to him. ''Can you?''

''I might step on your toes,'' she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. ''I can be a hazard on the dance floor.''

''I think I'll survive,'' he says lightly, settling a hand on her waist.

She doesn't think she has ever needed a moment like this as much as she does right now. With everything that's going on, it's hard to remember, sometimes, that there was once a time where they were this couple. Admittedly, the moments were far more fleeting than they should have been because there was always something going on, always a villain, a fight, an unkindness on the horizon.

But in between the various disasters and calamities, they were like this; happy, in love, and calm. They were like anyone else. It's hard to remember what that was like these days. All she remembers now is that her life ended in violence, blood, and pain, started again in a box underground, and it's been chaos ever since. She needs to be reminded more often that it wasn't always like this. That sometimes it was just this. The two of them together and everything else static. It's a good reminder of what she's fighting for. Why she wants to make it out of this one alive.

''Thank you for making me go on this vacation,'' she says.

He brushes that off. ''Oh, my motive was purely selfish here.''

''Right.''

''I mean it. I'm a big beach guy. Most people don't know that about me, but it's true. I should've been a Californian.''

''You do look good in the sun,'' she says. ''Brings out your freckles. I love your freckles.''

''You do, do you?''

''I do. Especially the ones on your ears.'' She tweaks his left ear with a wink. He laughs, like it's a joke but she can see the faint blush splashed across his face, creeping up his neck. She loves that she can still make him blush. Logically, she knows other people have earned that blush but over the past six and a half years she can't recall seeing anyone else make him blush the way she can. The same way no one else has given her butterflies the way he does. ''You were right when you said we needed this,'' she says.

''Nah, this was all Thea,'' he waves her off. ''She's the one who did the work. All I had to do was get you on the plane.''

''I should know better than to doubt her,'' she says. ''I'm...'' She tries valiantly to keep her smile from faltering, but isn't quite sure she succeeds. ''I'm sorry things have been so crazy lately.''

''You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault.''

''I know it's not my fault,'' she acknowledges. ''I can still be sorry. It's been hard. We haven't had any room to breathe since I got back. I just hope you know...'' She pauses, clenching her teeth, trying to swallow down something. ''I never wanted any of this for us.''

''Laurel,'' he starts, tugging her even closer. ''It's not going to be like this forever.'' When he notices the trepidation on her face, he keeps going, voice soft, but insistent. ''I'm serious. This is just one part of our life. It's not all there is. Eventually, this will all be over and then we can - ''

''Move on?''

He takes a second before he finishes, searching. ''Rebuild,'' he settles on. ''We're good at that. We've done it before. We've got a lot of life left to live, you and I.''

''Yeah...'' She doesn't mean to sound as uncertain as she does. It's not really about uncertainty. Just the opposite. There's this thing that's been on her mind lately. It's been on her mind for a long time actually, both before her death and after. She hasn't said it out loud, too afraid to jinx it, to admit what she wants in fear of the universe hearing that want and ripping it away from her. But there is something she wants. Something she has wanted dearly for over a year now. Something about the California sun, the moment of calm, the song playing in the background, is making her want to say it out loud. She is so deep in thought, halfway to blurting it out that she doesn't even notice that their song has ended until Dean's voice brings her back to him.

''All right.'' He leans in to brush a kiss to her cheek. ''Breakfast sandwiches. I should get going before Mary wakes up.''

''Right.'' She reluctantly allows him to pull away from her. He turns to walk away, heading out of the room to search for his wallet and the keys to the rental car, but she remains where she is, standing in the living room of a dead woman's beach house, dreaming up something that only days ago felt impossible to imagine.

Her future.

Laurel hurries after Dean, catching him in the kitchen, checking his wallet before he leaves. ''Dean - ''

''If they have turkey bacon, do you want that or just regular bacon?''

''Whichever. I don't care. But - ''

''Don't forget the hot sauce,'' he nods. ''I know. I never do. And Mary's ketchup.'' He shakes his head at that one. ''That girl puts ketchup on too many things. We're racing towards unsettling territory. The other day I saw her dip part of a blueberry muffin in ketchup. Who does that?'' He doesn't wait for her to answer, sending her a look as he slips his wallet into his back pocket. ''You want a coffee too? I'm getting a coffee.''

''I want a baby.'' It comes out in nearly a single breath. It's out before she can even think about what she's saying.

It certainly gets his attention. He looks up at her with his mouth open, staring blankly at her for a second before he snaps his jaw shut and looks at her apprehensively, as if he can't decide if he's heard her right. ''...What?''

''I - I want a baby,'' she repeats, hesitant, mostly because of the timing, but sure of what she's proposing.

''I don't...think they have those at the Marmalade Cafe,'' he jokes weakly. ''Not before noon at least.''

''Dean, I'm not - I'm serious.'' She walks over to the counter, placing her hands flat on the deep blue stained glass inspired countertop. ''I've been thinking a lot about this for a long time. You were right. We have a lot of life left to live. And I think we should live it. I think we should try for a baby.''

.

.

.

February 2017

Laurel wakes suddenly, almost violently, to the faraway sound of shattering glass and the dizzying feeling of her heart slamming anxiously against her ribcage. A few years ago, her reaction probably would have been mostly confusion, perhaps a bleary eyed and groggy command for Dean to go see what that was.

Now she is out of bed before her brain even fully registers what the sound was, instantly on alert, in fight mode, her body moving practically on its own over to the door. Without even thinking about it, still reacting on instinct, she yanks open the door to the motel room and steps out into the cold winter night. She scans the parking lot for the source of the noise.

It's not exactly what one would call peaceful outside, even in the middle of the night, but there also doesn't appear to be any trouble. The shattering glass seems to have come from a couple of college aged and undoubtedly tipsy kids dropping their empty beer bottles over the balcony and laughing. At least that's what she's getting from the way the motel manager, Marty, is tearing into the boys.

Laurel, barefoot and tense, a little too close to the broken glass on the ground for comfort, turns and staggers back inside the motel room. Just in time for the adrenaline spike to fade. With nothing to fight, no logical reason for her response to the sound of breaking glass, she slumps back against the door, at once aware of how fast and harsh her breathing is.

This is ridiculous.

There is no reason she should be reacting to a simple noise this way. She puts her head in her hands, working fruitless to calm her breathing before she rapidly descends into an actual panic attack for literally no reason whatsoever. She needs to get more sleep. She has barely slept over the past two weeks, surviving mostly by taking little catnaps here and there, and her nerves are shot. The most sleep she managed to get was when she was with Helena in California. When she knew she wasn't alone. Even then, it wasn't enough.

What she needs is rest.

She hasn't been able to do that in a long time. Especially not lately. There is something...wrong. She doesn't know how else to put it. Something is wrong. The mystifying part is that she doesn't think it's on her end.

She doesn't feel well.

She has not felt well in a very long time, but lately, especially the past week or so, it's been a different kind of unwell.

She keeps getting these random and completely unexplainable fevers. They usually hit in the middle of the night. She'll wake up feeling sick and disoriented, sweating through her clothes, head pounding, and then it will be gone by morning. Like it never even happened.

One night, she woke up hot and sticky, drenched in sweat, feeling like death warmed over, staggered to her feet to go to the bathroom, and passed out. Helena found her face down on the bedroom floor, shivering and feverish. When Laurel woke up the next morning totally fine, she had to tell Helena the whole truth about witchcraft and her unhinged cousin.

Helena took it surprisingly well, though she did keep a closer eye on Laurel after that.

Another night, Laurel turned in for the night a little earlier than usual because she felt achy and woke up in the dead of night screaming and writhing in pain because it felt like she was being split in half. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak, she could barely breathe. Took everything in her to convince Helena that she did not need to go to an ER and that doctors wouldn't be able to do anything for her anyway.

On one of those first days after she left, she spent the night in Oregon on her way to California and wound up staying longer than she had intended to when she woke up with a migraine so bad it felt like she was dying. All she could do was spend the better part of the morning in the dark on the bathroom floor, waiting for it to pass.

Some days she wakes up in the morning and her body no longer feels like her body. It's hard to explain. Her limbs feel stiff and weak, her chest feels heavy, she shakes uncontrollably, and there is an unrelenting burning in her unfamiliar body that won't leave her alone.

She supposes it could be the spell deteriorating, the decay no longer able to be masked by the energy siphoned from Oliver, but she remembers what that felt like, and it was nothing like this. That sickness was hers. It was something that was unquestionably happening to her. It belonged to her.

This does not feel like it belongs to her.

Whatever mysterious ailment this is, it has nothing to do with her.

It belongs to Edie.

Wyatt Raymond was right on the money when he said that the witch is sick.

She has not yet figured out what to do with this as of yet unidentified illness. If she should take advantage of it. If this could be an opening for her. Whatever is happening, it is clearly getting worse. Edie is declining rapidly, getting sicker and sicker, dragging Laurel down with her, potentially purposefully, but the frustrating thing is that she doesn't actually appear to be getting weaker. In pain, yes, but weaker? Not a chance. No, if anything she seems stronger. She still pulls at Laurel every night, still tries to yank her out of her body, still commands her army of brainwashed people. She is still in charge here. Regardless of how sick she is, she is still the one holding all the cards. Still the one with all the power.

Laurel has no idea how to change that when she feels she is being dragged down to hell with her.

She moves stiffly back over to the bed, the lumpy mattress and the scratchy blankets waiting for her. She crawls back into the suspiciously stained sheets and tries to go back to sleep, collapsing back onto the pillow, but she can't. There is an ache starting at the base of her neck, threatening to spread, and her fingers, aching relentlessly, are beginning to twitch uncontrollably.

She tosses and turns in the uncomfortable bed for a while, trying to find a comfortable position that might alleviate the pain, now spreading to her legs, her stomach, and her back, but nothing works. Feeling, out of nowhere, overheated, despite the fact that her feet are ice cubes, she kicks off the covers and gingerly sits up.

Another fever. She can feel it. It's easy to tell these days. She wipes sweat off her brow with the back of her hand and grabs her phone to check the time. Just past three in the morning.

The witching hour.

She sits on the edge of the bed for a second, automatically winding her arms around her middle, trying to shift positions to help her aching back and hips, and then she pulls herself to her feet. She immediately has to squeeze her eyes shut, clenching her teeth against the sudden dizzying way the world tilts before her eyes. She only moves, very slowly, when she is relatively certain she is not going to pass out.

It feels like it takes all of her strength just to stumble to the bathroom. By the time she flicks on the bright fluorescent light, she is panting just from the exertion of walking the few step from the bed to the bathroom. She clutches at the sink to keep herself upright, moving her gaze up to the reflection in the mirror. She looks ashen, nearly gray, soaked with sweat and disheveled, but it's the bloody ballerina standing over her shoulder that catches her attention.

She breathes in sharply, body tensing, but doesn't even bother trying to drum up the strength to turn around.

Oh, okay, so maybe this specific agony has nothing to do with whatever Edie may or may not be suffering from. Maybe this one isn't about sickness at all. Maybe it's just one of those nights.

The ones where it's all about communication.

She closes her eyes. Grips the sink a little harder, swallowing down the taste of blood and bile.

From behind her, somewhere outside the bathroom, there is the sound of music.

''All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown) and the sky is gray (and the sky is gray), I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk) on a winter's day (on a winter's day). I'd be safe and warm (I'd be safe and warm) if I was in LA (if I was in LA)...''

She opens her eyes, giving her pale reflection one last look before she turns around. There is no trace of Siobhan, no remnants of her shot left behind besides a shiver, but the music, crackling and staticky, persists. She pushes herself forward, out of the bathroom and back into the main part of the cheap motel room.

There is nothing technically out of place in the darkened room - other than the sound of the music that she did not turn on - but the air has changed. She can feel it the second she steps out of the bathroom. It's like a tingling electricity, a spark in the atmosphere. It's unlike anything she has ever experienced, even with Edie.

Edie is an embittered, corrupted, terrified soul reeking of desperation, trauma, grief, and vicious fury.

This is different.

It's wrong. Something feels muddled here. Wrathful and hostile and malicious in a way Edie has never been. Something feels wicked.

There is something malevolent in this place; something that was not here before, something she has not encountered before. It is slithering along the grimy carpet, crawling up the walls, inching towards her, growing like mold. She slowly approaches the radio on the table, the one she swears she did not leave on, with the Mamas and the Papas still droning out. The sound quality keeps switching between clear and static.

California Dreamin' has never sounded so sinister before.

She switches off the radio, plunging the dark room into silence. She feels less achy now, less sick and weak, but she still feels feverish and stiff and out of it. She does not feel at home in this body. She looks down at her hands, shadowed by the dark. She doesn't feel like she's dreaming. She really hopes she is.

Outside, behind the curtains, a shadow passes by. It's quick, more of a flash, but it gets her attention and she whirls around, but there's nothing there.

She crosses the room and throws open the door, not entirely sure what she's expecting. There is no one there. There is no life to be seen at all. The parking lot is vacant, the streets are empty. It's like nothing remains in the Glades but her and the dim orange glow of the streetlights. She steps back inside and closes the door, swallowing hard, trying to gulp down the increasing anxiety, the growing dread.

There is someone else inside this room.

And it's not Edie.

That might be the most unnerving part.

She looks at the radio on the table, belching out random bursts of static as if trying to turn itself back on, trying to tell her something. She looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table by her phone, stuck at 3:00, the bright numbers flashing.

Then she looks at the bed. It takes her a moment to realize what is wrong with this picture. There is an indent in the mattress. A dip. Like someone, or something, is sitting there. Right in front of her.

Laurel feels breathless, staring helplessly at the empty air, trying to see what is apparently just out of her reach. Before she even has a chance to gain her bearings, the bed shifts, the pressure easing as whatever is sitting there rises up. Frozen, muted either from the bone chilling terror of whatever heavy oppressive presence is weighing down the air in this room. She can't do anything but watch as the thing moves closer, leaving imprints of bare feet in the carpet.

She presses herself back against the door, more of a reflex than anything else, but can't do anything but wait. She squeezes her eyes shut, listening to the sound of unsteady, halting footsteps and harsh, ragged breathing getting closer and closer and closer.

An attack never comes, at least not a violent one, but whatever is standing in front of her, inching into her personal space does touch her. It's a cold finger trailing up her throat, leaving behind a burning pain, and she can smell the thing's breath, the sickly sweet scent of decay.

It's not Edie.

The thing leans in, invisible hair tickling Laurel's neck, letting out a wheezing, rattling breath and then -

''We had a deal,'' Edie's voice says out of nowhere. ''Not like this.''

Laurel opens her eyes just in time to hear the sound of an inhuman screeching and catch sight of...something. It looks like a woman, or what used to be a woman, but it doesn't look human. It does look familiar. She can't put her finger on where she has seen this woman before, but she has seen her before. She only catches the tiniest glimpse before Edie, standing behind it, both hands on the side of the thing's head, banishes it.

In its wake, Laurel realizes she is not standing in her shitty motel room in the Glades, her stay punctuated every so often by the wail of sirens or headlights glaring through the thin curtains. She is standing in the woods. It is daylight. Everything is still. Everything is hushed.

The trees feel like they have a thousand eyes.

She does not recognize these woods, but somewhere deep down in her bones, she knows she's been here before. The sky above them is gray, nearly white, and the leaves on the ground are the colors of autumn - red and orange and golden.

Autumn was a season ago.

There is no trace of whatever it was that wanted...whatever it wanted. There is only Edie, standing there in her undoubtedly ungodly expensive white silk nightgown and matching robe, looking disheveled and worn ragged.

And a box.

It's small, made of wood, covered in intricate carvings and symbols, and sitting on the ground right where that thing was.

Edie reaches for it, agitated, frantic, but it is gone before her fingers can even brush against it.

''Edie,'' Laurel gets out. ''What is this?''

Her cousin doesn't answer the question. She looks pale in this cold light, eyes puffy and red, her scars on full display, the jagged marks on her throat and face standing out against her ghostly skin. There is blood trailing from the corner of her mouth and she looks just as lost as Laurel feels. She definitely does not look at all in control of this.

''You,'' her voice is a rasp, with her healthy facade nowhere to be found, all her armor down. ''You're not supposed to be here.'' She doesn't look scared necessarily, but she's noticeably on high alert, her eyes scanning the thick blanket of trees.

Laurel isn't sure how to take that. If she's not supposed to be here, why was she brought here? ''I'm not - ''

''I didn't call for you,'' Edie says shortly. ''I didn't bring you here.''

''Edie - ''

''No.'' Her whisper is harsh but distracted, like she's not even talking to Laurel at all, like they're not as alone as they appear. ''No.'' She looks back to the trees for a second, giving Laurel a close up look at the painful looking scar that goes from her throat all the way up her left cheek, and then she looks back. Her eyes flare, flickering with some sort of spark. ''Wake up,'' she orders.

And Laurel wakes up.

Comes to with a start on the hard floor of the bathroom in that shitty motel room in the Glades. There is a sharp pain in her back, and her head is killing her. But she's not in the woods and there is no invisible evil presence, no murderous cousin or bloody ballerina. There's just her.

She lies there for a moment, staring up at the water damaged popcorn ceiling, trying to regain her bearings. After a minute or two, she rolls over and gingerly tries to rise up, mindful of the migraine starting. When she moves to push herself up, a sharp pain shoots through her shoulder. She groans, sitting up cautiously, much slower than usual.

Then, and only then, does she notice the blood on the floor and smeared all over her arm. Inhaling sharply, she shakily gets herself to her feet, gripping the sink. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, which other than the bruises and the dampness of sweat, looks perfectly ordinary. Still a little out of it, brain sluggish and frustratingly uncooperative, she struggles to work out what happened and what part of her hurts. There is blood running down her arm that she doesn't know the origin of. It's on her hand and it's on the sink. She doesn't even realize it's her blood at first. Her first thought is, Did I hurt someone?

It's a valid concern. You never know what could happen when you're cursed. She is not alone in her body anymore. She doesn't have full control. It's not out of the realm of possibility that Edie could take over. Could use her to do something terrible. She is a haunted house. She is the ghost that lives in the walls of this body. She's just not the only one these days.

Without thinking, she turns on the tap and holds her hand under the cold water to wash the blood away. She looks at the mirror, the distorted image of her bruised face through her blurry eyes, and that's when she breaks out of her stupor enough to realize she should probably figure out where that blood is coming from.

There is a bloody smudge on her side, a stain on her shirt. Feeling suddenly and inexplicably full of dread, she turns off the tap and pulls her shirt up, turning to look at herself in the broken mirror. There, on her shoulder blade, carved into her skin, still oozing fresh blood, are five deep claw marks.

.

.

.

December 2016

Laurel creeps into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. In the bed, Mary is still fast asleep, undisturbed by her parents' absence and the sunlight sneaking in through the curtains. She looks adorable, starfished out in the middle of the bed, face smushed against the pillow, fingers in her mouth.

It's tempting to let her sleep, but it's time to wake up. It's ten in the morning and breakfast is on the way. In addition, Laurel could really use a buffer for the inevitable awkwardness that is going to be there when Dean gets home.

After her declaration, which visibly caught him off guard, all he stuttered out was a ''we'll - we'll talk about this later, I have to - uh, breakfast'' and then he left.

For the record, it is a bad idea to have a baby right now. A terrible idea. She knows that. She doesn't know what she was thinking blurting that out. I mean, seriously suggesting that they try for a baby? Now? Utterly ridiculous. She has no idea why she would even entertain such a thing. Except - Okay, yeah, that's a lie. She knows why her swirling mass of trauma has been so focused on the baby issue lately.

Lyla's pregnant.

That news came out at the holiday party Thea threw at Oliver's loft when Felicity figured out that a suspiciously and uncharacteristically tipsy John - who rarely ever drank more than one drink - was downing every glass of wine Lyla was given by their overly enthusiastic host. It was a wonderfully joyous celebration when Lyla finally had to let it slip - if only to protect her husband from alcohol poisoning.

Everyone was so happy for them. Laurel was so happy for them. She still is. They have a wonderful family and a happy marriage. They deserve a happy ending with their growing family. She meant what she said when she hugged them both, congratulated them, and told them she was so excited for them. She meant it then and she meant it when she excused herself and went to cry in the bathroom. She also meant it the next morning when she had to reiterate it when John, the only other person who knows about her miscarriage in April, called to apologize for springing it on her with no warning.

She is happy for them and they shouldn't have to hide their news just because she is stuck in her own web of trauma.

It's just...

Time isn't helping. That's the problem. With every day that passes, she gets farther and farther away from April 6th and everything she lost that day and one would think that time would help. But it doesn't. It's not. The farther she gets, the more she wants to go back. The more she wants what she lost and worries that it might have been her last chance to get it. What she said was not a slip of the tongue. She wants a baby. She really wants a baby.

