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.

20. I Can Never Go Home

AN: Finally after months of delay after delay after delay, here we are!

I apologize if this chapter isn't quite as polished as they normally are. This one gave me a lot of trouble and I'm actually still technically editing bits and pieces of it. I probably could have used another week, but I was bound and determined to get this posted TODAY. So if you see any typos, definitely let me know so I can clean those up. :)

Additional warnings for this chapter: worsening mental health issues, some graphic imagery when it comes to the wound on Laurel's shoulder, mentions of vomiting, very frank discussions about alcohol and drug addiction, incredible overuse of the word 'fuck' because SOMEONE cannot seem to chill out, a savage marital spat years in the making, and one very spoilery warning that I will put at the end. This chapter gets dark, y'all. Seriously, I would not recommend reading this chapter in one sitting.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Part Twenty

I Can Never Go Home

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At her grandfather's funeral, back in the summer of 2012, her grandmother said something during the eulogy she gave that has stayed with Laurel ever since, a ringing in the back of her head, an echo, something she has come to understand on a deep, visceral level.

Grandma wasn't expected to speak, she said she wasn't going to, said she couldn't, but on the day of, she rose from her seat, a little shaky, a little sniffly, but with her head held high, and she gave the kind of eulogy that only Beatrice Drake could give. It was heartfelt, tender, and incredibly raw, as if she had ripped her own heart out of her chest and put it in the casket with Grandpa.

She told the story of how they met, who they were before each other, who they were together, the beautiful family they built, and the love letters they had written to each other over the years.

''No two people have loved the way we have loved,'' she said. She was the strongest woman in the world in that moment, even as homesick and grief stricken as she was. She never faltered once. She said everything she needed to say, and then, when she was done, she turned to the casket and said, one last love letter to her husband, ''I will tell you what I know of home. It's you. Always you.''

Laurel thought about that for days after. She thought about it for years. It lingered like a song she couldn't get out of her head. She thought about it as she watched her grandmother attempt to live a life without her best friend, her husband, her partner for life. She thought about it when Mary was born and she thought about it when Tommy died and she thought about it when Sara came back and she thought about it when she was in the hospital, detoxing, sicker than sick, wondering how she was supposed to get through this.

And she thought about it when she looked at Dean.

Every time she looked at him.

In the uneasy hush that follows the tremendous explosion of the Canary Cry, Laurel works to catch her breath, feeling woozy from the adrenaline - and also probably the blood loss - and all she can think of is what her grandmother said on the day of her grandfather's funeral. Even with everything that is going on, even before she turns to look at her husband, the same husband she left behind, it's all she can hear in the fleeting stillness of the aftermath.

I will tell you what I know of home. It's you. Always you.

She can't bring herself to look at him to tell him this. To apologize. She tries to shake it off. Put her focus on other things. It's not where her head needs to be at right now.

Moretti is gone, blown back through the glass storefront by the force of the Cry, but there is no confirmation that he's down. It was necessary roughness. She knows that. She did what she had to do to get him out and away from Dean. But, in the ensuing silence, the only noise the clinking of broken glass breaking through the breathless quiet, she can't help but think about Seabeck. What happened the last time she threw someone through a window.

Still feeling keyed up and anxious, she turns, her gaze finding Dean. She only manages a brief look at him, a quick onceover to make sure that he's all right, that he's survived her this time, and then she turns back. It's long enough to get a closer look at his injuries and it is certainly long enough for the sight of the blood on his face to reignite her righteous fury.

She approaches the gaping hole where the door used to be, boots crunching over broken glass. She's not sure if she's expecting to see Moretti rolling around and groaning in pain or his lifeless body in a pool of blood, but she's expecting something.

You can't run from the Canary Cry.

Once you're down, you're down.