In a perfect world, she thinks trying to conceive would be one of her biggest goals going into the new year. In a perfect world, it would be the right time for that. She wants it, she knows it wouldn't take much to convince Dean, who has always wanted more kids, especially considering they were going to try last year, and four seems like the perfect age to give Mary a sibling. Unfortunately, it is not a perfect world. Far from it.

It's not just about Edie and the danger she brings with her, it's not just about their screwed up finances, or their increasingly too small house. It's not even about the fact that her decaying body probably couldn't even carry to term if she tried.

There's also Ollie to think about.

It would be unfair - and potentially unsafe - to force him to keep not only her alive but a growing fetus. That is not what he consented to. He agreed to help Laurel. That's it. Anything more would, quite frankly, be a breach of trust. She cannot take advantage of his generosity when he is literally sharing his life force with her to keep her alive. Having a baby has to be off the table for now.

Doesn't stop her from wanting it. From wishing things could be different.

In the few and far between moments of tranquility, on the days like today where there is just the sun and the glorious absence of violence, she still finds herself slipping into those ''what if'' thoughts. And now that she has opened her big mouth, she's going to have to talk about it.

Honestly?

Ugh.

She's hoping Mary and breakfast sandwiches will be able to distract him.

Laurel pads across the carpeted floor to the balcony doors and yanks open the curtains with a dramatic flourish.

Sunshine streams in through the windows, unfurling and pouring into the room like a flood of light, a bright wave washing over the tiny body in the bed. Mary stirs at the interruption of brightness, eyelids fluttering, body instinctively trying to squirm away from the light. She doesn't quite wake, reaching for her dad, who is no longer there, and then sticking her fingers in her mouth instead.

''Little bird,'' Laurel singsongs, opening the doors to let in the fresh ocean breeze. ''It's time to wake up, my girl.''

Mary groans, pulling the covers up over her head. ''Nooo.''

Laurel climbs into the bed, peeling back the covers. ''Come on, sleepyhead,'' she coaxes gently. ''The sun has to rise every morning, and so do you.''

Mary whines, but opens her sleepy eyes, pushing disheveled hair out of her face with her still soggy, spit coated fingers. She blinks up at her mother sleepily, mumbling, ''I don't wanna.''

''I can see that.'' Laurel settles back against the headboard, drawing Mary to her. ''I take it you had a good sleep?''

''Yeah.'' Mary sits up a little, but just so she can scoot closer to Laurel and flop against her. ''Sharkie did too,'' she says, pulling the stuffed shark over to her so that she can tuck him under her arm.

''Well, that's good,'' Laurel says. ''You two were tired last night. You needed a nice long sleep.'' She drops a gentle kiss to the top of Mary's head and then tugs the girl's fingers out of her mouth. ''But it's time to wake up now. It's a beautiful day. I don't want you to miss it.''

Mary grunts in apparent disagreement and then puts her fingers back in her mouth.

Patiently, Laurel pulls them back out again, then again, and then one more time after that.

The last one seems to be Mary's limit. ''No,'' she whines, kicking her feet. ''Mommy, stop it.''

''Mary - ''

''No,'' the little girl snaps and then huffs, visibly upset. Still tired, she makes a tiny annoyed groaning noise and tearfully buries her face in Laurel's stomach.

''Mary.'' Laurel rubs her back. ''Honey, it's okay. You're okay. Do you need a minute?''

Mary nods, face still pressed into her mother's stomach, voice muffled. ''Yes.''

''All right.'' Laurel gives her the minute, rubbing her back softly with one hand, keeping the other threaded through Mary's, preventing her from putting her fingers back into her mouth.

Finally, Mary raises her head. She still looks sleepy, but thankfully less cranky.

''Hi there, honeybee.'' Laurel brushes a few strands of hair out of Mary's face and wipes away a tear on her cheek with her thumb. ''You awake now?''

Mary wipes at her nose and nods, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

''Good.'' Laurel smiles brightly. ''Are you hungry? Daddy went to go get breakfast.''

Mary thinks about this for a few seconds and then brightens up. ''Is he getting McDonalds?''

''I think he's getting something better.''

''Better than McDonalds?''

''Yep.''

Mary seems utterly perplexed by that statement. ''Does it come with a toy?''

Oh, boy. ''I don't know,'' Laurel lies, getting to her feet. ''But we better hurry up and get dressed before he gets home. Come on.'' She holds out a hand. ''Bathroom time.''

Mary starts to move, sitting up and grabbing for her mother's hand, but stops when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. A loud gasp escapes her lips and her eyes widen dramatically. ''Mommy!''

''What?'' Laurel follows her line of sight, looking out onto the balcony. ''What's wrong?''

''It's the ocean!'' Mary scrambles to the edge of the bed, pushing herself up on her knees to peer outside with big wide eyes. ''Look! Look! It's the ocean!'' She points her finger at the view. ''Water! And a beach!''

''Uh, yeah, that's a beach all right.''

''That wasn't there when I was sleeping!''

Laurel can't quite keep the laughter in. ''Mary,'' she gets out. ''Honey, yes it was.''

Mary's eyes grow impossibly wide. ''It was?'' She stares out at the ocean in shock for a moment and then clambers off the bed. She steps over to the balcony, but very carefully remains inside, her bare feet never leaving the carpet, timidly sticking close to Laurel. She stands up on her tiptoes to attempt to peer over the railing and then crouches down to look through the bars. She looks so full of wonder, staring out at the view in awe.

This is not her first time seeing the ocean. They live in a port city. It's not even her first time seeing a sunny Southern California beach. She has been to Coast City. Yet she still looks astonished. Still young enough to be amazed by this earth and everything in it. That's something to envy.

After a minute, Mary plants her hands on her hips and declares, ''I never seen this beach before.'' Her gaze turns ever so slightly suspicious, as if the beach might be a clever trick.

''We've never been here before,'' Laurel says, trying not to smile. ''We're in Malibu, remember? In California.''

''Oh, California,'' Mary nods. ''Uncle Sammy used to live in California,'' she informs her matter-of-factly. ''With Jess.''

''He - '' Laurel frowns. ''How do you know that?''

''He told me,'' Mary says simply. ''When I was doing his hair at my salon.''

''Ah, yes, the salon. How's that going, by the way? Business still booming?''

''Yes,'' Mary says seriously and then, with ease, recites, ''No walk ins. You gotta book in advance. Cash and jellybeans only. No credit cards.''

''You are quite the business woman,'' Laurel says. ''You'd make a real killing with a lemonade stand, you know.''

''Daddy says it's time to frenchise.''

''Franchise.''

''That's what I said.''

''Daddy has big ideas.''

Mary hums, disinterested, eyes traveling back to the beach. ''Mommy,'' she tugs at her hand. ''Mommy, let's go swimming.''

Laurel perches on the edge of the bed, glancing at the clock on the wall. ''I think it might be a little too cold to go swimming,'' she says, taking Mary's hand and drawing her closer to her. ''But if we hurry and get dressed, I think we should be able to go put our feet in the water to test it before Daddy gets home. How does that sound?''

It doesn't take much convincing.

Fifteen minutes later, they're standing in the bright sunlight on the beach and Mary, slathered in sunscreen, is clutching a seashell and happily splashing around in the surf. She squealed when she first put her toes in the water, but hasn't complained about the temperature since, unbothered by the cold. She is too busy with trying to outsmart the waves.

Every time the waves roll out, she darts forward into the space it left behind, filling it up, chasing the water. When the waves inevitably roll back in, she turns and runs, feet sinking into the wet sand, turning her run into more of a waddle, thwarting her escape. The waves win every time, the cold water submerging her feet, eliciting giggly screechs from her. But she still keeps trying. She never gives up trying to best the waves.

She looks happy in the sunshine, full of energy and excitement, a far cry – and a welcome one at that - from the way she looked only weeks ago, pale and sick, cooped up in the hospital with pneumonia. It's wonderful to see her like this.

It's not cold out but it's not warm and the water is freezing, but she doesn't seem to care. She's in the sunlight. She's with her mom. Daddy's on his way home with breakfast. She had a good night's sleep. She's apparently making bank in jellybeans at her salon. She's happy. What more could she ask for?

If nothing else comes from this vacation, at least there's that.

Laurel isn't sure how long she and Mary splash around on the beach for before Dean pops out of the house, calling his little mermaids in to eat, it can't be more than ten or fifteen minutes, but it's long enough for Mary to end up soggy and covered in sand. Although, to be fair, that happened within the first five minutes.

Laurel gets Mary rinsed off and sends her inside, but dawdles with rinsing her own sandy feet off. She feels like she needs an opening statement to work with. Something to pull out when Dean says, ''Hey, remember when you said, out of nowhere, that you want to try for a baby after years of telling me you were one and done? That was weird.'' She's going to need a response to that and she needs it to be good.

Either that or she could use Mary as a shield.

But then...

She goes inside and he doesn't bring it up. And he doesn't bring it up. And he doesn't bring it up. They eat their breakfast and have an easy, comfortable conversation about other things, but he doesn't so much as make a pointed reference to babies.

Mary runs around the entire house naked and eating bacon, dodging her mom and dad's every attempt to clothe her, until she runs straight into the side door in the kitchen that leads out into the pool area, lands hard on her back, and starts bawling, and he doesn't even make an ''are you sure you want another one'' joke.

Therefore, Laurel lets it go.

She figures it's just going to be one of those things they push to the side for now. She's okay with that. She's comfortable with letting it pass right now. She does want to open that door at some point, but it seems inevitable that opening it right now will only lead to disappointment.

They have a wonderful day in the Malibu sun. Mary loves the beach and she loves seashells and building sandcastles with her dad and she loves the house and all the brightly colored art on the walls. Her parents love the peace and quiet and the absence of the rain. It's a good day. They almost make it through the entire day without going there.

Then there is the phone call.

It's a completely innocuous phone call from Thea, just a check in to make sure they're settling in and that they have everything they need. It's harmless. Merely a chance to thank her again and for Mary to give Auntie Thea a rambling update on every single thing they've done since they walked out the door. But, of course, it's not that simple. It never is.

Later, much later, after they've finally gotten Mary down for the night, reluctantly settled into the room down the hall set up for her with twinkle lights and little starfish and seashell dotted fresh sheets and pillow cases courtesy of Thea, Dean bursts into the en suite bathroom while Laurel's brushing her teeth. ''Okay,'' he blurts out. ''Kid's asleep. Let's go.''

Laurel blinks a few times, startled by the oddly Kramer-esque entrance. ''What?''

''Let's go,'' he repeats, gesturing between them. ''You and me. Let's break it down.''

''...You...You want to...dance?''

''What? No. Why would I - ''

''I'm not up for sex at the moment,'' she says, voice muffled by the toothpaste in her mouth. ''No offense.'' She takes a minute to spit out the minty foam. ''I love you, but I'm wiped out.''

''No.'' He shakes his head. ''That's not what I - I mean let's talk.''

''Oh, why didn't you just say that? Honestly, babe, you're like my favorite person but sometimes I have no idea what you're saying to me.''

''Well, that's not my fault. I understand what I'm saying almost all the time.''

''Almost all the - ''

''Are you okay?''

She frowns, reaching for the mouthwash. ''Why wouldn't I be?''

He waits until she's finished swishing before he says anything, but he watches her the entire time, arms crossed over his chest, staring at her intently. He's trying to read her. He does that a lot. It's unnerving. Probably because he's so good at it. ''What did you and Thea talk about while I was giving Mary a bath?''

''Oh.'' She tries to look as nonchalant and casual as possible. ''Nothing much.'' She turns away from him to dig around in her travel bag, deliberately taking forever to pull out a hair tie, a headband, and a bottle of facial cleanser. ''Just catching up. Why?''

''You just...seem distracted. That's all.''

She takes her time putting her hair up, hiding her face from him until she can plaster a fake smile on her face. ''Have I?'' She turns back around, pitching him the smile. ''I'm sorry. I don't mean to be distant. I'm just tired.''

He is quite visibly not buying a word of it. ''Laur,'' he deadpans. ''Come on.''

''Come on what?'' She slips her headband on. ''I'm tired. It's been a long day.'' She steps back over to the his-and-hers sinks, fiddling with the taps, getting ready to wash her face, but he doesn't leave.

He stays right where he is, leaning against the sink, watching her close. ''Anything new going on at home?''

''Nope.'' She washes her face - again, taking much longer than she needs to, trying to buy time - and he hands her a towel when she lifts her head. He's not going to stop pestering her about this until she gives him something. She sighs heavily, patting her skin dry with the towel before looking back to him. ''Lyla's pregnant.''

''I know.'' He watches the expression on her face for a moment and then moves on. ''Good for her,'' he says lightly. ''If I was married to John Diggle, I would have as many of his babies as possible just to make sure I've got that ass locked down tight.''

She tries to hold it in, but a laugh pushes through her lips anyway. ''Dean.''

''What? You could bounce a quarter off it. And his - '' He pushes off the counter, moving closer to her. ''Have you seen his arms? His bicep is bigger than my head.''

''I don't know, honey,'' she jokes. ''You've got a pretty big head.''

''I - '' He scowls. ''Shut up.''

''Okay, egghead,'' she winks, before turning to the big clawfoot tub in the en suite that might be bigger than their bedroom at home. She thinks she has earned at least one soak in this dream bathtub. ''I don't think Lyla's baby trapped John, by the way. They've been married for years. And they were married for years before that.''

''All I'm saying is that, hypothetically, if she did, I would support her. I would baby trap John Diggle. Without a doubt.''

She picks up Mary's hooded bath towel from where it's draped across the side of the tub. ''I'm going to tell him that.''

''Go ahead,'' he challenges. ''I'm not ashamed. He looks like he could pick me up, throw me against the wall, and ravish me. That'd be really important to me in a guy.''

Laurel flings a look at him, handing him Mary's towel to hang on the back of the door. ''Do I not ravish you, my love?''

''Clearly not enough,'' he retorts. He hangs up the towel and then closes into her space, grabbing her hand when she moves to brush past him, tugging her over to him. ''There's your New Year's resolution.''

She laughs tiredly, winding her arms around his neck. ''I'll write that down,'' she promises, pushing herself up onto her tiptoes to kiss him.

''You should,'' he mumbles against her lips. ''I'm very needy.''

''So high maintenance,'' she jokes, pulling away with a wink. She heads back over to the bathtub, clearing out the few bath toys - namely the rubber turtles that Mary has been obsessed with over the past couple of months - and the kids' shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. ''FYI,'' she starts, hoping to lead the conversation away from the topic of babies and friends who are having babies. ''When I say I want our next house to have a bigger bathtub, this is the kind of tub I'm talking about.''

''Got it,'' Dean says from where he's rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink. ''You want a Tiffany Valentine bathtub.''

She stands straight with Mary's turtle in her hand. ''Remember that thing I said about not being able to understand what you're saying sometimes?''

''Tiffany Valentine,'' he says. ''Jennifer Tilly. Bride of Chucky.''

''Please say more words.''

He fishes something from the cabinet under the sink and stands up, turning to grin at her as he presents a bottle of her favorite bubble bath. ''Tiffany Valentine was Jennifer Tilly's character in Bride of Chucky.''

''Never seen it,'' she says, taking the bottle from him.

''You've never - '' He looks positively floored by that, which is perplexing considering how well known her stance on horror movies is. ''Laurel.''

''You know I don't like horror movies.''

''But it's a classic!''

''A classic horror movie. I don't like scary things.''

''Ironic, huh?''

She rolls her eyes, but even the dramatic eye roll cannot cover up the tiny amused smile on her face. ''Nerd.''

''Cheerleader.''

She holds up the bottle of bubble bath. ''Where did you get this?''

''Picked it up last night.'' He leans in closer to her. ''I knew you'd like the tub. I know what your dream house looks like, babe. Top to bottom.''

''Aww.'' She reaches up with one hand to grab his chin. ''Look at you. Fishing for praise.''

''Like I said, I'm very needy.''

''Where was that reference going anyway?'' She asks, going back to the bathtub. ''Like, what was the relevance?''

''Oh, she was murdered in the bathtub,'' he says, utterly nonchalant, even when she throws him another bewildered look. ''Don't worry, she came back as a doll.''

''Sure.'' He heads over to the small closet beside the sink to pull out a clean, fluffy towel. She pauses before she turns back, running her fingers over the soft towel. ''John and Lyla,'' she says. ''They told their families about the pregnancy on Christmas Day. That's what I was talking to Thea about. His mother was extremely enthusiastic about the news. There's a video he's showing people.''

''Sorry we missed that,'' Dean says, though he does not sound particularly sorry at all.

She turns the faucet on in the bathtub and lets the water run over her hand for a second, warming up before she puts the plug in. ''Our families didn't have a reaction like that, did they?''

''Sam was happy,'' he says. ''Guarded, maybe. But happy. Your grandmother was ecstatic. The woman was literally jumping up and down.''

''True,'' she acknowledges with a smile. ''I guess I was just thinking more about - ''

''Your dad's reaction?''

Most bitter roads do lead to her parents these days. She's been trying to ignore that the best she can. ''Not exactly the picture perfect moment.''

In fairness, it could have been worse. When she told her father she was pregnant, she was still sick as a dog, still in the first trimester, and it was sort of an accident. They were going to wait but it just got too exhausting to keep coming up with reasons to explain her constant fatigue and vomiting. He was too worried about her health to be angry or go off on some paranoid rant about how he knew ''this homeless bum'' was going to find a way to sink his teeth into her and her bank account for good. It was a relief not to have to sit through that again.

The resigned disappointment in his voice when he congratulated them still stung though. He came around eventually, especially when he learned she was going to give him a granddaughter, and he loves Mary to the moon and back, but it still sucks that the only memory she has of telling her father he was going to be a grandfather for the first time is one of disappointment.

John and Lyla are lucky.

''Eh, it could've been worse,'' Dean says, hopping up to sit on the sink, pulling her travel bag of cosmetics over to him. ''When he sighed and said 'at least it wasn't Queen' - that was the nicest thing he's ever said to me.''

''Oh god.'' She lets out a small laugh. ''I hate that that's true.''

He pokes around in her bag for a moment and then looks up. ''Do you think your parents would like me better if I had told them that I'm a big fan of their work when we first met?''

''No, probably not.''

''Just as well,'' he says, twisting the lid off a bottle of serum to give it a tentative sniff. ''I wouldn't have meant it.''

She squeaks in offense. ''Hey!''

''Relax.'' He zips up the cosmetics bag and puts it aside. ''I'm talking about Sara.''

''I know, that's why I'm hey-ing you.'' She puts a cap full of bubble bath under the running water. ''You can't talk shit about my sister in front of me. How would you like it if I talked shit about Sam?''

''It's okay,'' he grins. ''You can point out his big forehead. I don't mind. I've noticed the glare coming off of it.''

''Oh my god. You're such a bully.'' She has to hide her face from him when he starts cackling so he doesn't notice the way she's stifling her own laughter. She turns off the faucet, running her hand through the sudsy water to check the temperature. She sends a quick glance in his direction and then sheds her robe.

''Laurel Lance,'' he says from behind her. ''You're such a tease.''

''Thanks, I try.'' She shimmies out of her underwear and sends him a wink before climbing into the bathtub. The hot water and the comforting scent of lavender is soothing, like an instant balm to her poor deteriorating, permanently stressed out body, and the luxuriously large bathtub is - unlike their small, cramped tub/shower combo at home - big enough for her to stretch out as much as she wants. She closes her eyes and settles back against the tub, letting out a breath. It would be incredibly relaxing and satisfying, just a quiet lavender scented moment to herself...if it weren't for the fact that she can still feel a certain someone staring at her.

She gives it a few minutes, thinking maybe if she doesn't say anything else, he'll get the message. He doesn't. When she reluctantly pries one eye open, he is still on his perch. He looks away from her when he notices her glance at him, turning all of his attention to a bottle of perfume he's pulled out of her bag. She watches him for a minute as he frowns down at it, likely trying to remember if it was a gift from him. He twists off the cap, gives it a cautious sniff, and reacts like he has been gassed. She watches his silent one man comedy act with one raised eyebrow and eventually just has to ask, ''You doin' okay over there, buddy?''

''You should definitely forget to pack this when we head back home.'' Recovering from his harrowing ordeal, he puts down the perfume, which was a Christmas gift from Ollie, by the way – and no it's not her favorite scent in the world - and looks at her. ''Is it really necessary for your friends to keep beating you over the head with Lyla's pregnancy?''

She opens her eyes, shifting in the tub. ''They're not trying to - '' She sighs. ''It's not like any of them know. I've only told John and he... He's tried his best. He already feels bad about letting it slip in front of me at the party and I doubt he knew Thea was going to tell me about the announcement video. There's a reason he showed it to people when I wasn't there.'' She taps her finger on the side of the tub, chewing on her bottom lip. ''He shouldn't have to feel bad about this. It has nothing to do with me and it's - it's a wonderful thing that their family is growing. I'm happy for them.'' Despite this, she doesn't even bother to make an attempt at smiling. It would be useless to try lying. ''He shouldn't feel bad about that.''

''He's a good man.'' Dean stands, approaching the tub with caution. ''He knows about what happened. He doesn't want to hurt you.''

''It was a long time ago.''

''So?''

''So it's - '' She scratches at the porcelain of the tub with her thumb nail and avoids looking into his eyes. ''It was a long time ago,'' she repeats. ''I should be over it by now.''

He doesn't respond for a long moment and then, finally just asks, ''How?''

She looks up. ''What?''

''How would you be over it? You've barely had time to breathe let alone deal with any loss. And it's not like - '' He stops short, biting down on his tongue. He looks at her for a second and then sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, eyes slipping to the door. She can't tell if he is checking for Mary or if he is thinking about bailing on this conversation. ''Laurel.'' He crouches down beside the tub so he's eye level with her, closing his hand over hers on the side of the tub. ''You never talk about the miscarriage.''

''What's there to say?'' It comes out in a pathetic near croak that has her pushing down a scowl. ''I lost our baby. End of story.''

''As long as you're still thinking about it as much as I know you are, story's not over.''

The bath is no longer relaxing.

She pulls her hand away from him and subtly shifts in the hot water, edging away from him. The water is no longer a welcome relief, the lavender scent no longer soothing but cloying. She does not want to talk about this. She knew it was coming, knew as soon as the baby comment slipped out that they would end up here, but, childishly, she wants to run.

You would think that the deepest wound would be her senseless death, maybe even Edie's betrayal, but it's not. The slowest healing wound is this. It has always been this. ''Maybe I don't want to get over it,'' she finally admits, voice thin.

''I gathered that.'' He sits down next to the tub, still watching her closely. ''You think I don't know when you're punishing yourself for something? You've never been subtle about it. One of the many ways you and I overlap.''

''That's - '' She doesn't finish. ''I don't want to talk about this.''

''Okay.'' He doesn't even try to push it. ''We don't have to.''

She tries to shove it down. Tries to take him for his word, attempting to relax back in the tub, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling, but it doesn't work. She can feel her resolve beginning to crumble and she knows he can feel it too.

The thing is -

It's the guilt.

She barely had anything to do with her death. That was all Edie and Darhk. It was a tangled mess of stupid that she had little to no control over. It wasn't anything she did. She was not at fault for it. Losing the baby is on her. All her. That was her carelessness and her selfishness. She did something dangerous, she lost their baby, and that thought spins in her head like a wheel every day. If only she had done this or hadn't done that, if only she had been smarter, stronger, faster, if only she had made different choices. If only.

It's like Tommy all over again. She stole the baby away from everyone who would have loved it the same way she stole Tommy away from everyone who loved him. And for what? Just to die? It happened because of her. Because she was foolish and arrogant and reckless. That that never goes away. That guilt sits with her every moment. It's chained to her.

Laurel gulps down the rock in her throat, eyes still on the ceiling. She wishes she had a glass of wine right now. This feels like a conversation that would be made much easier with a glass of wine. Or five. ''We would have a baby right now.'' She still can't bring herself to look at him. ''We would have just celebrated our second child's first Christmas. Mary would be a big sister and we - we would have our baby.'' She brings her gaze back to him. ''Do you know that?''

He doesn't look like he blames her. He doesn't look like her hates her the way she hates herself. Sometimes she wishes he would. Sometimes it feels like that would be easier for both of them. ''I know.''

''I took that away from us.''

''No,'' he refutes, calm but firm. ''You didn't.''

''Didn't I?'' She is trying to say it matter-of-factly, without emotion, but it's getting harder. ''How was it not my fault? We would be living an entirely different life right now. Sleep deprived and surviving on coffee and takeout because we forgot, again, to make enough freezer meals. Mary would still be adjusting and we would be stressed out and grumpy and it would be so hard, but... We would be happy. It would be a normal kind of hard, but we would have our family and that - that would be enough.''

''I get that,'' he says softly. ''I do. But what we have is still good. We still have our family. We have Mary. We have each other. We're pretty lucky,'' he says, taking her hand. ''Don't you think?'' He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. ''We're happy.''

''We are,'' she agrees. ''We are. I just - I have a lot of regret. And...all this guilt. So much of it.''

''You shouldn't.''

''But why?'' She pulls her hand out of his. ''Why shouldn't I? I put on that suit. I'm the one who made that choice. I walked into that prison. I knew it was an active combat situation and I knew I was pregnant and I knew I should have...'' She shakes her head, clamping her mouth shut. She can feel that nauseating guilt roiling through her like a storm. ''I don't even know why I did it,'' she confesses. ''Why I couldn't just let that one go. I didn't need to be there that night. I could have stayed home. It was so irresponsible. It was so selfish.''

''You wanted to help.''

She lets out a bitter, watery laugh. ''I wanted to prove something,'' she says, looking at him. ''I wanted to be respected. I wanted to be part of the team - and in order for that to happen in his world, I had to be flawless. I had to be twice as loyal, I had to take every order, show up every time. I couldn't miss, I couldn't stumble, I couldn't fail - not even once. I couldn't make a single mistake because when I did it was just another thing added to his constantly growing list of reasons why I didn't deserve to be there. And I deserved to be there. Just as much as anyone. I know I did. But.'' She licks her lips, narrowing her eyes. ''I can't remember why any of that mattered,'' she says, with a shaky, slightly rueful smile. ''I keep thinking about the way it was then. The way I was. The way I...scurried when he told me to scurry. Jumped when he told me to jump. Took 90% of orders without even questioning it. I can't figure out why I did that. That's not who I am.''

''I know it's not who you are.''

''And - '' She shakes her head. ''I mean, who gives a shit? Who gives a single shit about what Oliver Queen thinks?''

He laughs, but it sounds forced. ''That's a damn good question.''

''Especially me,'' she goes on. ''Why would I care so much? Why did I? He doesn't respect me. He is never going to respect me. I know that. I have always known that.'' It is the most honest she has been in a long time. She's afraid to look over at the expression on his face. ''Even when we were dating, he couldn't bring himself to respect me. He loved me, sure, but respect? No. No way. I think I knew it back then too. I just didn't want to admit it. He was an arrogant rich boy who believed I was beneath him. I was a good screw, a good girlfriend, a good safety net to fall back on, but never an equal. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he is still that arrogant boy and I'm still the girl good enough to moan about, but not enough to respect. I'm still the girl who stood there and took it. That's all I'm ever going to be to him. But I'm not - I don't...'' She plucks up the courage to look at her husband. ''So what? How is that my problem?'' She tries to read the unreadable expression on his face. ''I sacrificed our baby because I wanted to prove something to my ex-boyfriend and I don't know why. I don't know why I did that.''

Up until now, Dean has been just a listener. Silent, still, occasionally reaching out like he wants to touch her. But now. There is a flinch. She doesn't think anyone else would have noticed it, but she does. He flinches. ''I don't think you sacrificed our - '' But he stops. Cuts himself off with a sigh and looks away from her. There's a tick in his jaw that she notices immediately.

Throughout this entire conversation, she has done her best to keep herself composed. She's done a pretty okay job of it. Right up until this moment. She hurt him. Not now, not with what she's said, but what she's done.

Oliver is the biggest recurring problem in their marriage. Has been since the moment he got back. Not because he can sometimes be a jerk, not even because he's in love with her - although those things certainly don't help - but because of her. She let him in. She gave him a place inside of her marriage. There was no room for him, not after everything, and she let him in anyway. Pushed things out of the way for him until somewhere along the way, Dean and Mary and the baby they could have had got crowded out. She let that happen because she wanted to be right more than she wanted to be happy.

Look where that got her.

''I wanted - I want to be the Black Canary,'' she whispers. ''It's who I'm supposed to be.'' She can feel herself crumpling, the rock in her throat, the throbbing behind her eyes. ''But I wanted that baby,'' she chokes out. ''I really wanted that baby. I didn't even realize how much until I destroyed - ''

''You didn't - '' His voice, sharp enough to make her jump, dies instantly. ''You didn't destroy anything,'' he says, softer. ''You're acting like you made a choice to - ''

''I did make a choice,'' she insists. ''If I hadn't gone out that night - ''

''Laurel, you don't know what would have happened. Edie wanted you dead. She needed you dead. She - ''

''Edie let me have Mary,'' she bursts out. ''If she knew I was pregnant, maybe she would have waited. Maybe she would have let me have my baby first.'' ''Oh, yeah, sure,'' he sneers. ''Because she's such so merciful.'' He stands, purposefully distancing himself from her with a shake of the head. ''She was perfectly fine with killing you and taking you away from your three year old. You think she would have hesitated because you were pregnant? That's giving her a little too much credit, don't you think?''

''I don't know.'' She wipes at her face with her wet hands, sniffling miserably. ''I really don't. I know nothing about whatever mercy she may have. I just know - ''

''That it was your fault,'' he states calmly, not an accusation, just words. ''That you deserve to be punished.''

She waits for the big speech. The part where he gives her a loving but firm pep talk. The part where he tries - and fails at least half the time - to boost her confidence. She waits for the big speech. It doesn't come. She looks up at him, waiting, and he looks down at her, still mostly expressionless.

''You're wrong.'' There is no speech. It's that simple to him. ''Laur,'' he adds on, softer. ''I can't keep watching you do this to yourself.''

She gets the feeling he's not just talking about this situation. ''I - I know,'' she stutters. ''I know, but I'm - ''

''You're in pain,'' he affirms with a nod. ''I get that. I can't change that - as much I want to. But you can't keep carrying these things all by yourself. It's too much. You're going to break under all that weight.''

''You're one to talk.''

He actually smiles a little at that. ''Touché.'' He crouches back down beside the tub, leaning both arms on the ledge. ''That's just it, isn't it? When I was down, I had this pretty little bird on my shoulder telling me to get up. That I deserved better.''

She attempts a smile, but only manages a feeble twitch of the lips.

''Pretty little bird,'' he says. ''You have to get up. You can't stay down like this. You deserve better.''

''Turns out that's easier to say than to hear.''

''Ain't it?''

She wants to apologize. It's in her throat, ready to come out, an apology for bringing this up, for not bringing it up before, for always being such a mess. She knows he wouldn't accept it. ''Do you ever think about it?''

''Yes.'' His answer is far quicker than she expected. When she turns back to him, he is pulling away again, standing back up. ''Not as much now. But yeah. I do. Our whole life went up in smoke. Our entire future. Just like that. Course I thought about it. I wondered...what it would have been like.''

She nods her head, but doesn't trust herself to speak. She doesn't know what to say anyway. She never knows what to say anymore. He used to tell her she always knew what to say and when to say it. Suppose that's another loss.

He tilts his head to the side. He looks curious. ''Do you honestly want another baby?''

''Yes.'' This time, she's the one with the quick answer. ''I do.''

''Are you sure?'' He looks and sounds hesitant, but she thinks she can see something else just beyond that - a certain kind of light, a glimmer of hope. She knows where he stands on this. It's been glaringly obvious for a long time. He wants another baby. He's just always loved her enough to leave it up to her with no pushing and no expectations. ''You've always said one and done.''

''I know what I said.''

''You were pretty adamant.''

''I know I was, but - ''

''And I know how hard it was when you were pregnant. How sick you were. How rough the birth was.''

''Yeah, but we talked about this last year. There is no guarantee I'll have HG with future pregnancies. And even if I am really sick, it's just temporary. It's not like - ''

''I just don't want you to do anything you don't... I don't want you to feel forced to...'' He trails off, mouth tightening. ''This isn't just because you think I want - ''

''No.'' She sits up straighter. ''No, that's not - ''

''Because I really don't need - I'm okay with just Mary,'' he insists. ''All I need is you and her.''

''Dean, I want a baby,'' she says firmly. ''Not because I think you need another one. I just want another baby. I know what I've said before. I changed my mind.'' She smirks a little. ''I can do that, you know. And I know right now is so not the right time.'' An understatement. ''Money's too tight, Mary's already gone through enough change, and I - I mean, look at me. My mental health is crap, my cousin wants to stuff me full of dead witch, and my - my body is dying.'' She waves a hand, gesturing vaguely at her body. ''I'm probably uninhabitable now anyway. But I do want that. I want that with you. More than anything.''

''...Okay.'' A slow smile spreads across his face. ''Then I guess we're having another baby.''

''Eventually.''

''Right. Eventually.''

''And you can hold me to that,'' she promises. ''I mean it. When this is all over and we're settled, we're getting to work. We're doing it right.'' She points a finger at him. ''I'm talking ovulation kits, buying pregnancy tests in bulk, scheduled sex - ''

''Special positions.''

''Temperature checks. Eating clean - ''

''Now that one just sounds like an excuse to get me to drink that green smoothie shit you keep trying to get me to drink.''

''Well, I'd consider hiding veggies in your food like we do for Mary but something tells me I wouldn't get away with that.''

''Is that something the fact that you don't cook?''

''Watch yourself now. I'm the mother of your children. And I have the power to withhold the apple tarts.''

He laughs at her, but does tack on a hasty, ''Apologies, counselor.'' He moves closer, back over to the tub. ''For the record, I eat plenty of - ''

''French fries don't count.''

''Well, there's - ''

''Neither does ketchup.''

He deflates a little, but then recovers. ''I never take the lettuce and tomato off my burgers.''

''Nope.''

''I stopped ordering extra cheese.''

''Not helpful.'' She shakes her head. ''And let me remind you that you're thirty eight now and if we wait for everything, including our finances, to be settled, you'll likely be in your forties by the time we have another baby, which means you'll be an older parent - and I am not having you tap out on me when our kids are teenagers just because you wouldn't quit it with the butter.''

''Oh my god, fine, we'll start eating - quote unquote - clean. Whatever the hell that means.''

''It means - ''

''Yeah, yeah, I know what it means.''

''Also, I feel like I need to add that diet can totally influence fertility and there's heaps of research that back up my claims so it's not like - ''

''Oh, the research,'' he booms out, folding his arms. ''Gonna be copious amounts of that, I'm sure.''

''And notes,'' she nods. ''I like to take notes.''

''I know. I've never seen anyone go through post it notes faster than you.''

''I find them very helpful.''

''Hm.'' He uncrosses his arms and leans down with his hands braced on either side of the tub to kiss her. She kisses him back eagerly, leaning up and throwing a wet arm around his neck. ''You know,'' he says, voice low. ''I can't help but notice that this is quite a roomy bathtub.''

''It is,'' she agrees, moving her hand to tug at his shirt. ''Very roomy. One might even say lonely.''

''Can't have that,'' he says seriously. ''Can we?''

''Can't have that.''

''And you know what else I'm thinking? I'm thinking we should practice. I know we're not going to be trying for a while but practice makes perfect and my personal philosophy is to - ''

''Dean.'' A wolfish smile stretches across her lips. ''Hurry up and take your clothes off.''

''Yes, ma'am.''

.

.

.

February 2017

In the cold light of morning, Laurel is beginning to regret getting Felicity involved in this. The issue isn't that she doesn't trust her. It's more that -

Well, okay, yeah, maybe it's that she doesn't fully trust her.

The thing about Felicity Smoak is that she is a woman with many faces.

She is, at her core, a fundamentally good person with a strong moral compass, a genuine desire to help people, and a kind heart. She is also brilliant, one of the best in her field, and tremendously loyal to the people she loves. All wonderful qualities.

However, in addition to those wonderful qualities, she can also be immature, selfish, impulsive, obsessive, frustratingly arrogant, and surprisingly naive. Acknowledging that isn't a condemnation.

It's merely a concern.

Felicity is, much like all of us, a work in progress. She's young. She's not done growing up yet. That is likely a big part of why her relationship with Oliver was so disastrous. They are at vastly different points in their lives. All of that would be perfectly fine and none of Laurel's business if these flaws only affected Felicity's personal life, but that's not how it goes.

The last thing Laurel wants is for Felicity to go out there by herself, trying to help her friend, thinking she's smarter than everyone, and wind up getting hurt. Not to mention, there is also the very real possibility that she could end up letting it slip to Oliver. She is good at keeping secrets, but he is even better at guilt trips and manipulation tactics.

Which is worrisome.

If he finds out about this, everything will become a Green Arrow operation and Black Canary will be pushed out without a second thought. That cannot happen. Not with this. It's too important.

Honestly, she probably should have gone to Charlie. She's just as good as Felicity at what she does, if not better, and with more experience under her belt, she's more than capable of taking care of herself in the field these days, and she, too, has no qualms about keeping secrets for the greater good. She is pragmatic and efficient. She is also, of course, loyal to the Winchesters, especially Dean. Therein lies the problem with turning to her.

The worry is not her leaking information to them about what Laurel's doing. It's about the fact that she is, without a doubt, Team Dean and there is a high likelihood that she might be understandably pissed off at Laurel right now for hurting her friend. She might not have even agreed to help.

When someone falls into the Winchesters' orbit, they get real loyal real quick.

Laurel first learned that back when she met Bobby Singer for the first time and he took her aside to give her a firm warning of, ''If you're gonna run scared, kid, do it now so there's less of a mess left for us to clean up after it's over.''

...Man, it is a good thing he's not here to see what she's done to his boy in the years since. He would be fucking furious.

Just like Charlie probably is right now.

So.

Felicity it is then.

If we're being honest, Laurel is mostly hoping she's not walking into an intervention here. She doesn't have the energy for that this morning.

It's still early when she gets to the base, stepping into the elevator, half expecting her clearance to have been revoked. She is trying to hype herself up enough to put on a convincing smile, but it's not a super successful endeavor. There's not much to smile about. She's exhausted from another night of little to no rest, her shoulder hurts like hell and is no doubt bleeding through the bandages she hastily applied, and now she's trying to prepare herself for possibly having to interact with Oliver.

Oh, and she is now officially out of clean clothes.

o, that blows.

Also, she's kind of hungry.

The doughnut she sweet talked Marty the motel manager into giving her was just not enough. Maybe she can finagle some quarters and a sandwich out of Oliver if he's here and spend the afternoon at the laundromat.

She rolls her shoulder as the elevator descends into the underground headquarters. She cranes her neck, checking to make sure she hasn't bled through her green canvas jacket. She resists the urge to touch the itchy, throbbing, claw shaped gouges in her skin, probably still oozing blood. She's trying to figure out how to stealthily snag some medical supplies without anyone noticing when the elevator comes to a stop. She takes a deep breath as the doors slide open. She barely even makes it out of the elevator before she freezes, eyes widening in surprise as she nearly runs into -

''Sam!''

Of all the people to run into today, it had to be the most loyal member of Team Dean.

''Laurel.'' As expected, he does not look overly pleased to see her. ''You're back.''

''And you're...'' She trails off, the knot of anxiety leaping up into her throat. ''Here.''

Over his shoulder, Felicity has abandoned her computer bay, scurrying over to them in her bare feet. She looks tired, dark circles under her eyes, hair mussed and pulled out of its usual ponytail, her Barbie pink dress rumpled.

''I was looking for John Diggle,'' Sam says shortly. He still has not looked away from Laurel, studying her with intense scrutiny, the expression on his face giving nothing away.

''Oh.'' She nods, doing everything in her power not to squirm. ''Right.''

''I swear this isn't an ambush!'' Felicity pops up beside Sam, visibly hesitating to jump between them. ''This isn't like - '' She looks nervous. ''It's not an ambush.''

''Felicity,'' Laurel tries.

''I didn't plan for you two to - ''

''I didn't think it was an ambush.''

''I had no idea he was - '' Felicity stops, blinking a few times as she fixes her gaze on Laurel. All at once, concern washes over her, the nervousness falling away. ''You're hurt.''

There is a split second where Laurel has no idea what she's talking about and then she remembers - oh, right, the bruises. She forgot about those. Explains why Sam was looking at her so oddly. She barely feels the bruises anymore. Right now she mostly just feels the pain in her shoulder. ''It's nothing.''

Felicity frowns, opening her mouth, undoubtedly to press the matter further.

Thankfully, that's when Sam finally decides to move his watchful gaze to her. ''You knew she was back?''

''I contacted her last night,'' Laurel steps in without thought, a protective reflex. ''I needed a favor.''

Sam looks like he's piecing a few things together, gaze flicking between the two women. ''Which is why there's no one else here.''

''There's no one else here because they all have day jobs,'' Felicity says, though there is an edge of guilt to her voice. ''But also... Yes. I didn't want to spook her.'' She is entirely unapologetic about it when addressing Sam, but when she looks back to Laurel, her expression immediately softens into a wince. ''Although, you should know that - ''

''Oliver knows I'm back,'' Laurel finishes. ''I know. He spotted me last night.''