She is already trying to formulate a plan of attack. If he's conscious, there could be a fight and the last time she squared off with this thing that used to be a man, he secured a brutal victory and Helena had to scare him off with her crossbow and a bluff about back up. She would much prefer to skip that this time. If he's out, she's going to have to figure out a containment plan. He is clearly not completely human anymore. She has no idea how to successfully restrain him.

Neither of these concerns turn out to be relevant. When she peers outside, all she is met with is broken glass and a few smears of blood. Which should be impossible. She hit him full force with quite possibly the angriest Cry she has ever produced.

And he just got up and walked away?

She pokes her head farther outside, wind ruffling her hair, her eyes scanning the parking lot.

Ricky Moretti sure is turning out to be a much bigger problem than they had originally anticipated.

When the truth came out about their next door neighbors, he seemed like he would be the least of their problems. He was just some dumb meathead with a temper who was seduced and duped by the head witch in charge. He was nothing special. Even his brother seemed like more of a threat. Dante and his family were witches. He may have been a simple Borrower, but he still had enough power to subdue her the first time they made a move. In comparison, Ricky was just a man. The threat level was minimal.

That may have been the wrong approach to take. An oversight on their part.

Some of the worst horrors in history were committed by just men.

For the past few months, Moretti has done his best to make it clear that sometimes the danger has nothing to do with power level and everything to do with the enemy's history of violence and personal enjoyment of bloodshed.

Witches have goals. They have rules and traditions. They have an endgame. They draw lines in the sand. Humans are unpredictable. They create violence. They erase lines.

Laurel's gaze lingers on the blood smears. Even injured, he was still able to get to his feet and book it out of here. That does not bode well.

She steps back, away from the doorway, turning back to Dean when she feels his presence behind her. ''He's gone,'' she tells him. She swallows nervously at the sudden lack of distance between them, an anxious tremor running down her spine when he locks eyes with her. It hasn't even been that long. It's only been two weeks. It feels like it's been a lifetime. ''Are you - '' She has to stop, her eyes sweeping over him, mostly pretending to look him over rather than acknowledge the ache in her throat. ''Are you okay?''

''I'm - '' He looks thrown by the question. He eyes his bloody knuckles. He doesn't seem that concerned by his own injuries. Doesn't even seem bothered about Moretti escaping. He is just looking at her. ''Are you?'' He steps over to her, reaching out without hesitation to turn her head to the side to examine the bruises. He winces when he sees them, as if his current injuries, which are actively bleeding, aren't worse than a couple yellowed bruises. ''Laur,'' he says, and she flinches.

She doesn't mean to, it's just the second he touches her, she wants to cry and she doesn't think he would be particularly receptive to her tears right now.

Dean pulls back immediately.

She doesn't mean for it to look the way it looks, like she flinched because he touched her, but she's also not sure how to explain why she did. When she opens her mouth to speak, nothing comes out.

He steps away from her with a clenched jaw, a spark of incredulous hurt flashing in his eyes before he schools his features into a blank nothingness. A wall she knows she will not be able to climb over.

''Dean - ''

''You look like shit,'' he says brusquely.

She stares at him for a second and then says, ''You're bleeding from the head.''

''So imagine how bad you have to look to one up me,'' he retorts. ''You have handprints around your neck.''

Her hand flies to her neck. ''Oh.'' Yeah, that tracks. ''That was - Um.'' It does hurt to swallow now that it's been pointed out. ''There were a few guys out back. One of them didn't want to go down.'' She shrugs. ''He did eventually.'' She tries to sound confident, more like Dinah when she says it, brush it off as not a big deal, she's the Black Canary, she can handle herself, but she thinks she comes off sounding more awkward and monotone than tough.

She has no doubt she does look terrible. Aside from the older bruises on her face from the throwdown with Ricky Moretti/Snake Eyes a few days ago, she is sure there are new injuries from the fight outside, she knows she still has a split lip from the Finley brothers last night, and she knows she has taken on a rather sickly pale hue lately. Not to mention, there's her gaping shoulder wound. She doesn't doubt she looks dreadful.