''What were you doing last night?'' Sam asks, sounding...pretty unnecessarily suspicious.

Felicity doesn't seem to notice. ''What she does best,'' she boasts proudly. ''Beating up criminals. She took down the Finley brothers.''

''The Finley brothers?''

''Low level muscle twins from the Glades.'' Felicity waves a hand dismissively. ''Idiots. We've been trying to pin them down for a while. They throw themselves at every year's villain looking for a paycheck, so we thought maybe they'd hooked up with Edie, or even that Prometheus guy - although something seems to have sent him into hiding for now - but they keep slipping out of our grasp.''

Maybe calling them idiots and consistently underestimating them wasn't such a great idea after all?

''They've been doing their own thing,'' Laurel says. ''Residential burglaries. Couple smash and grabs. They put Mrs. Mendoza in the hospital.''

''Good thing they can't hurt anyone else,'' Felicity says. ''Thanks to the Black Canary.'' She moves, almost like she wants to outstretch a hand to Laurel, but thinks better of it. She settles on another warm smile. ''It's good to have you back.''

Laurel tries to return the smile, but it's getting harder and harder to fake it.

''Seems risky,'' Sam pipes up, crossing his arms, that same stubborn indifference still marring his face. ''Putting yourself out there in the Glades so publicly. What if someone sees your face?''

If he thinks that's bad, wait until he finds out that her re-entry strategy basically consists of a figurative shrug emoji and an idk just gonna go for it I guess mental post it note. ''I'm not hiding from the people of the Glades,'' she says, and instantly realizes she shouldn't have said it quite like that.

''No,'' Sam agrees, the ghost of a sneer crossing his face. ''You're just hiding from your family.''

Felicity seems to take the barb harder than Laurel does, flinching and inhaling sharply. ''Oof.'' She hugs her tablet to her chest, moving between the two, looking terribly uncomfortable, but also completely unwilling to move. ''Awkward.''

Laurel takes it in stride. ''I walked into that one,'' she says, tone even.

Sam looks, for a second, as if he might be at least considering softening, but doesn't. He does do another sweep of the bruises on her face. ''Did you just get back last night?''

''Couple days ago.''

''Why?''

She's not sure why that's the question that throws her, but it does. Automatically, muscle memory takes over and her hands twitch, moving to spin her beloved mismatched wedding set, but the rings aren't there. Only a faint line remains. She flexes her fingers, unsure what to do with her hands in the absence of her normal outlet. ''I think Edie came back to Washington,'' she says, picking at her cuticles. ''I got her to California. I had my eye on her. I wanted to pull her farther away before I went after her directly, but something...happened a few days ago. I don't know what changed, but she turned tail and ran home in the middle of the night. It was strange. There's something off about her. She's different.''

''Different how?''

Scared, she doesn't say. She's not sure why she doesn't say it. It seems like pertinent information to have. The Winchesters are after Edie too. So is Team Arrow. This could be useful information for them all to have. A weak point to work with. But she doesn't say anything, dodging the question. ''She's got a brand new bodyguard,'' she tells him. ''Big guy. Wears a mask. He's brutal.''

''Is he the one who worked you over?''

''Like I said. Brutal.''

''So your plan failed,'' he states bluntly.

''I wouldn't say it failed. It's not that simple.''

''Seems simple to me,'' Sam insists. ''You wanted to draw Edie away. She came back anyway. Fail. Now we're essentially back to square one. Except now my brother - '' He stops abruptly, clamping his jaw shut, looking away from her.

This is going about as well as she could have expected.

She nibbles at her bottom lip. She knows there is nothing she can say to make him less mad at her on his brother's behalf, but she tries anyway. ''Sam, I'm sorry.''

''I'm not the one you should be apologizing to,'' he says. He looks at her again, a little less harsh. He looks like he wants to be less angry with her, less disappointed, but he just doesn't know how to get there. He has never appreciated it when the people he loves cannot live up to his standards. He tends to takes that personally. Even without that, he's the one who has been left here to clean up the mess she made when she walked out of that house in the middle of the night and disappeared into the night. She hurt his brother. She can't expect him to take that lightly. Not with those two.

She twists her fingers where her rings used to be. ''I...I know I have no right to be asking this right now, but how is he doing?''

''You're right,'' Sam says shortly, without pause. ''You don't have a right to be asking that.''

''Sam, I know I - ''

''He's busy,'' he snaps, eyes darkening. ''He's got a lot on his plate. Someone has to raise your daughter and you've made it clear from the beginning that's not going to be you.'' It's a deeply hurtful jab, cutting and sharp and cruel, but still to be expected.

Laurel brushes it off. At least she tries to.

Sam doesn't say anything else, doesn't offer anymore condemnations and certainly no apologies. He just shakes his head and looks away from her. ''I have to go.'' He glances at Felicity. ''Tell John to call me when he can. I need to talk to him about the Anacortes house.''

Felicity nods silently, looking more shocked at the dig than Laurel. She remains completely silent as he moves past Laurel and heads toward the elevator. It's only when the doors slide closed and the elevator car begins to move up, taking him away from the base, that she finally lets out an indignant sounding squeak. ''Yikes.''

''It's fine,'' Laurel says automatically.

''No, it's not. That was way harsh.''

''Seriously, Felicity, that was nothing.'' Laurel makes an effort to grin and bear it, waving off Sam's harsh condemnation even as it festers in her chest, spreading throughout her body like a sickness, icing over her insides. You've made it clear from the beginning that's not going to be you. Frankly, the worst part about that is that she cannot actually say his spiteful dig was inaccurate, can she?

People have always told her she is more like her mother than she thinks she is. Maybe they were right. Maybe all Ellard women are lacking something. The fundamentals of motherhood were never exactly her own mother's strong suit. Maybe she really is just her mother's daughter. ''I deserved worse,'' she says. It's the most truthful thing she can say.

''You deserve a little empathy from your own family.''

''Sam is Dean's family first and foremost. That's where his loyalty should lie.''

Felicity doesn't look entirely convinced, her lips still pinched in annoyance, but she graciously lets it go. ''You look like you could use some coffee and a bagel.''

Laurel pauses, glancing around the bunker. ''You have coffee and bagels down here?''

''Well...no. No bagels at least. But we do have coffee!''

''Oh yeah?''

''It's a new addition,'' Felicity says. ''I finally got Oliver to cave and buy a coffee maker for the base.''

''Very impressive. How'd you manage that?''

''Years of nagging and some well placed tears. Hang on a minute. I'll get you a cup.''

''I can't stay long,'' Laurel tries to object. ''I don't want to run into - ''

''Oh, you won't,'' Felicity assures her as she heads back over to deposit her tablet by her computer. ''Nobody's coming down here for a while. Trust me. Oliver and your dad both have back to back meetings and Thea took the day off, which means Oliver actually has to pay attention. Plus, John's busy annoying his pregnant wife by being her overprotective shadow. I don't expect anyone to come down here until later this afternoon.'' She rests a nervous hand on the back of her chair. ''It's just a cup of coffee. I promise.''

Laurel still hesitates, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket. As selfish and ungrateful as it sounds, she is not sure she's up for small talk right now. Definitely not for the inevitably probing questions about where she's been and what she's been doing.

On the other hand, she could use a cup of coffee.

''A cup of coffee sounds nice.'' She even smiles a little, which Felicity seems to take as a victory. Laurel lets the smile drop as soon as Felicity's turned away from her, standing in the cavernous space that used to feel like a second home to her. She no longer knows how to be in this space. Before April, this place was amazing to her. It was the place where it all happened. It was exciting. It was something shiny and new, something that radiated power. It was something she got to be a part of.

Now it's...

It's just different. For a lot of reasons. This is no longer her home, no longer her headquarters, her team. It's underground. There is one way out and one way in. It's always cold. It makes her skin crawl these days. She is not a fan of enclosed spaces like this anymore. She feels more at home on rooftops in the heart of the city, free as a bird, with no cage to trap her. No grave to hold her down. No matter where she goes, she can never seem to get away from the dirt.

''Hey,'' Felicity's calling out to her from wherever the coffee maker is. ''Did you hear we had our annual superhero crisis team up?''

''Oh yeah? You guys ever think about meeting up when there's not a crisis on the horizon? Like maybe a dinner party or something?'' Laurel raises her voice, drifting away from the platform and over to the area with the first aid supplies and weapons' cabinet. ''What was it this time? Cult of assassins? Metahumans?''

''Aliens!''

Laurel almost bursts out laughing. She can't help it. ''Of course.''

''Yeah, it was this whole big thing. We got trapped in this alternate reality where you and Oliver - ''

And then Felicity stops short.

Laurel stops what she's doing - sneaking some gauze, antiseptic wipes, and bandages into her pockets - and turns, thinking maybe she's been caught, but Felicity isn't even looking at her. ''An alternate reality where me and Oliver what?''

''Uh,'' Felicity clears her throat, sounding anxious, voice smaller. ''It's - It's a long story. Details aren't important. I don't want to bore you. The point is we handled it.''

''I have no doubt.''

''But we missed you.''

''I'm sure you did fine without me,'' Laurel says distractedly, closing the drawer, making sure everything is nicely tucked away in her pockets. She starts to turn away to head back to the table, but she catches something out of the corner of her eye before she walks away.

There are arrows laying out on top of the weapons cabinet.

She is not sure why she feels compelled to step closer and inspect them, but she does. Ollie typically prefers to keep his precious arrows under lock and key, but these ones look shiny and new. He probably hasn't found a place for them yet. It is not an altogether unusual thing to see arrows here. This is the Green Arrow's home base, after all. But it's...been a while since she's been up close and personal with an arrow.

She has always thought arrows were something of a peculiar weapon for a modern day vigilante to choose. They're not that common. They're so much work. They are also, however, incredibly effective. She knows that first hand. It is a painful way to die.

She cannot bring herself to move away, standing by the weapons cabinet, hands hidden away in her pockets, staring at a bunch of arrows. Her hands feel cold all of a sudden, but maybe that's just because it's cold down here.

Slowly, feeling entranced, she picks up another one. It always looked to her like arrows took a lot of strength and power to use. It seems like something that would require a lot of skill. A lot of patience. At least if you want to do things right. It took nothing for Darhk to pick one of these things up and drive it into her lung. Nothing at all. He was so much stronger than she expected him to be. It hurt so much more than she ever could have thought.

She runs her finger over the arrow, pausing when she gets to the tip. She can't tell if the taste of blood in her mouth is a memory or if she's bitten her tongue. She presses her finger, just barely, to the point of the arrowhead. There are many things she can't quite remember about that night. Trauma does that. Distorts the world. Makes things hazy, fuzzy around the edges. Our brains protect our minds from the worst, the same way it protects our bodies from pain with shock.

But the arrow.

The way it felt. How sharp it was. The sheer laziness of Darhk's brutality that night. She remembers that. It hurt to die. Much more than she will ever be able to put into words. She doesn't think it's even possible to describe what it felt like to die. We are not meant to deal with the aftermath of that kind of pain.

She puts the arrow back where she found it, suddenly aware of the thing growing in her throat and the tremor in her hands. She swallows thickly, tries to push past the burning in her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to shake off the flashback, the echo of his voice in her head.

It's just an arrow.

This feels like such a silly overreaction, but she can't make it stop. She balls her hands into fists. It's just an arrow. An arrow is just an arrow. It's just a little thing.

''Cream and sugar?''

She jumps at the sound of Felicity's voice, whirling around. ''What?''

Felicity hasn't noticed the distress on Laurel's face, too far away, not paying attention. ''Do you want cream and sugar in your coffee?''

''Oh, um.'' Laurel swallows again, trying to get the bitter taste of adrenaline and blood out of her mouth. ''Yes please.''

Felicity goes back to making her coffee, only to pop up a few seconds later, looking sheepish. ''And if - if we don't happen to have any cream?''

Laurel has already gone back to the arrows. ''Just sugar's fine.'' Her hand twitches at her side, aching to touch her suddenly throbbing scar. She winds her arms around her middle. She forces herself to look away from the arrows, moving over to the large table. She thinks if she keeps looking at those arrows, she might throw up. She hovers by the table, her fingertips brushing against the hard surface, but she doesn't sit down. She's too busy trying to lock away the memories of April 6th. Her mouth still tastes of blood. Her limbs feel heavy and weak.

''New arrows,'' Felicity's voice says as she sidles up to Laurel, two mugs held in her hands.

Laurel blinks. ''What?''

''The arrows,'' Felicity elaborates. ''They're new. Just came in yesterday. Oliver's very proud. He's been rambling about them to anyone who will listen.'' She laughs a little, holding out one of the mugs. ''Boys and their toys, huh?''

''Yeah.'' Laurel's voice comes out in a tiny croak. She clears her throat and accepts the coffee with a feeble smile. ''Thanks.''

Only then does Felicity seem to catch on that something is wrong, a worried frown taking over the nervous smile. ''You okay?''

''Fine.''

''Are you sure? You look really pale all of a sudden.''

''I'm fine.''

Felicity isn't buying it, but she pretends. ''Okay. But why don't we sit down anyway?'' She pulls out a chair for Laurel. ''Are you sure you don't want to - I don't know.'' She waits for Laurel to take a seat before she pulls out her own chair, but she doesn't sit down. ''I could call Dean.''

''No,'' Laurel's voice comes out harsher than she intended to. ''That's not - '' She shakes her head. ''That's not why I'm here.''

''I know, but...''

''Felicity, I'm fine.''

Felicity remains unconvinced. ''I guess that means I can't convince you to let me call anyone else?''

''Probably not a good idea,'' Laurel says. ''I think everyone's pretty mad at me.''

Felicity looks at her for a second, uncharacteristically silent. Then, somewhat cautiously, she takes Laurel's hand and gives it a squeeze. ''I'm not.''

It's a kind thing to say. Regardless of how true it is, it helps. It eases the pressure in Laurel's chest enough for her to smile. ''That's good to hear.''

Felicity slowly, reluctantly, like she wants to keep holding on for as long as possible, draws her hand back. ''You know, Supergirl asked about you.''

''Supergirl?''

''Barry's alien friend from Earth-38.''

''Right, sure. She asked about me?''

''She wanted to meet you.''

''Why me?''

''Barry's mentioned you to her and she's fascinated. She wants to pick your brain. Can't blame her,'' Felicity winks. ''The Black Canary's pretty cool.'' She takes a sip of her own coffee and then seems to hesitate, smile dimming just a little before she says, ''Thea took her to see Mary.''

Laurel tenses at the mention of her daughter's name. She wants so badly to know more, to ask Felicity to tell her everything she knows about how Mary's doing, but she bites her tongue. She has been away from her baby for two weeks. This is the longest she has ever been away from Mary and been aware of the distance.

When she was spiraling, in the thick of it, drinking and drinking and drinking some more, in the throes of a nervous breakdown, desperate and dying and drunk, she pushed herself so far away from her child it was like she wasn't even a mother at all. Hell, there were times where she would tell herself precisely that. You're nothing a mother should be. You were just an incubator. You don't have it in you to be anything more.

There is nothing in the world that she could ever regret more than that.

She lost so much time. Too much time. She choked on that regret for years, promising Mary - and herself - that she would never ever do anything like that ever again. There were enough absent mothers in the Ellard family line. Faye gave up her children and sealed herself in the thick Maine woods because she was terrified of hurting her children. Aunt Valerie missed - and is probably still missing - so many moments in her children's lives because she was too busy searching for a way to kill herself before her could stop her. Dinah Ellard walked into the Puget Sound and didn't look back, not even for her girls.

Her own mother…

Well.

Laurel has never wanted to be just another Ellard woman lost in the woods or the water. And she has never wanted to be her mother; too cold, too aloof, too busy to be a real mother. She spent years trying to make up for everything she did when she was broken. Just when she was beginning to forgive herself, to believe everything would be okay, everything was shot to shit. She died. She came back. She left.

What right does she have to ask how Mary's doing?

''Thea says Mary hasn't stopped talking about Supergirl since,'' Felicity says, her voice breaking Laurel's shroud of self-pity and guilt. ''Barry's super jealous.''

''I bet,'' Laurel says softly.

Felicity quiets down, which is always troubling, and looks at Laurel for a second, biting down on her lip. ''Hey, you know, why don't we go out for some breakfast,'' she proposes. ''Most of the info I have for you is on my tablet. I'll just grab that and my laptop and we can talk over brunch. My treat. I know you're not exactly solvent right now.''

''I can't.''

''Come on, everyone loves brunch.''

''I really can't.''

''Laurel, you have to eat.''

''I'm eating,'' Laurel assures her, wrapping her cold hands around the warm mug of coffee. ''I've eaten. I promise. But I have to get back to - ''

''California?''

Laurel pauses. She's not even going to bother asking how Felicity knew where she was because, really, she didn't make it that much of a secret. ''The Glades.''

''So you're staying.''

''I'm - I don't know. For now, I guess. We'll see.'' She takes a sip of the coffee and instantly regrets it, forcing herself to gulp down the hot sugar water that is supposed to be coffee.

Felicity doesn't appear to notice her disgust. ''That's good. Do you have a place to stay?''

Laurel puts her mug down. ''I do.''

''Let me rephrase that. Do you have a place to stay that isn't some shady looking motel that would light up like a crime scene Christmas tree under a black light?''

''I have a place.''

Felicity, of course, does not stop. ''Because you could stay with me. If you need a place.''

''I don't need a place,'' Laurel insists. ''That's a kind offer, but - ''

''I promise I have the room,'' Felicity goes on. ''It's no Queen loft or anything but it's a totally serviceable two bedroom condo in a nice neighborhood. There's a gate and a security guard on duty at all times.''

''Felicity - ''

''And I've been thinking about getting a roommate lately anyway.''

''I'm good where I am,'' Laurel says. ''Really.'' She takes another swig of her terrible coffee, just to put an end to this line of questioning and has to suppress a gag. ''So.'' She puts the mug back down and resolves not to touch the cursed drink again. ''Did you - ''

''Yeah. Yes.'' Felicity, who seems to be drinking her own coffee with no problem, puts her mug down. ''Let me just grab it.'' She pulls herself to her feet and hurries back over to the computer bay to collect her research.

Laurel uses the brief moment to snatch up Felicity's mug and take a drink of her coffee, just to see if she's being hazed or something. But no. Felicity's coffee - if it can even be called that - is, if possible, even worse. It just tastes like dishwater. ''Ugh.'' She makes a face, putting the mug back on the table and settling back in her chair just as Felicity traipses back over, balancing her laptop, tablet, and a file folder.

''Okay.'' She puts her armload down on the table. ''So, um...'' But then she stops. She looks at Laurel. ''No, I'm sorry I know you don't want to talk about it, but you know what?'' She pulls her chair closer before sinking into it. ''I have no boundaries and everyone knows that so I'm just going to ask. Are you okay?''

Nope.

Pretty fucking far from it.

Laurel says nothing.

Felicity, as usual, barrels on anyway. ''Were you in the LA area the whole time? Why LA? Were you alone? And what happened at that Circle K?''

Laurel continues to say nothing. She crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap, keeping a carefully even expression on her face.

After a minute, Felicity seems to get the message. ''Right. That superhero secrecy thing.'' She shakes her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval and pulling her laptop over to her. ''I hate that.''

''Don't we all,'' Laurel deadpans in response.

Felicity's eyes drift up from the computer screen to meet Laurel's, a small smile tugging at her lips. ''All right.'' She starts, putting on her best Overwatch voice. ''Lady Shiva. Real name... Uh, unknown actually. We know from Edie that she also goes by Sandra, but I haven't been able to dig up her real name yet or even if that's her real first name.''

''I don't need to know her real name,'' Laurel says. ''That's her business.''

''Technically where she lives is also her business, but you don't have any problem with me searching for that,'' Felicity says, voice light, despite the sharpness of her words. She keeps going, giving no room for interruption. ''Though I haven't exactly been able to pin that down either. I am close, I know it, she's just…a bit of a slippery fish.'' She turns her laptop around to show the screen. ''I've got a search running constantly,'' she explains, while Laurel tries to take in the rapidly moving camera footage. ''I'm scanning for her on CCTV. Even doorbell cams. Things like that. I've caught her on a few different cameras so I've been able to narrow down the most likely area.'' She brings something up on her tablet before handing it over. ''You were right. Looks like she's staying somewhere down by the docks. Explains why you were taken there when you were grabbed. Edie wanted Shiva to watch over you while they waited to meet up with Earth-2 Dean, so they brought you to her. There are a handful of apartment buildings down by the docks, so my next stop is to check them one by one. If I can't find her there, I'll expand to other buildings nearby. See if she's squatting in some abandoned warehouse or something. If I still can't find her, I'll expand the search perimeter and I'll keep expanding it until I lock down her location. And I'm doing it all on my personal devices.'' She gestures to her laptop. ''Nothing that's ever used for the team. No one else needs to know about this unless you want them to. This is a private favor for a friend.''

Laurel looks up from the tablet and the security cam stills of Lady Shiva, tossing Felicity a grateful look. ''Thank you. This is...'' This is a lot of work. A lot more than she had expected. You'd think she would know by now not to underestimate Felicity Smoak. ''Thank you,'' she says again.

''Of course,'' Felicity nods, smiling back tentatively. ''I'm always here if you need me, Laurel. We all are.''

Laurel ducks her head back down to look at the tablet - but mostly to avoid the concern in her friend's eyes. She is way too emotionally exhausted for sincerity right now. She's not sure she would be able to return it. She flicks through the CCTV stills until she gets to one of Shiva outside of a small Mom and Pop supermarket that she recognizes as one about a block away from the docks.

Shiva looks completely normal, her body language casual, a paper bag of groceries held in her arms. She looks like anyone else. Someone you would pass on the street and not think twice about. She certainly doesn't look like a deadly mercenary who could kill you with her pinkie toe.

But she's also not really what catches Laurel's attention.

Her eyes are on the girl trailing after Shiva, a tiny little thing practically swimming in the big puffy coat she's wearing, a knit cap on her head, nearly over her eyes. She looks like she's struggling along in boots that are far too big for her. At least she's warm. Her safety is still up for debate and there is no way to tell if she's still as malnourished as she looked back in November, which means her overall health is still in question, but... At least she's warm.

For months now, all Laurel has had in her head is the image of this little girl - Sin, her name is Sin - in those threadbare pajamas and wrecked shoes in the middle of the night. She has held that in the back of her mind, along with the promise she made, ever since.

After she has sifted through the images on the tablet, she looks up. ''Anywhere Shiva goes - ''

''I've got an alert out on the girl too,'' Felicity says. ''I'll find them both. Don't worry.'' She pulls her laptop back over to her. ''Anyway, there's more. I may not have Shiva's location just yet, but I do have more goodies for you. The increase in missing persons' reports,'' she starts. ''Again, you were right. The majority of the missing are coming from the Glades. From what I can tell, the police are stumped. They're not sure what to think. They don't know if there's a serial killer on the loose or if it's a drug thing. I think some kind of cult operating in the Glades has even been floated. Word is that Captain Mitchell seems to be leaning towards the drug theory.''

''He would,'' Laurel scoffs.

''It is the easiest explanation for what's happening,'' says Felicity. ''I reached out to Billy earlier and - well, that was awkward.''

''Billy as in your boyfriend?''

''Billy as in my ex-boyfriend,'' Felicity corrects with a wince. ''We broke up right before New Year's.''

''Oh, I'm - ''

''It's fine,'' Felicity doesn't seem concerned, waving it off. ''It was for the best. I spent most of our time together lying to him about my life. Can't exactly build a relationship based on lies.''

She is right about that. A year ago, Laurel would have said that's one thing she and Dean could always do right. A lot has changed over the past few months. She sits back in her chair, watching Felicity, her fingers clicking away on the keys of the laptop, eyes laser focused on the screen, a dull twinge of red working its way up her neck. ''Felicity, I'm sorry.''

Felicity shakes her head. ''It doesn't matter,'' she says firmly. ''It's not important. What is important is the information he gave me.'' She stops whatever she's doing, looking up from the computer. ''Not everyone who has gone missing has stayed missing,'' she reveals. ''Billy says that at least a quarter of them are eventually spotted again. Some of them have even been brought into the station. Thing is everyone who comes back comes back different than before. Like they've had personality transplants. Aloof, completely disinterested in their old life, even their families, and some of them are fairly aggressive. They're - ''

''Soulless.''

''And brainwashed,'' Felicity nods. ''According to Billy, none of them has said a word about where they were. They don't just work for her. They belong to her. She's made them living ghosts. Even the cops are weirded out. Which is probably why they think drugs are involved.'' She sits back in her chair, picking at her perfectly pink manicured nails. ''The world may be changing, but not everyone wants it to. Cops would much rather deal with bath salts induced face eating rather than admit that vigilantes and metahumans have changed the landscape.''

Laurel chews on her thumbnail and thinks of Ike Mitchell, the SCPD's new Captain. He's...old fashioned. To put it lightly. And one hell of a mean son of a bitch. She went to school with his daughter, Evelyn. Was even on the cheer squad with her briefly in high school. Evie was kind, mostly quiet, dedicated to cheerleading, and always followed every rule. That's what her father taught her. You follow the rules and you don't question it. Mitchell is a stickler for the rules. Everything is black and white. There is good and there is bad. Absolutely nothing in between.

It's quite a hypocritical and narrow minded view coming from a man who left his wife of twenty years for the college aged nanny, but that's Ike Mitchell for you.

Laurel wasn't surprised to find out that he has publicly (and repeatedly) condemned not only her for her actions as Black Canary but all the other vigilantes and it doesn't surprise her to learn that he has made a snap judgment about the Glades disappearances. ''How many Dolls have they thrown in County?''

''None,'' Felicity tells her. ''A lot of the Dolls have rap sheets - some of them extensive - but once Edie turns them, they don't step out of line much. Their behavior is atypical, but Mitchell has had no real reason to hold them. I think one of them was put in a psych ward by her family and a couple of the ones that haven't been found have active warrants, but...'' She shrugs. ''I guess Edie can't afford to have her people thrown in jail. That's sort of a positive, right?''

Laurel raises an eyebrow.

''Okay,'' Felicity allows. ''Maybe not.'' She pulls the abandoned tablet on the table over to her. ''I'm emailing you a list of all the names of the missing. The highlighted ones are the ones we know are Dolls.''

''That would be great. Thank you.''

''That's not all,'' Felicity adds, finger gliding over the surface of the tablet. ''As far as we know, the majority of the Dolls were taken from the Glades, but there's a handful of still missing people who were last seen somewhere else. And this is where it gets bizarre.'' She hands the tablet back over. ''This is their last known location.''

Laurel looks down at the website pulled up. ''Masque?''

''It's this new place just outside of the Glades on Moss Street in that industrial area. It's a - ''

''Nightclub,'' Laurel finishes. ''It's a nightclub.''

''A brand new one,'' Felicity says. ''It just opened in June. It's really popular. And here's the kicker. It has a theme.''

''Masks,'' Laurel deadpans, staring down at the videos and pictures posted on the club's official website.

''I think they prefer to call it a masquerade themed club,'' Felicity says. ''But yeah. People wear masks. It's not a...'' She trails off and Laurel looks up just in time to catch the blush. ''It's not a sex club,'' she finishes. ''I checked several times. Though from doing a quick search of social media, it does seem like there are a lot of hook ups happening there. Most of them anonymous. You know, because of the masks.''

''Uh-huh.''

''Talk about lighting up like a Christmas tree under a black light,'' she mumbles under her breath, and Laurel can't help but look up, a small, amused smile crossing her face. ''But - yeah,'' Felicity rambles on. ''Not a sex club. Just a regular sticky night club that happens to be profiting off of - ''

''Us.''

''Not me technically. I don't wear a mask.''

Laurel chews on her thumbnail, looking down at the tablet. ''Who owns the club?''

''See,'' Felicity sounds nervous. ''This is the part you might not like.'' She takes the tablet back. ''When I looked up the club, I thought I recognized the names of the owners, but I couldn't remember where from. Then when I looked into them, I remembered, um... Well, you. You and Oliver. You know them.'' She turns the tablet back around, a preemptive wince on her face. ''The club's owned by - ''

Laurel takes one look at the Instagram picture Felicity's pulled up and lets out a long, exhausted sigh. ''Max Fuller and Graham Westlake.''

Sure.

Of course.

Because why the hell not, right?

Everything in her life is already so screwed up. Might as well throw in Beavis and Butthead from high school.

She takes the tablet, scrolling through Masque's Instagram page, not entirely sure what she's looking for. Most of the pictures are, understandably, business related. Pictures of their signature cocktails, the dance floor, the private VIP rooms, ads for special events happening at the club, notices of any changes in the hours of operation or cover charge, and a lot of posts about buying their official Masque branded masks. Even the picture of Max and Graham is about some alcohol brand they've partnered with.

The only picture that makes her pause is the one posted just before Christmas. It's a standard professional Happy Holidays post, thanking their customers for a wonderful first year, telling them the club would be closed for the holidays but would open back up for a New Year's Eve bash, but the picture is where her eyes go. It's of both owners and their wives, two golden couples and their American dream fulfilled. They all look healthy and happy and proud of their business.

Looks can be deceiving.

Laurel knows all four of these people. Some of them she knows well. She knows how they are in real life. She knows their dysfunction. They were her friends way back when. Or at least she thought they were until Oliver was gone and they didn't want anything to do with her. They don't appear to have changed much.

Graham and Madison are still a gorgeous, picture perfect couple dripping in wealth and status, only now they've added children to the mix, with two girls and two more on the way. She is a truly stunning pregnant woman. She carries it in all the right places and she looks glowing and healthy and vibrant. He is handsome as he's always been, with his bright smile, the picture snapped seemingly in the middle of one of his roaring laughs, his arm comfortably resting around his wife's waist. But they also still look hollow. Madison never smiles with her teeth when she's with him. Graham always does. Their relationship is probably just as fraught as it has always been. But she's got the Westlake name now and he's got his fists in the Crawford money, so they'll be together until one of them is dead. Just like he used to ''promise'' whenever they would get into drunken screaming matches at least twice a week during their party years.

Max and Caterina Fuller are somehow, despite her constant infidelity and his raging temper, through what Laurel can only assume is foolishness, fear, and sheer stubbornness, still together, still married, still the same fire and ice they've been their whole lives. Max looks, as always, genuinely devoted to his wife - his one redeeming quality - and Cat looks, as always, smug. It's the same overly confident smugness she wore the night of their rehearsal dinner when Max walked in on her and Oliver screwing in the coat room and her entire response was to shrug. You'd think she would have been at least a little contrite, but nope. Self-awareness and humility have never been Cat's style. The only person who walked out of that rehearsal dinner humiliated was Laurel.

God, she really hopes these people are not involved with Edie.

The last thing that needs to be added to this fire is this foursome and their batshit insane net worths and messy too-fucked-up-to-even-be-a-Gossip-Girl-plotline lives.

Laurel looks down at the picture, narrowing her eyes, lips curving into a small frown when her eyes land on Caterina once more. She pulls the tablet closer, staring intently at her old frenemy, certain that her eyes must be deceiving her. She can't be sure because of the black dress Cat's wearing, the lighting, and the angle, but is that… Is that a…a baby bump?

Huh.

Could not have predicted that one.

Guess Cat's finally managed to convince Max to have kids. Curious to know how she pulled that one off. Unless she just finally did what she's been threatening to do since they were twenty-two and poked holes in the condoms. Both options seem equally possible with those two trainwrecks.

(This issue, by the way, was evidently the reason why she screwed Oliver in that coat room at her rehearsal dinner. Max always made it known that he never wanted children. Cat always made it known that she found that entirely unacceptable. They fought about it all the time. Bitterly. To the point where almost all of their friends wondered why they were even still together. Story goes that a few days before the rehearsal dinner, she informed him that if he did not eventually give her what she wanted then she would just get it from someone else. When he didn't believe her and tried to call her bluff, she had unprotected sex with Oliver to prove how far she was willing to go. Why they didn't just go their separate ways is still a mystery. Why they are still together after nearly sixteen years of this is even more of a mystery.)

Laurel attempts to dig up some dry sarcasm, some witty quip to convey her surprise in an unaffected, aloof way, but she cannot quite manage to dull the pang in her chest. Great. That's awesome. Everyone's having babies but her. Even fucking Chuck and Blair over there are popping one out. She sighs and tries not to make it sound too wistful, handing the tablet back.

''That's not a happy face,'' Felicity comments.

Laurel puts on her most convincingly cool smirk. ''I'm not overly fond of Max Fuller and Graham Westlake,'' she says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms. ''People are disappearing from their club?''

''Five so far,'' Felicity confirms.

''That's a big number. Men and women?''

''All women. There is no way to know if their disappearances are connected to what's going on in the Glades, especially because the club isn't even located there, but...''

''But?''

''I don't believe in coincidences.''

Laurel crosses one leg over the other. ''Show me what you've got.''

Visibly relieved that her hunch has not been so easily dismissed, Felicity launches right into it. She turns the laptop around so Laurel can see the screen again. In addition to the search she's running, there are now five photos on the screen in another tab. Felicity, who has evidently been waiting to unload this info for a while, dives right in. ''Stephanie Cartwright and Greta Kaelin-Bianchi,'' she starts, pointing to the first two pictures. ''Both twenty-one. From Seattle. They went missing in June, less than two weeks after Masque opened.'' She points to the next picture. ''Joy Murphy - also known as Trix. Twenty-eight, worked as an escort, well known in the area around the club. That was her spot. Now she's dropped off the radar, which is unusual for her, and nobody's seen her since the summer.'' She moves onto the next picture. ''Maria Alvarez, twenty-six. She was a cocktail waitress at the club. Last seen there on Halloween night. Seemingly vanished into thin air. Never made it home to her daughter. Never even made it to the end of her shift. And,'' she points to the last picture. ''Caroline Huxley. The most recent. She and her husband lived on Mercer Island. Came down to visit family for the holidays and attended the big New Year's Eve party at the club. The way he tells it, they got separated when he went to the bathroom and - poof. Like she walked off the face of the earth.''

''And the police have no leads on any of these women?''

''With the last one, they seem fairly confident the husband did something to her, which – hey, maybe they're right. Those the husband did it statistics do exist for a reason. They've barely looked into Joy Murphy's disappearance. And they've been pretty lax about Maria Alvarez's disappearance too.''

''Of course they have.''

''They've put a lot of resources into Stephanie and Greta's disappearances - I think because Stephanie's parents have money – and also probably because – ''

''They're white.''

''Exactly. But they don't have any leads. I don't think they know what the hell is going on.''

Laurel looks at the pictures of the five missing women, tilting her head to the side. ''Do you have access to - ''

''Oh, I have everything,'' Felicity says confidently, nodding her head. ''This,'' she gestures to the computer. ''Is just the basics. I have the motherload. A complete copy of every woman's police file. I'm talking witness statements, security cam footage, every interview, all of it. I have a physical file for you to take and I can set you up with a secure email to send you the rest.''

Laurel sits there for a second, caught somewhere between impressed and possibly a little alarmed. ''Felicity,'' she starts slowly. ''How did you...? Did you hack the SCPD?''

''I surely did,'' Felicity crows. ''Though I did have some help.'' She pauses, a vaguely guilty look passing through her eyes before she puts her own mask back on and shrugs her shoulders. ''You have your sources. I have mine.''

''Malone?''

There is neither a confirmation nor a denial. Felicity licks her lips, obviously thinking long and hard about her answer. ''It's probably best for everyone if I keep this one to myself. And if you and I keep this between us.''

In other words: Don't tell Oliver.

Laurel opts not to push it. ''Understood.''

''Anyway - '' Felicity pushes her chair back and rises to her feet, jogging over to her desk and then back with a stack of file folders in her hands. ''These,'' she sets down every file except for one, ''are the files on the missing women from Masque. This,'' she holds up the last file, ''is a physical copy of every bit of information I have on the people missing from the Glades. I'm still going to email you that list of names just for posterity, but I figured - '' She breaks off in a soft and fond sounding chuckle. ''I don't know. You just seem like the murder board type.''

Well, she's not wrong.

Laurel throws her a grateful smile. ''This is way more comprehensive than I was expecting.''

''Thank you. I enjoy exceeding people's expectations.''

''Oliver doesn't know about any of this?''

''I didn't do this for Oliver. I did it for the Black Canary. She's a friend of mine. I trust her with this.''

''And you put all of this together after I texted you last night?'' Laurel looks up with a raised brow. ''Sweetheart, did you stay up all night doing this?''

Felicity doesn't even bother trying to deny it. ''In my defense - ''

''You did not have to do that.''

''To be fair, I've been working on the Masque stuff for a few days now. And I was 100% going to be up all night anyway. I had like four espressos yesterday.''

''Felicity Smoak and caffeine,'' Laurel teases. ''What a dangerous combination.''

''I also organized all the cabinets in here. Twice.''

''I'm sure Ollie will be very appreciative,'' Laurel closes the folder with a snap. ''Thank you for this,'' she says. ''Seriously. I'll check it out.''

''And by check it out, you mean...?''

''I mean it sounds like a promising lead and I will check it out. I promise.''

''Laurel,'' Felicity says pointedly. ''I'm asking if you need back up.''

''I don't.''

''Are you - ''

''I'm sure.''

''I guess…if you're sure...'' She sounds dubious, giving Laurel one more furrowed brow look of concern, but she doesn't push it, moving the conversation along. ''Then it is officially time to give you your present.''

''I have a present? From you?''

''From Cisco,'' Felicity says. ''A while back, we were talking and it came up that you don't have a suit anymore.''

''He made me a new suit?''

''No.'' Felicity walks away, rummaging around in one of the cabinets, calling over her shoulder. ''He refuses to do that without your input.''

Laurel sighs, running a hand through her hair. ''I think it's going to be...a while before I can even think about that sort of thing,'' she says, getting to her feet.

''Which is precisely what I told him,'' Felicity says, lugging a black case and a white garment box over to the table. ''And he understood completely. But he was still adamant that he wanted to do something for you. So, he cooked up a few things for you.'' She pulls over the black case first, popping it open. ''These,'' she says proudly, ''were a collaboration.''

Laurel moves to stand next to Felicity, peering into the case. She is not sure what she expected, but this is not it. Inside the case are two black batons. Not quite as long as a bo staff but longer than her old tonfas. There's no denying that they are high quality, undoubtedly made with the best of best.

''I know they just look like big sticks,'' Felicity says. ''And I...guess they kind of are, but they're - ''

''They look like Escrima sticks,'' Laurel cuts in, picking one up. ''It's a martial art from the - ''

''The Philippines,'' Felicity finishes. ''I know. That's what Nyssa said when she was helping him come up with the design for them. She said you had some experience with it.''

Laurel runs her fingers over the smooth surface of the baton, examining it from all sides. She inhales sharply when she hears Nyssa's name, but can't bring herself to be surprised by the revelation. Nyssa has always had a very specific sort of love language. ''Yeah, she...'' She tests the grip of the baton. ''She trained me in it back when she was my teacher. She helped with this?''

''She worries about you,'' Felicity says. ''Just as much as the rest of us. Maybe even more.''

Laurel tests the weight of the baton in her hand. She can believe that. It is a strange, strange thing to be loved by that woman. She's kind of like a cat when you think about it. She's stand offish and dangerous and hard to get to know, but when she loves you, she lets you in and never lets go. And also she brings you inappropriate gifts to show her love. You know. Dead things. Sticks. The usual.

Laurel, twirling the baton in her hand, feels incredibly guilty that she didn't say goodbye to her friend when she took off. She left messages for Thea, Sara, even her father in the letter she wrote to Dean, but she didn't even think of Nyssa. She should have. It's possible that there might have been a small part of her that expected Nyssa to chase her.

''How does it feel?''

She looks up at the sound of Felicity's voice and then looks back down to the baton in her hand. ''Oh.'' She gives it another twirl. ''Good.'' She picks up the other one, grasping them both tightly. ''They fit.''

''That's because they're yours,'' Felicity says. ''Custom made just for you.'' She tugs the white garment box over to her. ''Just like this.'' She opens the box and pulls something out, holding it up. ''Hope it fits just as well.''

It's a black leather jacket. It looks normal from the front, quality, made from real leather, but otherwise pretty standard. Until Felicity turns it around.

There is a white and yellow canary embellishment stitched onto the back of the jacket, wings spread out, mouth open to cry out.

''It's not a full suit,'' Felicity goes on. ''And Cisco doesn't want you to feel any pressure or worry about making a new one. We all know you have a lot going on right now. But he wanted you to have this. He doesn't want you to be alone out there. Solo or working with a team, someone's always thinking of you. We've always got your back.''

Laurel doesn't even know what to say to that. What can she say? Nothing seems like enough. She touches the soft leather. ''This is...'' She has to pause, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. ''This is gorgeous.''

''Definitely one of his best,'' Felicity agrees. ''You want to try it on?''

''Absolutely.'' Laurel sheds the jacket she has on and accepts the new black leather jacket from her friend, shrugging it on. It fits like a glove, lightweight, breathable, flexible enough to allow her to fight in it, and the real leather is luxuriously soft. It fits even better than her suit. It's like a second skin. It feels amazing. She has no idea how Cisco does it. ''This is amazing,'' she breathes out. ''It fits perfectly.''