But his head is bleeding. He is upright and moving, well enough to be snarky, which is a comfort, but he is bleeding from the head. She has no idea how injured he is or how he'll feel once the adrenaline wears off. It's a head injury. He could be concussed, he could go into shock, he could seize, he could go to sleep and not wake up, he could not even realize how badly he's hurt until he drops dead. ''You need to get that looked at, Dean. You're bleeding a lot.''

''It's mostly slowed by now,'' he says, waving a hand dismissively. ''It's just a cut.''

''How did you get it?''

''Got clobbered.''

''Sounds like more than a cut.''

''It's not a big deal. Wasn't even a hard hit. She just caught me by surprise.''

''She?''

He turns, nodding toward the counter. ''One of the Dolls. Almost stabbed me in the throat, so I'd say I got off lucky.''

That does not sound like a kidnapping attempt. Laurel wrings her hands and turns away from him, mostly to give herself a moment to disguise her worry. She glances back out of the blown out windows. ''You think he's going to - ''

''Double back?'' There is a shift in his demeanor as he switches back to all business. ''Nah, he's gone,'' he says. ''His team is down. There's two of us.'' He looks out into the parking lot, lips turned downward, and then moves to touch her arm, steering her away from the open. ''He can't risk not making it back to Edie. Guy sure is - ''

''Different?''

''I was gonna say dude's a fuckin' nutbar,'' he remarks. ''But sure. We'll go with different. Also undead maybe. That's new.'' He tilts his head to the side, looking right at her, gesturing to the bruises. ''He the one who did that?''

''I didn't know it was him at the time because of the mask, but yeah. I think so. If - If I had known that it was him,'' she starts. ''If I had known what Edie did to him, I would have warned you. I would have called.''

''Yeah?'' There is noticeable tension in Dean's shoulders. He smiles, but it looks cold. ''Would you have?''

It's a fair question. She's just not sure how to answer. ''Dean,'' she starts. ''I'm - ''

The violent interruption begins with what she can only assume is a battering ram breaching the back entrance of the 7-11. It's a deafeningly loud bang and before either of them even have a chance to look at each other, the door caves in and there is a cacophony of noise as two groups of men dressed in heavy SWAT gear come bursting into the store from both the front and back doors, guns drawn, shouting orders.

Laurel barely has a fraction of a second to feel confused before Dean is yanking her behind him, looking, quite frankly, more annoyed than anything else. It doesn't take long for her to realize -

ARGUS.

Because sure, why not?

Let's drop a shady as shit government agency into this mess.

''Wait!'' It's out of her mouth before she even takes a second to think about it. She attempts to dive out from behind Dean and place her body in front of his, but he just holds his arms out, keeping her pinned behind him. Doesn't even think about it. It's very gallant of him, but she is not loving his chances here. She has the Canary Cry. He is a formerly Most Wanted criminal thought to be long dead.

Luckily, it doesn't get that far.

''Weapons down!'' A man, unfamiliar to her, an ARGUS agent, she's assuming, pushes his way to the front of the group that came in from the back, calling out a lazy sounding order. He pushes down the barrel of an automatic with his finger as he moves to the front. ''I said weapons down,'' he says, more sternly, eyeing one of the men who came in from the front. ''They're friendlies.''

All weapons go down.

It is of little comfort to Dean, who seems to be having quite the day, still stubbornly planted in front of her, refusing to move, definitely refusing to let her move. He levels the agent with a withering glare. ''Are you fucking kidding me?''