''It was made for you and you only,'' Felicity says. ''It's one of a kind. Kinda like the owner.'' She grins, reaching out to brush some invisible lint off of the shoulder of the jacket. ''And it suits you. Certainly more than this,'' she adds, holding up the green canvas jacket Laurel was wearing previously. ''This is like something your husband would wear. No offense.''

''Well, he did buy it for me,'' Laurel says, still too entranced by her new jacket to catch the mild dig. ''Seriously, this leather is like butter.''

''Oh, it's the good stuff. I'm sure Cisco gave this one a lot of attention.''

''Why this one?''

''Uh,'' Felicity raises her eyebrows. ''Because it's for you? And he has a massive crush on you?''

''He - '' Laurel blushes. ''No, he doesn't.''

''He does.''

''I really don't think - ''

''He totally does,'' Felicity says. ''You didn't know that?''

''How would I know that?''

''Everyone knows that.''

''I clearly didn't know that.''

''Okay, well, Laurel,'' Felicity places a solemn hand on Laurel's shoulder. ''Cisco has a crush on you,'' she says, attempting to be serious but visibly having difficulty holding back her laughter. ''Now you know. But back to these bad boys.'' She draws her hand back and turns to the batons, picking one up. ''I have so much I'm supposed to tell you about them. Ooh,'' she perks up. ''Like, for starters, they're collapsible. For easy storage.'' She pushes the baton down, making it shorter, and then makes a weird little shaky movement with it. And nothing happens. She frowns. ''Hm.'' She gives it a shake, a harder one, and…still nothing happens. ''That could be a design flaw.''

Laurel gently plucks the baton from Felicity's hand, thrusts it out to the side, and the baton shoots out, clicking into place.

Felicity stares at her for a second. Then looks at the baton. Then back to Laurel. ''Obviously I am not trained in…big sticks.''

''It's not for everyone.''

''I'm good at other things.''

''I know you are.''

''So anyway, they're collapsible,'' Felicity repeats, gesturing to the baton in Laurel's hand. ''Maybe that's not a big deal, but I thought it was cool.''

''It's pretty cool.''

''And they, um - If you press this button on the side - '' She plucks the other baton from the case, her finger moving to a button on the side. She hesitates for a moment, preemptively flinching, before pressing it. Electricity crackles and sizzles from the top of the baton and Felicity, despite the fact that she presumably knew that was going to happen, yelps, jumps back, and holds the baton away from her body. ''Holy crap.''

''Electroshocks,'' Laurel acknowledges, calmly taking the baton. ''Cool.'' She holds it up, eventually finding the button on the side that turns down the voltage. ''Might be best to keep that on low.''

''I didn't think it would make that noise!''

Laurel presses the button again and the baton crackles to life once more. ''It's definitely not a stealth shock.''

''That part was my idea.''

''Which is odd considering how terrified you are of it.''

''Well, I don't have to use it,'' Felicity says. ''Also I didn't think Cisco would actually do it. He didn't seem that impressed by the idea. But he really went for it. He says the shocks aren't likely to be lethal, but they do range from mild to incapacitating.''

''Good to know.''

''And then for holsters...'' Felicity turns her attention back to the case on the table. ''You have a few different options. There's the waist holster - the most common. It can be used if they're collapsible and if they're extended. There's a thigh holster, which everyone knows is the sexiest of holsters - ''

''Sure.''

''And then there's this one.'' Felicity holds up what looks like a harness type holster. ''For your back. It's not exactly subtle or practical because they'd have to remain extended and I'm not sure you could get a jacket over it, so it's crap for concealment, but it sure would look cool. Which,'' she holds up a hand, ''is important sometimes. Let's just admit that right now.''

Laurel laughs, putting the batons securely back in place in their case. ''It's absolutely a draw sometimes,'' she acknowledges. ''Depends on the day.'' She slips out of the leather jacket and back into the worn green canvas one she arrived in. As much as she loves the new jacket, she's not sure about wearing it in broad daylight just yet. Not sure that's a step she's ready for yet. She looks down at the jacket, running her hand over the canary emblem. It is such an absurdly kind gesture that she is almost not sure what to do with it. It's not about the jacket itself, although the jacket is gorgeous. It's not about the batons. It's about the faith Cisco has in her.

She's not used to the people close to her believing so deeply in the Black Canary. Sara as the Canary, sure, but Laurel? There is apparently something in her that seems weak to...quite an insulting amount of people honestly. But not Cisco. He has always believed in her. Even before he met her, he believed in the Black Canary. Learning her identity just seemed to make him believe in her even more.

It's easy to forget small kindnesses like that sometimes.

''The idea was to pay homage to your tonfas,'' Felicity says, putting the holsters back in the case. ''But beef 'em up a little. And they're all yours. Just like the jacket. No strings. No trouble. No returns. This is a gift from Cisco.''

''The batons are great,'' Laurel says. ''And this,'' she clutches the jacket tighter. ''This is amazing. Thank him for me the next time you talk to him.''

''Will do.''

''I would thank him myself, but – ''

''You're trying to lay low,'' Felicity finishes. ''I get it.''

''I, uh - '' Laurel looks around the empty bunker. ''I should head out.''

''So soon?'' Felicity's eyes dart around the space, as if looking for an excuse to keep Laurel here. ''Don't you at least want to finish your coffee?''

''I would,'' Laurel deadpans. ''But that coffee is terrible.''

''It - '' Felicity sucks in a breath, and then grimaces. ''Fine, yes,'' she confesses. ''It's awful. It's...godawful. But please don't tell Oliver that, okay? I spent years nagging him to get a coffee maker for the base and if he finds out this Keurig knock off sucks, he's never going to buy anything else for this place and I'm trying to get a toaster and a couch out of him next.''

''A couch, huh?''

''Maybe even a recliner.''

''Very ambitious.''

Felicity's smile is soft and warm, but not as lighthearted as she's trying to make it. There is an underlying anxiousness in her eyes and in the way she's playing with her hands. ''Listen,'' she starts, before Laurel has a chance to make an excuse to get out of there. ''I know I can't get you to stay. And you seem super intent on keeping up the brooding, secretive superhero shtick right now, which is fine, I'm used to that, but...'' She takes a small step closer. ''Are you all right? You look... I mean,'' she releases a small, embarrassed sounding laugh. ''You still look frustratingly gorgeous, but you also just seem...off.''

Laurel looks at her for a second and then smirks, tilting her head to the side. ''You think I'm gorgeous?''

''That - '' Felicity flushes crimson. ''You know you're gorgeous. And that's not the point.''

''I'm just a little tired.''

''But when you say you're tired does that mean tired as in the mattress in my crappy motel room feels like cement or tired as in my Beetlejuice cousin in sucking the life out of me?''

''I dunno,'' Laurel shrugs, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. ''Both.''

Felicity lets out this great big distressed sounding sigh. ''So it's not...'' She rubs at her forehead. ''I mean, you're not…dying?''

''Depends on what you mean by dying. I'm not technically actively dying, I guess, but… I don't know, Felicity. You know the situation.''

''I'm not - I'm trying to...'' Felicity licks her lips. ''I'm trying to find a way to say this without sounding harsh or uncaring.''

''I don't mind,'' Laurel says. ''Just say what you need to say.''

Still, Felicity grimaces. ''Your life...'' She still sounds reluctant to even be broaching whatever topic she's about to bring up. ''And Oliver's life...''

Ah, so that's where this is going.

''They're tied together right now because of Hanna's spell. If you die, he dies. How...'' She takes a breath. ''How in danger would you say he is right now? I'm not trying to prioritize his life over yours, I swear, I'm just - ''

''I know you're not,'' Laurel assures her. ''You would never.''

''It's just that the spell's been going on for much longer than Hanna intended it to,'' Felicity says. ''And I'm getting a little...'' She stops, trailing off and biting down on her lip, unable to look her in the eye. ''I really don't mean to sound callous.''

''Hey.'' Laurel grasps Felicity's jittery hand. ''You don't sound callous. You're looking out for the wellbeing of your team. I get that. Besides, it's a safety thing, right? Wouldn't be great for anyone if Oliver were to drop dead in the middle of an op.'' She smiles wryly, but gives her friend's hand a reassuring squeeze before she pulls back. ''As long as he physically seems okay, he should be fine. The second he starts feeling weaker or tired or something happens that could put him in danger, I'll break the spell. I promise you that.''

Felicity does not look comforted. Whether that is purely out of concern for Oliver or perhaps fear for Laurel remains to be seen. ''Okay,'' she nods her head. ''Okay, that's...'' Guilt darkens the expression on her face and she looks back to Laurel with a desperate look in her eyes. ''Laurel, please, please don't think you're not important or valued because you are. You always have been.''

''I appreciate that.''

''You're a member of this team,'' Felicity says firmly. ''You're our friend. We love you.''

And what has that love done for her lately?

Other than get her dead and lost.

It is an extremely bitter thought, an unfair one, and one that comes completely out of nowhere. Laurel crosses her arms, tongue darting out to moisten her lips. ''I love you guys too,'' she says, which is, at least, honest. ''You don't have to justify yourself to me. You're trying to be a responsible team leader.''

If she were a little less diplomatic, she would just come right out and admit that she could not give less of a shit about Felicity prioritizing Oliver. It's not even a thought in her mind.

First of all, she so does not have the headspace for that kind of thing right now. Second of all, at this point in the game, everyone is pretty much used to that. Believe it or not, people have indeed found a way to work around Olicity for years now.

''I have to go,'' she says, touching Felicity's shoulder gently before she starts gathering up the unexpectedly heavy load of things she's going to have to haul all the way back to her motel room. ''Thank you for your help. And the new lead.'' She's not thinking about what she's doing, just acting on instinct, but as soon as she lifts the case with the batons off the table, the pain in her shoulder flares up, a throbbing aching burning sensation that takes her breath away. She puts the case back on the table and clenches her teeth, successfully suppressing a groan, even managing to avoid grimacing. She's thinking she should change out the bandages as soon as possible.

''You okay?''

''Fine, just - '' Laurel gives her a tense smile. ''The Finley brothers,'' she lies. ''They didn't go down easy.''

Felicity eyes her carefully, not sure whether she should believe that excuse, but doesn't poke holes in it. ''Let me get you something to put this stuff in.'' She smiles - thinly this time - and then turns her back.

Laurel waits until she's a good distance away, searching for a duffel bag, and then tries to take a look at the claw marks on her shoulder. She can't exactly get a good look at it, but she just wants to make sure she's not bleeding through her shirt. There is no blood running down her arm or soaking through her shirt, but even without seeing it, she can tell that she's close to bleeding through the bandage she put over it.

Also, should she be concerned that the pain is only getting worse?

Hm.

Oh well. That is a problem for Future Laurel to deal with. Hopefully she's a little more responsible than Right Now Laurel and her irresponsible avoidance.

''Here we go,'' Felicity's voice floats over as she traipses back over to the table. ''The cleanest duffel bag I could find. No leftover ammo. No blood smears. No mud stains. Oh!'' She breaks away from the table, rushing back over to one of the drawers, returning quickly with what looks like a tactical vest. ''I forgot this. It goes with your jacket. It's Kevlar. Has a bunch of places to clip the batons onto. You may not be ready to figure out your suit situation yet, but we can't just leave you totally unprotected in your streetwear.''

''Ah, yes,'' Laurel takes the vest, giving it a quick onceover. ''Because my last suit protected me so well from projectiles and sharp objects.'' As soon as it's out of her mouth, she winces. ''Sorry,'' she looks up briefly, but then ducks her head down, tucking the vest into the duffel bag. ''That was bitter.''

''Don't be,'' Felicity says, unruffled, handing over the leather jacket. ''I think you're allowed to be bitter about that one.''

''I do feel spoiled with all of this,'' Laurel says, folding the leather jacket into the bag.

''Yeah, I think gift giving might be Cisco's love language.''

''Okay, he does't love me.''

''Don't be ridiculous. Everyone loves you.''

Laurel surprises herself by laughing lightly, the pressure in her throat easing ever so slightly. ''I'll check out the club as soon as I can,'' she promises.

''You're going to report back after you check the club, right?''

She slips the file folders into the duffel bag and zips it up. ''I'll do my best,'' she says. ''Thank you again. For everything.'' She throws the duffel bag over her uninjured shoulder and takes a breath before she lifts up the case with the batons, bracing herself for the pain. ''You're amazing, by the way.''

''I never get tired of hearing that,'' Felicity beams.

''I'll call you later,'' Laurel promises, leaning in to press a kiss to Felicity's cheek before she turns to go. She only gets a few steps before -

''Wait!''

Laurel stops in her tracks.

So close.

Felicity is drumming her fingers on the back of a chair, looking like she's warring with herself, trying to decide if she should say whatever she's about to say. Finally, she just comes out with it. ''You know that bagel place downtown? Bagels on the Bay?''

Okay.

Not what she was expecting.

''Felicity,'' Laurel starts. ''I can't - ''

''I'm ordering you an egg and cheese sandwich on an everything bagel,'' Felicity declares. Her tone leaves little room for argument. She is very serious about this bagel. ''By the time you get there, it'll be ready and paid for. All you have to do is pick it up.''

''You don't have to - ''

''I know I don't have to, Laurel. I want to,'' Felicity insists. ''It's what I do. I'm a feeder. I feed people. I get it from my mother. And I am not taking no for an answer. You are eating that sandwich. It's non-negotiable.''

To tell you the truth, despite the fact that Laurel's instinct is to reject the offer, a bagel sandwich would be amazing right about now. ''Fine,'' she caves. ''I'll eat the sandwich. On one condition.''

''What's that?''

''Promise me you will go home, put on some comfy pajamas, get some sleep, and have a cup of coffee. A good cup of coffee. Literally anything other than that sludge.''

''Scout's honor.''

''Then I will happily eat the sandwich. I'll eat it while I look over that list of names.'' Laurel adjusts the bag over her shoulder. ''I'll see you, Overwatch.''

This time, she makes it all the way to the escalator before her friend's voice stops her, quiet this time, sad even.

''You're not coming back, are you?''

She closes her eyes. Takes in a slow breath, lets it out, and then turns around. ''Even when this is over,'' Felicity says. ''When you're okay and we're all here and the dust has settled.'' She smiles, but it looks bittersweet. ''You're not coming back here, are you? You're not coming back to the team.''

Laurel's nervous grip on the strap of the duffel bag tightens. ''Honestly, Felicity, right now I'm just focusing on getting through the day. When this is all over, if I'm still here, we're all going to have to sit down and have a talk about my future on the team, but I can't handle that right now.''

''That's fair,'' Felicity nods. ''But for what it's worth, I hope you know you'll always have a place here with us. No matter what.''

''I know. I love you guys for that,'' Laurel says softly. ''You'll call me when you get a lock on Shiva's location?''

''I will.'' Laurel nods shortly and turns away, stepping into the elevator.

''Canary,'' Felicity calls out, one last thing before the doors shut. ''Be careful!''

''Always am,'' Laurel responds confidently, with a confident, dazzling smile, and the doors slide shut - hopefully before Felicity has time to spot the lie.

.

.

.

Laurel finds the trackers before she has even finished the egg sandwich and cup of coffee that Al, the owner of Bagels on the Bay, presented her with a flourish literally the second she stepped through the doors.

She thought the trackers would be harder to find. The one in the jacket is bush league. Sewn into the inside pocket. An amateur move. She finds it on the first sweep, burrowed in the soft leather. Hidden away in one of the back booths, she cuts away the added stitches with her pocketknife and fishes the tracker out.

The trackers in the batons are more sophisticated. They're smaller and she basically has to take the batons apart to find the little devils, but it's still easy enough to handle, so she is going to count her blessings there. She does three extra sweeps of the gifts, takes another tracker out of the tactical vest, and that seems to be the end of it.

None of these trackers have been planted by Cisco.

That much she knows.

It's not his tech and it's not his style. No, these bugs are without a shadow of a doubt Smoak tech. Lovingly selected and sneakily slotted into place by Felicity, as deceptive and devious as she is well meaning.

Laurel doesn't bother with anger or even mild frustration.

Felicity Smoak has never pretended to be a saint. She has played up her bubbliness and social awkwardness, made herself appear more wide eyed and innocent than she is, but she has never lied. She made it perfectly clear, a long time ago, that there are no lines she won't cross when it comes to the people she cares about. She is willing to go to extraordinary measures to protect her people. Can't blame her for that. Not in this city, not with the jobs they have and the lives they live and the violence and bloodshed that follows them around like dark clouds.

Laurel respects her friend's worry. Even admires her tenacity, if she's being honest.

Still, she makes sure to drop all the trackers in the storm drain outside of Bagels on the Bay when she leaves. It should keep Felicity busy for the day at least. Maybe less.

She also attempts to leave a tip before she leaves - partially because she feels uncomfortable not paying, even if her meal has already been paid for, and partially because she feels guilty about any blood smears she may have left in the bathroom when she did a quick bandage change - but Al, a man of little words, but with a rather probing gaze, refuses to take her money. Even insists on sending her home with a free sufganiyot.

Despite her protests, he lets her know, in no uncertain terms, that as long as he's around, she eats for free. She's not sure if that's because her face looks like someone used it as a punching bag or because he recognizes her as Laurel Lance aka the Black Canary aka the woman who foiled a particularly violent attempted robbery here back in the summer of 2015. Either way, she can't bring herself to turn down free food. Especially right now. She almost doesn't want to leave the comfort and safety of the bagel place and Al's generous kindness. If her shoulder weren't in dire need of some proper wound care, she would stick around.

She leaves Bagels on the Bay feeling full and warmed over, but also like her shoulder wound is probably in dire need of stitches.

It's been a...complicated morning.

She steps out into the winter chill, the cold wet air stinging her cheeks, a salty sea breeze coming in from the water, pushing her hair back from her face as she weaves through the early lunch crowd. What she would really like to do is haul her shiny new presents back to her motel room and take a nice, long nap. Finally get some rest.

Unfortunately, that is not exactly feasible right now. She has a busy day ahead of her. There are a lot of names to go through on the list of the missing, she needs to dig into this situation at Masque, and she'd like to dip her toe into the community gossip chain down in the Glades and see how far Sharon Moore has managed to reach by this morning. She doesn't think she got any strange looks on her way downtown this morning, but it was early.

Though she does wonder about Marty the motel manager and his sister Shirley, the motel's one lone housekeeper. She can't be sure, but she's definitely caught them both looking at her like they're trying to figure out where they know her from and they were both oddly kind to her this morning when she went and said good morning. But, again, it's also possible that people are just reacting to the map of bruises on her face.

Laurel blends in with the crowd for a few blocks, keeping her body language casual, her eyes down, expertly avoiding drawing attention to herself. It's hard to hide when she is lugging around a duffel bag and a suspicious looking carrying case, but she does have some experience with deliberately trying to make herself small. With any luck, people will just look at her and think she's new to town, some transplant from one of the smaller suburbs.

She does keep an eye out for missing posters along the way, occasionally catching sight of one in a store window, but she is mostly focused on just getting back to the motel. The duffel bag isn't heavy, but the case with the batons is cumbersome and the pain in her shoulder is worsening from carrying it. When she has to stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the WALK signal to light up, she puts both the case and the duffel bag down. She flicks her hair away from her shoulder, giving it a quick check for any leakage. She is so busy checking to make sure there is no visible blood that she almost misses the light. She throws the duffel bag back over her shoulder, grabs the case, and hurries into the crosswalk. She is about halfway to the other side of the street when she hears it.

Amidst the usual sounds of city life, the honks of cars, and the bustle of passersby, there is a small but achingly familiar cry of, ''Mommy!''

She stops dead in the middle of the crosswalk, whirling around. ''Mary?''

And there's her girl, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, wearing her little red rain boots and, bizarrely, an unfamiliar white summer dress. She waves happily and grins that sneaky little grin - just like her father's - that Laurel knows so well. ''Hi, Mommy.''

Laurel stares at her for a second, mouth open, certain she must be seeing things, and then she looks around. Nobody around her seems to think there is anything out of the ordinary about this. Nobody even acknowledges the little girl standing on the sidewalk, waving, beaming, not at all dressed for the cold weather. ''Mary?'' She takes a step toward her daughter, then stops, but she's not sure why she stops. She eyes her surroundings, searching for Dean. Surely wherever Mary goes, he goes, right? She doesn't see him anywhere. ''Mary, honey, what are you - ''

Mary is gone by the time she looks back.

Laurel looks for her. It's instinct. She worries. She spins around, her eyes searching, scanning the crowds of people for those little red rain boots. What if her daughter has darted into traffic? What if, in those two seconds she took her eyes off her, someone has grabbed her? But why was Mary down here in the first place? Why was she alone? Where is her dad? He was supposed to -

''Mommy.''

Laurel turns around and finds Mary right there, standing in the crosswalk with her, holding her hand.

''I'm glad you came home,'' says Mary, eyes cast downward, attention seemingly on their entwined hands. She laughs, and it doesn't sound right. It doesn't sound like her laugh. This small, peculiar sounding giggle that resembles nothing like anything Laurel has ever heard come out of her mouth. She squeezes her mother's hand. She squeezes her mother's hand too hard. ''You never should have left,'' she says, and lifts her head, giving her mother a view of her dead white eyes, her blue lips, her cracked flesh.

Laurel recoils instantly, yanking her hand back, staggering away, and when she turns to leave, to get away from this thing that is not her daughter...

She finds herself in the woods.

The same woods she was in last night with Edie. Looking at the same box on the same leafy forest floor. Everything around her is quiet once more, save for the wind and the creaking of old bones. The rustling of leaves as something begins to sit up on the ground, rising up out of the leaves and dirt, skeletal fingers wrapped around the box, two glowing eyes staring directly at Laurel.

''Mommy,'' it whispers in a creaky old groan. ''Mommy.'' Slowly, it extends the box out to her, begging her to take it. ''Come find me.''

The sound of a car horn blaring rips through the woods before Laurel can respond, echoing off the trees, and when she blinks, she is back in the city, standing in the middle of the crosswalk. For a second, she can't seem to make herself move, can't even wrap her brain around what has just happened, and then another car horn pierces through her shock.

She looks to the left, at the angry motorist and his angry gestures, and she startles, hurrying out of the road and onto the sidewalk. She doesn't even realize how fast she's breathing until she has to stop, leaning against a nearby wall, feeling winded and lightheaded. Her shoulder throbs. There is an ache in her side where the arrow went in. She puts the bag and the case down and closes her eyes, running a hand over her face.

That was a new one.

She rubs at the back of her neck, feeling a tension headache set in as she works to control her breathing. When she opens her eyes, she catches sight of her reflection in a nearby bus shelter. She looks shaken. She looks small somehow. She looks back over her shoulder to the crosswalk. Mary is not there. Mary was never there.

Laurel swallows hard against that familiar feeling in her throat, the clawing scream, the rising ache. She really needs this to be over. All of this. The hallucinations, the fear, the running. It all needs to end at some point and she needs that point to be soon. She doesn't think she can do this for much longer. She brings a hand to her throat, where there is something that wants out, something she knows she cannot let out, and then she moves her hand to the pendant around her neck.

She takes a few breaths, tries to shake off what just happened, and then picks up the duffel bag and black case. No one around her seems to have given her a second glance during her little freak out, but she needs to get out of here as fast as possible.

She makes it back to the motel room without incident and without any other hallucinations, although she is still having a hard time getting the image of Mary, sickly and corpse-like, out of her mind. She tries to concentrate on what she knows needs to be done. She doesn't have much time to be scared these days. There is too much work to be done.

The first thing she does is one last thorough check for bugs and/or tracking devices. She even changes her clothes and gives the ones she was wearing a sweep. It is possible she may be overly paranoid, but she just really, really does not want Team Arrow to know where she is. Not to be a dick, but she doesn't have the time or the patience to waste on placating them right now.

Once she is relatively confident that she has not been bugged, she heads into the small bathroom, tugs her shirt over her head, and peels off the sloppily placed bandage on her shoulder, grunting in pain as she does so. The wound does not look good. It's still bleeding, still oozing red at a worryingly steady pace, and it hurts like hell. This is the second time today she has changed the bandage and it's not even noon yet.

The claw marks, red, angry, and completely unexplainable, are deeper than she thought earlier, most definitely in need of stitches, and she has no idea what she's supposed to do. It's not as if she can go to a hospital. There are several reasons why her - a dead woman - walking into an Emergency Room with claw marks that she can't explain is a bad idea. Couldn't afford it anyway. When it comes to money, with help from Helena, she's doing okay-ish. A hospital trip would likely wipe her out completely. And that is just from the actual act of needing care from a hospital. Doesn't even take into account any prescriptions they might give her.

She's just hoping that if there is a healing factor that goes along with her Cry, it'll kick in as soon as possible. At least prevent her from slowly and painfully bleeding out.

As gingerly as possible, she presses a clean, wet washcloth to the wound, a small gasp of pain escaping. It's a momentarily blinding, burning pain that makes her shiver, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead and upper lip. She grits her teeth, feeling, perhaps oddly, more annoyed by the pain than anything else. She has gotten used to the physical feeling of pain over the past few years, but it grates on her. She doesn't have time for this.

Also, it's in a fairly difficult spot. It's nearly impossible to get a good look at it. Definitely impossible to stitch up on her own.

She keeps the washcloth pressed tightly to the wound for a few minutes and then pulls it away. She turns, trying to look at the wound in the mirror, leaning in close to inspect it. It looks –

Wait.

She leans in closer to the mirror when she notices something strange about one of the claw marks. Is that...? No, that doesn't... That's not possible. Laurel stares at the wound for a second, a deep sense of unease and nausea starting in her gut. There is something in there. There is something in the wound. With no tweezers around to help her out, she has no choice but to use her fingers, reluctantly, shakily digging her fingers into the wound. She tries not to scream out in pain, clenching her teeth, but a muffled cry escapes anyway. Still, she keeps digging until she manages to grab onto a small, hard object, fishing it out of the wound. She looks down at the object in her bloody hand, at the jagged ripped edges.

It's a fingernail.

A human fingernail.

The second her sluggish brain catches up, numb and possibly in shock from the pain and blood loss, a shriek bubbles up in her throat and she drops the fingernail, jumping back. She presses herself up against the wall, horrified and desperately trying to choke down gags. That was...inside of her. Someone's fingernail was inside of her open wound.

Laurel is not sure how long she stands there, pressed up against the wall of the bathroom, breathing hard, feeling dizzy and disgusted and fucking horrified, forcing herself not to vomit, but she knows she cannot seem to take her eyes off the fingernail. ''Edie,'' she croaks. ''Edie, if this is you, I swear to God...'' But she can't finish her sentence. If she keeps talking, she is absolutely going to throw up. She doesn't know where that sentence ends anyway. ''Okay. Okay.'' She pushes herself off the wall, leaving behind a small smudge of blood. ''Okay, it's okay,'' she rambles to herself under her breath, forcing herself back over to the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. ''It's just – It's just mind games,'' she tells herself. ''It's just more of the same. It's not real.''

The bloody fingernail on the floor looks pretty damn real to her.

''It's not real,'' she says anyway. ''It's just Edie. It's just Edie.''

Quickly, she forces herself to pick the fingernail up off the floor and flush it. She doesn't look at it.

''It's okay,'' she lies again, reaching out to clutch at the sink. There is a crushing panic starting in her chest that she doesn't know how to stop. She closes her eyes shut tight against the sudden wave of tears threatening to spill over. ''It won't be like this forever.''

No, this is ridiculous. This is ridiculous. She can't lose it now. It's been months of this. This isn't anything different. She opens her eyes, automatically wiping at her face, forgetting about the blood on her hands. She lets out a shaky breath. She really needs to get it together here.

''Okay, Laurel, come on,'' she whispers. ''Get off the mat. There's no time for this crap.'' She turns the tap on, scrubbing the blood off her hands, giving her face a quick splash. She tries to clean up the wound on her shoulder the best she can with the antiseptic wipes she swiped from the base, but there is not much she can do other than slap on some fresh gauze and bandages, keep it covered and clean, and hope for the best.

It'll stop bleeding eventually. It'll heal.

Probably.

I mean, what other option is there?

She looks down at her bloodied hands, at the red staining her fingertips. She lets her hands fall to her sides so she doesn't have to look at them anymore and looks at her reflection instead. A pale imitation of the person she remembers being once upon a time. She should eat better. She should get more sleep. She should try to be more alive while she still can.

It's just that it's hard to do when you're all alone and unraveling, coming apart at the seams while you're being hunted by some foolish witch. She washes her hands, rinsing the blood off her skin, and tugs her shirt back over her head. She just needs more sleep.

''Weak,'' someone says, and she nearly jumps out of her skin, jerking in fright, whirling around to find the source of the voice.

There is no one else in the bathroom with her.

''Pathetic,'' the voice says, low and angry and completely unseen, like a wheezy moan.

The voice is not in her head. That much she knows. It's here, right here, in this room, as if someone is right here, spitting these words at her through clenched teeth.

''You're a taker,'' the inhuman voice whispers. ''That's what you are. A thief. A drain.''

Her first instinct is to run, but the voice is coming from the doorway, boxing her in, as if someone - or something - is standing right there, berating her in inhuman sounding hisses.

''You're a feeder,'' the thing in the doorway says. ''You're hungry. You're starving. You always have been.''

Laurel, reflexes sluggish, perhaps because she is frozen in fear, can't move, can't do anything but stand there, trying to see whatever it is that is just out of her sight. It's not Edie. That's the only coherent thought that pops up in her head. This is not Edie. It's a thought that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Sends shivers down her spine. This is not Edie. Something tickles at the back of her throat. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she notices something move.

She turns to look at her reflection in the mirror. Her reflection, flesh split and oozing and rotten, smiles a smile that does not belong to her. She has been here before, alone with that rotting corpse. She closes her eyes briefly and when she opens them, the thing in her doorway has moved closer. She can't see it, but she can feel it, this wave of darkness and rage.

And rot.

''You greedy, ungrateful child,'' it spits at her, right before an onslaught of sudden stabbing pain crashes into her like a freight train.

It is a vicious, relentless pain, sending her doubling over, body trembling, legs threatening to collapse. Blindly, she reaches for the sink, smudging blood on the white porcelain as she clutches at it, trying to stay upright.

The moment the pain passes, just as she's starting to straight up and catch her breath, another burst of pain tears through her. It is worse than childbirth, worse than detox, worse than the arrow. She coughs as she collapses to the ground, her throat burning and tickling, arms wound around her abdomen. The pain doesn't let up, one wave after another crashing into her, with no room to even breathe between them. She tries to tell herself that this isn't real because she doesn't want it to be real, but when she starts coughing up blood, it's hard to deny what's happening.

An involuntary whimper slips through her lips in between the hacking coughs, blood bubbling on her lips. It feels like there is glass in her throat. Like there's glass in her throat and her insides are being shredded and turned to ribbons.

She tries, unsuccessfully, to move, push herself up, but that only makes her feel like she is being ripped apart. The searing pain hits her in the stomach and moves up to her chest, crawling up her throat like bile, and then her body shudders and she throws up a steady stream of blood right there on the bathroom floor. Immediately, her vision blurs, there is a ringing in her head, and her fingertips start to go numb. ''No,'' she whimpers. ''No, no, no, this isn't happening.''

Desperately, she brings a shaky hand up to her pendant around her neck. It's still there, safe and sound and perfectly intact. This shouldn't be happening. She should be fine. Another crushing wave of pain slams into her, a horrendous ripping pain, and she starts coughing. Her coughs, hacking, miserable sounding, and excruciatingly painful, quickly turn into gags and retches, bringing up more blood. Except it's not just blood this time. That is plain as day. Mixed in with the blood and the bile are little bits of broken glass and a few sharp looking pins.

Oh.

She's being attacked.

Feeling particularly blindsided by this form of attack and overwhelmed by the pain, the worst pain she has ever felt in her life, she lifts bleary eyes up to the bathtub.

Just in time to see a gray, decaying hand emerge, slithering over the side.

Laurel, in a rather vulnerable position, sick and in pain, still vomiting blood, all alone, tries to will herself to move. Get out. Get away. Her body does not seem to get the message. It feels too heavy, like it doesn't belong to her anymore, the shredding pain in her stomach, her chest, her throat too great to even breathe properly. She spits up more blood, along with more glass, and some nails this time, and tries to at least push herself back into a sitting position.

She does not want to die like this.

This would be a horrible way to go; slow, painful, alone. It is too cruel to even think about. Too unfair.

Sluggishly, movements painfully slow, something - someone? - crawls out of the bathtub. It's a woman. At least it might have been a woman at some point. A long, long time ago. It's impossible to tell from whatever remains. It's not even human now, twisted and gnarled beyond recognition, rotting and rageful and wrong.

Laurel remembers this thing. This long dead woman. She remembers her from the woods in her dream. She remembers her from the hallucination in Seabeck, the thing that came out of the ground and crawled towards Mary, ready to swallow her whole. She remembers her from her own decomposed, smiling reflection in the mirror several different times.

It's not Edie.

This is so much worse than Edie.

The woman doesn't even move right, somehow boneless and snake-like yet vaguely humanoid at the same time. It's impossibly strong, the stained porcelain of the bathtub cracking under its grotesque hand as it crawls out. It moves right for her in a slink, facial features completely distorted and unrecognizable.

''I,'' it say, through bloated black lips that do not move, ''should have made her pick someone else.''

Laurel can't help but think this would be a lot more terrifying if she was not distracted by the fact that she is vomiting up her internal organs on the bathroom floor in some cheap motel room where no one even knows where to find her. She doesn't care about that thing over there that looks like it came straight out of a horror movie. Her mind is mostly on the pain. She thinks she's dying here. It hurts so badly that she can't see how anyone could possibly live through this.

She wishes she were at home. It's selfish, she knows, but if she is going to die, she would prefer to do it the better way, the way that at least offers some peace and comfort. When you compare it to this, her first death was a mercy. At least it was quick. At least she had someone by her side who loved her. She didn't have to suffer. She wasn't alone. It wasn't like this. All this blood and invisible violence, with some kind of living Halloween decoration telling her how worthless she is.

She is not sure there's a way out of this one, but when that thing moves close enough to her, close enough that she can smell the rot, that she can see the milky white of its eyes and the black blood coating its sharp teeth, Laurel somehow finds the strength to move.

When the thing reaches for her with long twig like fingers, the nails crooked, like gnarly bird talons, she pushes herself back, falling onto her bottom and instantly turning over, trying to push her way up to her feet. It grabs at her, but she kicks at it, half expecting there to be nothing solid to connect with, and the thing - which is as solid and corporeal as they come - stumbles back just long enough for Laurel to pull herself to her feet, nearly slipping in the blood on the floor. By the time she's gotten to her feet, it's gone.

It's gone.

Just like that.

There is nothing crawling across the floor to get to her and there are no cracks in the bathtub. But there is still so much blood and she still feels like she's being torn apart and when she looks at the mirror, there is a corpse smiling back at her as it tears it's own flesh away, fingers ripping rotting, decaying flesh from its cheeks. The oozing, wet flesh falls away from its arms, its neck, revealing slithery looking tendons and congealed blood. She spins on her heel, looking away from the horrifying sight, and stumbles away, leaving bloody handprints smeared on the walls as she tries to escape.

She makes it out of the bathroom, lurches all the way to the door, bloodied hands frantically clawing at the doorknob and then she flings open the door and -

There it is again.

That dead thing, mangled and rotting, standing right there, upright and grinning at her, and blocking her only exit. It has too many teeth. It's smile is too wide for its face. It is reaching for her with talons. She backs away and turns to try to run, but there is nowhere to run and her body is too weak to fight. She only gets a few feet before the pain becomes too much for her and she collapses, going down hard on her hands and knees, choking and retching up another stream of dark red blood and glass and what looks like hair.

She begins to wonder, in between heaves, if this is what it is like to drown.

She can barely breathe now and every struggling breath is excruciating, as if her lungs are filling with the same blood and glass that's coming up.

It's not what she imagined - and she imagined it so many times.

For years, she thought about drowning, about what it must have been like for her sister, what it would be like for her. At least once a day. It was an obsession. When she was pregnant and having these extremely vivid nightmares, Dean would shake her awake in the middle of the night thinking something was seriously wrong because she was choking on water that wasn't there in her sleep. She has wondered and dreamt and worried about drowning for all these years.

It is never what you think it's going to be.

Not in April when her right lung filled with blood and fluid and not now on this motel room floor.

There are no footsteps behind her, no warning that the dead woman on the doorstep has crossed the threshold, but she knows it is getting closer. She knows it's almost got her. She can feel it. She can smell the putrid decay. There is nowhere to run. Not that she could run if she tried. She can barely move.

She tries to crawl over to the bed, one hand clutching at the sheets, trying to catch her breath before another round of vomiting has her doubling over, bringing up more blood, a handful of nails, and clumps of dirt. She feels dizzy from the blood loss, sweaty, and her vision is blurry. More wretched retching brings up bloody pins and nails and more dirt.

Dirt.

It's always dirt.

Like it's filling up her insides. Like she never made it out of her grave. Maybe she didn't. It gets harder every day. Distinguishing between the living and the dead. Especially right now, in this moment, throwing up blood and dirt and nails and human fucking hair.

''Poor dear,'' a woman's voice whispers in her ear, sounding perfectly human and unmistakably recognizable. It's her mother's voice. A cold hand smooths hair out of her sweaty face. It's puzzlingly tender. ''You always were so fragile.''

Laurel is not sure why that, of all things, is her limit, but that's when she breaks and starts crying. She so badly does not want to show her fear, does not want this thing to see her break, but she is in so much pain and that is her mother's voice, the same mother she spent decades trying to connect with. ''Leave me alone,'' she chokes out, but that's all she gets out before she has to lurch forward again, throwing up more blood, more dirt, more hair, and maybe some fingernails this time.

''You just need a mother.'' The cold hand moves to her back, but it just makes the pain worse, an all consuming kind of pain that feels like she is being stabbed by a thousand knives. She tries to shy away from the cold hand, tries to move, to shove the thing away, but there's nothing to shove. ''What a waste,'' her mother's voice says into her ear, even though there's nothing there, even though it's not really her mother's voice. ''A selfish, pathetic waste. You could have been so much better than this. You just need a mother.''

Laurel crawls, with waning strength, still spitting up blood and dirt and glass, the shards of glass tearing her throat, her mouth. She makes it over to the table, uselessly grabbing onto the leg of the chair, but she can't quite get herself up to her feet.

''Do you know what happens to girls like you?''

She lifts her eyes just in time for the thing, the woman, with her stringy, greasy hair and mottled, decomposing skin to crouch down in front of her. It outstretches a hand to her, a long spindly arm, like a branch, those crooked talons grabbing for her. She tries to shrink away, but she can't.

In one rapid movement, the thing has ripped the necklace off her neck. It smiles, with those sharp teeth. It leans in close, terrifyingly close, black rotting lips inches away from Laurel's ear. When it speaks, it no longer sounds like her mother. It doesn't even sound human.

''You will.''

In a fast, fragmented flash, the thing pulls away, claws wrapping around her neck, and it opens its mouth, wider and wider, impossibly wide, and leans in to devour her.

She squeezes her eyes shut and waits, but –

Nothing happens.

She opens her eyes. There is nothing in the motel room. There is nothing crouched down next to her, nothing opening its gaping maw to swallow her whole, and there is no blood. There is no pain either. There is nothing to show that any if it ever happened at all. She sits there for a second, looking around the room, but there is nothing else in this room with her.

Slowly, she rises to her unsteady feet to go back to the bathroom, intent on checking for blood, one hand beginning to move up to her neck. She takes a step, and that is when, before she even realizes what is happening, a hand shoots out from underneath the table behind her, latches onto her ankle, and pulls. She goes down hard on the ground, desperately clawing at the old musty carpet as the thing claws at her leg with inhuman strength and pulls her into a black nothingness. She opens her mouth to scream -

And then it's over.

When she opens her eyes again, she is back in the bathroom, standing there with only slightly bloodied hands, the wound on her shoulder freshly bandaged. It's like breaking the surface of the water after being held under. She gasps for air, choking and sputtering on blood that isn't there. She clutches at the edge of the sink, gritting her teeth through a sudden wave of intense dizziness and nausea.

None of it was real. None of it happened.

There is no evil presence in her bathtub and there is no dirt in her throat. She looks at the floor where it didn't happen. She looks at the sink where there is no blood. She looks at her hands. There is no more pain and she is not vomiting blood. But she can still taste it. She can still feel the echo of that pain. Can still hear that taunting voice.

Do you know what happens to girls like you?

Girls like you.

Laurel can feel the bile rising in her throat, hot and acidic, her eyes watering as she tries to gulp it back down.

If that wasn't Edie, what the hell was it?

Slowly and shakily, attempting to resume life, act like that extremely fucked up display never happened, she turns the squeaky taps and washes the blood off her hands. She scrubs her hands raw in scalding hot water with the cheap but harsh soap provided and doesn't even realize how bright red her skin has turned until she turns the water off. It's not the words that she can't get out of her head - regardless of how cruel they were. It's not her mother's voice. It's not even what she saw. That grotesque thing crawling after her, unhinging its jaw, blackened with rot, to swallow her whole. It's not the way it grabbed her, ready to drag her into a black hole.