The agent looks at Dean blankly for a second, sizing him up, and then - rather than arresting the dead outlaw in front of him - laughs. Makes sure they both see his relaxed posture and his charming smile. ''Sorry about that,'' he says lightly. ''Had to be sure we weren't walking into a situation we wouldn't be able to get out of.'' Unlike the rest of his heavily armed and suited up teammates, this guy is dressed down. The usual outfit of black cargo pants, black boots, black shirt, but with no riot gear and no heavy artillery. Not as intimidating as the rest of them, but still not exactly someone who would blend into a crowd. ''Hernandez,'' he cuts a sharp look to his left. ''Make sure we'll all clear.'' He waits until his men have all dispersed, dismissing the group in the front with merely a look, before he looks back to Dean and Laurel. He seems completely unfazed by the chaos and bodies in the torn up store. ''Agent Chen,'' he introduces. ''ARGUS.'' He takes the time to not only flash them a badge but also hand it over, likely to make them more comfortable. ''You two all right?''

Laurel, finally managing to get past Dean, at least enough to stand beside him, hands the badge back over and says, coolly, ''My husband is bleeding from the head. I assume you have a medic en route?''

Dean tenses. ''I'm fine.''

''On the way right now,'' Agent Chen confirms with a nod. He settles his gaze on Dean. ''Do you feel you need medical attention?''

''No.''

Laurel - well aware of her own hypocrisy, thank you very much - cannot help but be a little incredulous. ''Yes.''

''No.''

''Dean.''

He blatantly ignores her, eyeing the agents moving around the store distrustfully, watching them take the scattered and battered Dolls into custody. ''What are you guys even doing here?''

Chen does not seem at all affected by the hostile tone of voice. ''We're the cavalry.''

''Uh-huh.'' Dean narrows his eyes for a second, scrutinizing the agent. ''Well, you're late.''

A simple nod from the other man. He looks around at the carnage. ''So it would seem.''

''What happened? You get stuck in traffic?''

Chen doesn't acknowledge the sarcasm, choosing instead to level a slow, appraising look at Dean. ''You took down these men all by yourself?''

Dean only shrugs.

''Huh.'' Chen lingers for a second, caught somewhere between suspicious and impressed, and then looks at Laurel. ''Ma'am, are you sure you're okay?''

Depends on what he means by okay. Emotionally, she is standing next to the husband she walked out on and hasn't seen in two weeks and she can feel the hurt and anger radiating off him in waves. Physically, she has an inexplicable wound on her shoulder that needs medical attention but that she has no way of explaining. Also, she was just strangled. She would not exactly classify herself as being okay.

''Yes,'' she lies, despite her irritation only seconds ago when Dean did the exact same thing. ''I'm okay. Thank you.''

Chen looks like he has much more to say to the two of them, undoubtedly more to ask them, but one of his men calls out for him and he excuses himself.

Dean waits until he's far enough away, still looking uneasy with the presence of all the secret agent men surrounding them, before he turns to Laurel. ''Did you do this?''

''Do what? Call in ARGUS?'' She rolls her eyes. ''Are you kidding? Of course not. I wouldn't even know how.''

Another ARGUS agent, all decked out in heavy gear, brushes past them and Dean winds an arm around her waist, tugging her closer to him and farther away from the agents. ''How did you know I was here?''

''Someone called me,'' she says, trying to focus on the situation at hand and not how strange and upsetting it is to be this close to him and not know what to do. ''No idea who. She told me you were walking into an ambush.''

''One of Edie's?''

''She said she wasn't, but I'm not exactly in a hurry to trust some random unknown caller.''

Dean doesn't respond for a moment, a thoughtful, unsure look on his face. ''It was a woman who called?''

''Yes.''

''No name?''

''No name. Said she was a friend. Although not mine. She...'' Laurel pauses, crossing her arms. ''She insisted that you were in danger and I needed to get to you.'' Come to think of it, that doesn't really vibe with Edie's whole thing, does it? Why would Edie want her to save Dean?

''Hm.'' He looks distracted, unable to completely keep his eyes off the ARGUS crew surrounding them. He looks in the direction of the empty space where the front doors used to be. There is a baffling look in his eyes. Before she can ask him about it, he changes the subject. ''What about you? You're sure you're not hurt?''