It's the pain.

That was the worst pain she has ever felt. She feels like it's imprinted on her. She likes to joke that even her violent death did not surpass the pain of childbirth and the ring of fire, but that was the worst thing she has ever felt in her entire life. Her body is still trembling from the pain and it never even happened.

At least she thinks it never happened.

It was a hallucination. That's what she needs to tell herself. It was just a hallucination. She's had those before. That wasn't even the first one today. It was a brutal one, but that's all it was. Maybe it was Edie. Why couldn't it have been her? Maybe she thinks Laurel's more vulnerable right now. Easier to trick, to manipulate, to mold into a victim. It was just another hallucination. Another day of Edie trying to take her apart. That's all. That's the easiest explanation and sometimes it really is as simple as that.

Laurel decides to put it out of her mind.

''It's just Edie,'' she tells herself. ''Just Edie.''

She checks the wound on her shoulder one last time, tugs her shirt over her head, and exits the bathroom.

Then, promptly, she freezes in place.

Siobhan Sweeney is standing in the middle of the room.

Only her profile is visible, the expression on the dead girl's face shrouded by her red hair and that all too familiar bloody head wound. She is looking down at something on the carpet. A small ray of daylight sneaks in through the gap in the curtains, catching on a tiny object on the floor that Laurel might not have noticed otherwise.

It's her Saint Christopher medallion. The one tangible piece of the spell linking her and Ollie. The panic button. Her hand flies up to her bare neck. She hadn't even noticed it was gone. How could it have…? Maybe it fell off while she was changing clothes earlier? That sounds plausible. Except - No. She knows that's not what happened.

The necklace is lying in the same spot she was in when that thing ripped it off her neck. Anxiously, she looks down at her hand to check on the tattoo of the vines that wraps around her fingers and wrist. The twisting vines are still etched in place, letting her know that the spell is still intact. She scratches absently at the tattoo and bends to pick up the necklace. She clutches the chain in her hand, peering up at the ghost still standing there, flickering.

Siobhan stares at her, eyes following her every movement as Laurel stands and fastens the necklace back on. She looks down, patting the pendant, and then looks up. There is barely a flash of movement and then Siobhan, in all her gruesome glory, is right there in her face.

Laurel gasps, instinctively reeling back. Her foot catches on the bed when she stumbles back and she ends up on the ground in quite an embarrassing display, staring up at her personal ghost.

''You should have left,'' Siobhan says, a noticeable note of fear in her voice. ''You should have stayed gone. You should have run.'' She gives Laurel one last stare, one that seems sad in some haunted way, and then she's gone.

Laurel, too exhausted to unpack any of that, slumps back to the ground. She runs both hands through her hair and stares up at the ceiling, suddenly unsure if any of that even happened. Should have just stayed in bed this morning. Maybe watched some Dallas.

Today is not her day.

She covers her face with both hands and mutters to herself, ''Fuck this entire day.''

She could have stayed at the bagel place with Al and his constant offers of free food, you know. She could have taken Felicity up on her offer of brunch. She could have just...

She could have gone home.

Instead, she's in this dirty motel room that smells like feet and cigarettes with a dead ballerina, a thing that can only be described as the girl from The Ring, and a list of people who are missing and either dead or brainwashed because of her and her stupid fucking cursed family. Fuck her entire life. She should have just taken Dean and Mary and fled to the woods like Faye did.

She sits up with a groan, but doesn't stand, bringing her hand up to cover the pendant now safe and back in place. She closes her eyes. You know who would probably know what to do about some kind of supernatural hallucination of some angry, ravenous dead thing? Her husband. The supernatural legacy. God's Righteous Man. She sighs heavily, bringing her knees up, looking over at her phone resting on the bed.

No, it's not a good idea to call right now.

She looks around the room, scanning it for any sign of anything out of place, any sign that whatever that thing was might come back. There's nothing. Everything is the same. Everything is calm. She can hear the noise of the world outside, muffled by the thin walls, but still audible; cars driving past, people walking outside, Marty whistling and jingling his keys as he walks around, blatantly ignoring Shirley getting on his ass about ''buying cheap toilet paper again.'' Everything here is in its place.

Everything, that is, except for her.

She looks over in the direction of the bathroom and then at the window. She wipes at her eyes, which, despite her insistence that it was merely a hallucination, are still wet. She thinks she should buy some salt today. Then her phone rings. She startles, looking over at the phone on her bed like it just leapt up and hit her in the face. Sniffling, clearing her throat, attempting to put on some semblance of a facade, she grabs the phone.

Unknown Caller.

She hesitates, but then answers the call. ''Hello?''

''Thought you'd want to know your boy's in trouble.''

The voice is female, calm, flippant even, and decidedly unfamiliar. She doesn't think she has ever heard this voice in her life. Too confused to think much about her response, all she can get out is a bemused, ''What?''

''Dean,'' the voice says plainly, as if it should be obvious, and Laurel's entire body instantly goes still and tense. ''He's in a bit of a pickle. I think he could use a hand.''

Laurel gets herself back on her feet, grip on the phone tightening. ''Who is this?''

''A friend.''

As soundless as possible, she makes her way over to the door, making sure she is hidden from view before she pushes the curtain back and peeks out through the window. The only people in view are Marty, standing in the parking lot, having a screaming match with, presumably, Shirley, up on the balcony of the top level. There's no one else there. No cars in the parking lot. No one lurking across the street. No signs she is being watched. ''Nice try,'' she says. ''I don't have friends.''

The mystery woman lets out an unexpectedly warm but not particularly friendly sounding laugh. ''I didn't say I was yours.''

''How did you get this number?''

''Listen, Laurel,'' the woman's voice is not unkind, but there is an edge to it, an urgency. ''I'm not one of your witch's pets. I can see why you would be worried about that, it's a valid concern, but I'm just an observer. I observe. And what I observed today was your husband walking into a trap.''

''My husband - ''

''They're going to take him,'' the woman cuts in, voice grave. ''They're going to hurt him. Either they'll torture him until you come for him, or they'll send him back to you as one of her little abominations. And that will be because of you. For you. To get to you. You know that. It's the easiest play in the book. You don't have to believe me, but if you don't want the first time you lay eyes on Dean in weeks to be when they send you a video of him being waterboarded then you better get moving, Canary.''

Laurel narrows her eyes. ''If you saw him walk into a trap, why didn't you do anything?''

''That's not my job.''

''Your job?''

''I told you. I'm an observer. I - ''

''Observe,'' Laurel finishes dryly. ''Yeah, I got it.'' She chews on her lip. Realistically speaking, she is the one who is going to be walking into a trap here. I mean, when you're a dead woman being hunted and some condescending, unseen, totally unknown observer calls you with news that they know will get you moving... It's a trap. It has to be a trap. She knows that. But…

Shit.

She sucks in a breath of stale air.

On the off chance that this is a legitimate tip… She can't take the chance. Not with him. ''Okay.'' She snaps into action, transferring the phone to her other hand as she grabs for the first jacket she finds, hurriedly shoving an arm into it. ''Where is he?''

.

.

.

The 7-11 on the corner of Peach Street and Twine where this trap has supposedly been set is less than a block away from her motel. She has to wonder if that was intentional. If they were counting on her being so close by. It's not like it would be a surprise if Edie had her people watching Laurel. If they do intend to use Dean as leverage, that would make sense.

That is still a big if, in her opinion.

A mysterious warning from a mysterious stranger with no name or face does not a truth make.

Laurel is still going to go, of course. There is no way she was ever going to just ignore that phone call. Trap or not. They brought Dean into it. She has to make sure. If it is a trap, she'll deal with it.

The first jacket she grabbed happened to be the new one, a tad flashy for broad daylight, kind of a bold declaration, but maybe that's exactly what is needed right now. She takes the new batons too, a bit leery of how useful they are, but curious all the same. If there is something happening at the 7-11, the last thing she wants to do is announce her presence with a noisy motorcycle. She hasn't been using the bike much since she got back into town anyway.

So she runs.

The whole way. It's a rather brutal reminder that she is not, in fact, in the best shape of her life. She doesn't even care. If the call was real and Dean is in danger, she'll huff and puff her way across the city if she has to. She makes it there much faster than she thought she would, a little winded, but mostly hopped up on the increasing adrenaline and concern.

It takes less than a minute, less than thirty seconds and barely a quick glance in the front doors from afar to confirm the caller's story. She can see there's a struggle going on, can hear the echoes of gunfire over the blaring sound of Smells Like Teen Spirit coming from inside.

This really is happening.

See, this is exactly why she left. This is what she didn't want to happen. Edie is coming at her through Dean. The horror movie in her bathroom and the leftover phantom pain is now the least of her concerns.

With no real time to come up with a plan, Laurel just...reacts. She wings it. She abandons the front entrance and rushes around to the back, foolishly hoping that maybe Edie's toy soldiers aren't coordinated enough to have blocked the rear entrance.

Her hopes are immediately dashed when she sees the black Escalade - atrociously expensive and extremely out of place in this neighborhood, practically a neon sign that says, Something Is Wrong Here - parked right up against the back door. ''Damn it.'' She clenches her teeth with an exaggerated eye roll, sending a sidelong glance towards the building that houses the 7-11. It's an old building, run down but sturdy, made of old fashioned bricks. It's one of the few buildings around here that was mostly untouched by the earthquake. Her eyes travel upward to the roof.

That's one idea.

Maybe there's an easier way to do this. She rushes over to the Escalade, sitting there with the driver's side door open, no one else in sight. She ducks inside, keeping her eyes peeled for the keys. Just as she has spotted them on the floorboard of the driver's side, someone attacks her from behind.

Should have known it would never be that easy.

She grunts in pain as she is forced down onto her stomach, narrowly missing hitting her head on the center console. Then there's a strong, vice grip wrapped around her leg, trying to pull her out of the car. She scrambles to find something to hold onto, her fingernails desperately scraping at the leather interior. She can barely manage a few kicks from the position she's in and he's pressing her down, preventing her from turning over. ''Son of a - ''

The words ground out through her teeth end in a shriek when there is a sudden loud smash as another Doll bashes in the passenger side window. She tucks her head down the best she can, bringing her hands up to cover her face as glass rains down on her. It is followed closely by a large hand reaching in through the window, grabbing onto her hair, and yanking hard.

Now she's getting peeved.

She kicks her foot out, managing to hit the guy tugging at her leg just enough for him to take a tiny step back, enough to allow her to roll over. With more control and a growing fury, she directs the next kick right at his groin. He goes down, groaning and whimpering, but the one pulling at her hair, trying to yank her out the window seems to take it personally. He's a strong one, much stronger than the lanky guy on the ground. And he's angry. She swears she hears him growl.

She lets him drag her toward the window, even scooting herself back to help him out. He wraps a meaty arm around her neck, apparently intending to haul her out by her throat, and that's when she strikes. She digs her nails into his skin, clawing at him, and then bites down hard on his arm. He lets out a rather undignified screech and instinctively tries to pull away, but she keeps her nails digging into his skin, swinging around to bring up her other hand - with the car keys hidden in her closed fist. She brings her hand down as hard as she can, stabbing the key into his hand. He lets out another scream and his grip on her loosens as he collapses down to the ground.

Laurel wipes at the blood on her mouth with a grimace. She barely has a chance to catch her breath. Lanky Guy, still groaning and unsteady, is attempting to lurch to his feet. She sighs, impatient, shoving down the urge to roll her eyes. She does not have the time for this. She scrambles over to the driver's side, pulls the door release just to open it a tiny bit, and then hurries back over to the passenger side. She waits until she sees his hand pop up in the open window, using the door to steady himself, and then she lurches forward with enough momentum to kick the door right into his head. Hard. She can hear the thud when his head hits the door.

She looks over her shoulder to check for the bigger guy, but instead sees someone else, another man, wrenching open the door to the passenger side. She moves as fast as she can, diving into the backseat, just as he tries to grab for her.

He doesn't look particularly angry. He doesn't look particularly anything. ''You have to come with us,'' he says. ''Edie needs you.''

''I'll pass,'' she says, and the second she sees him reach for what looks like a knife on his belt, she throws herself forward, grabs the seatbelt, and wraps it around his neck, pulling hard. ''When you wake up, I want you to go home to your God and give her a message for me,'' she hisses in his ear as he struggles. ''Tell her to come for me herself.'' Then she pulls out one of her batons, turns the shock system on, and presses it into his side.

He makes a gasping, grunting noise, fingers loosening around the seatbelt he's clawing at, and then slumps to the side. She pulls back, eyeing him closely. He's still conscious, mumbling softly to himself, groaning, but he is definitely down for the count. She clips the baton back onto the holster around her waist.

That is a handy little thing, ain't it?

She looks out the window, but can't spot the Big Guy. He's not where she left him. She looks in the other direction, but he's not there either. Cautiously, she climbs out of the backseat and into the daylight. He's not there. She can't see him, can't hear him, but she knows he's close. She never spots him. Not until it's too late.

She starts to move towards the front of the Escalade, boots crunching on the small bits of broken glass that sprayed outward when she feels his large hands on her and then, before she knows it, he's slammed her back against the Escalade.

Her wounded shoulder hits the car hard, sending a fiery explosion of pain through her. The blinding pain surprises her enough to give him the time he needs to get one of his hands around her neck, cutting off her gasp. She struggles, more a reflex than a thought out move, clawing at his face, her fingernails scratching at his cheek and drawing blood. It's a panic response. It's not going to do anything, not with how strong this guy is, but her fight or flight reflex kicks in and she fights.

After what seems like forever but is probably just a few seconds, she clears her head enough to think about what she is doing. When he wraps both hands around her neck and squeezes, still angry but disturbingly calm about what he's doing - and, unexpectedly, obviously not under any order to get her back to Edie alive - she stops going for his face and goes for his eyes. She drives both thumbs into his eyes as hard as she can, trying her best to ignore the physical sensation of gouging someone's eyes out.

Amazingly, absurdly, he still keeps trying to strangle her. His stamina is impressive at this point. However, she would very much like to be able to breathe, so she pushes harder. And harder. And keeps pushing her thumbs in until she can feel the blood running down her wrists and he starts screaming, his hands moving to grip her wrists and then, finally, covering his bloody eyes.

She starts to move, pushing off the Escalade to run, but he dredges up enough strength to latch onto her ankle and pull. He is snarling at her, spitting something out through his bloody teeth that she can't quite understand over the roar of excruciating pain that tears through her when she falls and lands directly on her shredded shoulder on the cold hard concrete.

Meanwhile, the big guy with the bloody eyes is blindly reaching for what looks like a walkie talkie clipped to his belt. When she catches sight of him, hand on his radio, a wave of annoyance sweeps over her, temporarily overtaking the pain. Okay. Screw this. She pulls one of the batons off her belt, presses the button to extend it, turns the voltage all the way up, and launches herself at him.

The result is instantaneous.

One well placed shock to his neck and he goes down hard, skull cracking on the concrete when he drops like a rock.

She collapses back down to the ground, breathing heavily. She is pretty sure she has torn the bandage on her shoulder. She blinks up at the overcast sky for a second, gritting her teeth against the throbbing pain in her shoulder, and then, reluctantly, she starts to get up. She rolls onto her stomach and pushes herself up with her uninjured arm into a sitting position, cradling the other to her body.

That wasn't...the worst fight she has ever been in, but she is glad no one was here to see that.

She looks back down at the man on the ground. He's bleeding from the head and his eyes are going to need medical attention, but he's breathing. And drooling. She crawls over to him, just to make sure, and presses her fingers to his meaty neck.

Well, at least she didn't have to kill anyone today.

Always a plus.

But maybe she shouldn't have turned the voltage all the way up on the baton. ''Jesus, Cisco,'' she mutters breathlessly, hauling herself up to her feet. ''That was really violent.'' She turns the voltage down and puts the baton back on the holster. That's going to take some getting used to. Still super handy.

She hurries around to the other side of the car to make sure the other men are still out. Then she looks at the Escalade, which is still blocking the back door.

Fuck's sake.

Guess she'll be taking the roof entrance.

She turns back to the 7-11, gaze hardening. If anything has happened to Dean in the time it took for her to take down Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest, she is going to make them wish she killed them. She rolls her shoulder, checking to make sure there's no blood running down her arm, and then she scurries around to the dumpster, pushing it aside to get to the ladder.

There are not a lot of options here. She doesn't want to go in the front entrance, which is likely locked from the inside anyway. The back entrance is blocked. All that's left is the roof. Which, unfortunately, means going in through the ventilation shaft. Before she goes up the ladder, she goes around to the other side of the building where the power box is, and cuts the power.

The ventilation shaft on the roof is a small space, stuffy, tight, and narrow. It is awfully reminiscent of something. She freezes up, struck by that familiar ache of panic in her chest and throat when she opens it up. There are not many people she would go back to her grave for. She takes longer than she would like to pluck up the courage to go through with this, then she takes a deep breath, then another, and another, and then she climbs into the vent.

It is not, in any way, a complicated thing.

The trickiest part is trying not to make any noise. It's a welcome distraction. Something to concentrate on that is not her own claustrophobia. Other than that, it is pretty darn straightforward. This is a 7-11. It used to be, at one time, a bookkeeping business, but it's not like it's some sophisticated high rise or a large building with a winding maze like ventilation shaft. Once she's in, she's in.

With the power cut, she can easily hear what's going on in the store. The voices may be slightly muffled, but it's easy to work out who's talking. It's Dean.

And Ricky Moretti.

If she stays still and listens carefully, she can just make out their conversation. Moretti wants to know where she is. Dean is trying to convince him she's in California.

''You and I both know she's not in California,'' Moretti's saying, his voice spitting mad and raspy, more growl like than usual. ''She's here.''

''Is she?'' Dean sounds way too casual. ''I hadn't heard. Like I said, last I heard she was in Los Angeles. Maybe she needed some sun. Maybe she's going to try to make it as an actress. Who knows with her. She changes goalposts yearly.''

It throws her more than the fact that Ricky Moretti is somehow - despite being shot point blank in the head - alive. That part makes perfect sense. Of course he's the masked man. Of course Edie would bring him back. He is her most devoted weapon. She needs that loyalty. It's not a surprise he's here. It's not a surprise he's the brand new masked monster.

What is surprising is Dean lying about her being in California. It's not something he's saying just to mess with Moretti. He's protecting her. Which means he knows she's back in town. She can hear that in his voice. How did he...?

Oliver.

It had to have been.

As silent as possible, she makes it to the grate, looking down into the 7-11. She can hear the sounds of a struggle, grunts and thuds and then Moretti comes staggering into her line of sight. He starts to get up, but Dean, looming over him, smashes a fire extinguisher into his face. Moretti lands flat on his back and that's when she sees his flaking, rotting face.

''Ew.''

It comes out in a whisper, unheard by the men down below, but she still claps a hand over her mouth as soon as it's out. In her defense... Ew. She doesn't feel that bad for Moretti, in all honesty. Could not have happened to a more deserving person. But...

God.

Is that what Edie wants to do to her?

She shakes the thought away.

Look, she is not having the best day - or week, or month, or year - and she doesn't have the patience for horror or anger or the nerves settling in the pit of her stomach when she sees her husband for the first time in two weeks, stepping into her line of vision, looking bloodied and furious.

Moretti attempts to get up, to ignore the beating he has just taken, and Dean pulls the pin on the fire extinguisher and sprays him in the face.

The corners of her lips tick up for just a second. She fishes the key to her motel room out of her pocket and works to unscrew the grate, listening to Dean taunt Moretti. ''Got a name suggestion for you,'' he's saying. ''How about Cockroach? I think that's a better fit, don't you? Certainly better than Snake Eyes. That's just obnoxious.''

Apparently, Moretti does not find that amusing. ''Where is she, Dean? Where's Canary?''

''I don't know, Darrin, why don't you ask Samantha?''

Laurel pulls the grate out of its spot with minimal noise, just as Moretti rises, lurching towards Dean.

''WHERE IS SHE?!''

She doesn't even think about what she's doing. She just sees some zombie goon advancing on her husband and reacts. She drops the grate down and pushes herself out of the opening, landing on her feet between the two men, her back to Dean.

There is a fraction of a second, not even, where all she wants to do is turn around, but she knows that cannot be her priority right now. She looks directly at Moretti, more monster than man now, his outsides finally matching his insides. If he expects her to be scared of him and the way he looks, the fact that he's still here, he is going to be sorely disappointed.

''Not in California,'' she says, and then she opens her mouth -

- and shows him exactly what an Ellard woman can do.

.

.

.

end part nineteen

---

Chapter title from the poem of the same name by Ada Limon.