''No, I'm - '' Her hand absently moves to her throat. Her shoulder throbs. ''I'm good. Nothing I can't handle.'' She looks at the blood on his face. ''I really think we need to get you looked at, though. You have a head wound. We can't mess around with that.'' She reaches out to touch him - a move she makes without even thinking about it, something she has done a million times before - but her hand never makes it to his cheek.

He catches her wrist, blocking her from making contact, his expression closed off, unreachable. ''We?''

''Scene's secure,'' Agent Chen's voice interrupts the conversation, ending it before it can even begin.

Dean drops her hand and takes a step back, deliberately looking away from her.

She's sure the pathetic, unfair hurt is written all over her face.

Agent Chen doesn't seem to notice the strain between the spouses - or, more than likely, he just doesn't care. ''Unknown number of suspects down,'' he's speaking into his radio. ''Three out back. At least one in the wind. Possibly more.'' His eyes focus on something near the front of the store, one eyebrow slightly raised. ''One DOA.''

''Got a bleeder over here,'' someone calls out from an aisle over.

Chen doesn't even break his stride, waving another agent over to the next aisle and adding on a perfectly smooth, ''We're going to need an additional medical team on sight.'' As casual and relaxed as he would be ordering takeout.

''GSW to the left leg,'' the same voice shouts. ''Looks like it nicked the femoral artery.''

Chen slips his gaze to Dean, raising an eyebrow. He still looks, under the cool as a cucumber exterior, vaguely impressed by Dean's ability to single handedly take down an entire group of men. ''Might want to hurry.''

There is a short pause and then a voice crackles through the radio, ''Copy that. Med team's on the way.''

Chen moves his eyes from Dean to Laurel. It's a swift appraisal, barely a glance, but she can't help but feel mildly annoyed by the fact that she can't read him at all. She has no idea what he thinks of her. He flicks a switch on his radio and turns away from them. ''All units,'' he says, voice stern, more formal and commanding. ''All units be advised there are two civilians on site. One is a known vigilante. Code name: Black Canary. All units are still under strict orders to disregard any Black Canary sightings until further notice. No one saw anything. Got it?''

''Understood, sir.''

Laurel lets out a small sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about at least.

''Wow, don't even get a code name,'' Dean mumbles, far too quiet for Chen to hear, but just loud enough for Laurel to catch. She wants to say something, make a lighthearted joke, but Agent Chen doesn't give her a chance.

He turns his full attention back to them, radio clipped back on his belt. ''You two good with sticking around for a few? You'll need to be debriefed. Director's going to want to get your statements about what happened here.''

It doesn't sound like a suggestion.

Dean, predictably annoyed by the not-so-subtle order, levels the other man with a suspicious glare. ''And which Director would that be?''

That is a weird question to ask. It even appears to momentarily throw Agent Chen. He pauses and blinks a few times before he answers, somewhat tentatively, ''That would be Director Michaels?''

Dean rolls his eyes, which - again, kind of odd.

''That's fine,'' Laurel cuts in, throwing her best work smile at Chen. ''We'll wait.''

''It shouldn't take long.''

''Not a problem,'' she says, doing her best to sound agreeable. ''How did you guys know to come here, by the way?''

''Message came through a private channel,'' says Chen. ''Director Michaels was advised one of our own was in a sticky situation and needed immediate extraction. My team was sent in to do that.''

''One of your own?''

Chen looks around the 7-11, as if searching for his lost colleague. ''Bad info, apparently.''

''None of these men are with ARGUS?''

''None of them are the one we were sent in to retrieve.''

''Who sent the message?'' Dean asks.

''Unknown,'' Chen responds. ''Could have been an undercover, I suppose. Don't know of any undercovers in this area, but I'm sure there's a lot of classified shit I'm not privy to. Could've been a sleeper for all I know.''

Laurel cocks her head to the side. ''You guys have sleepers?''

Chen does not answer that question.

''Do you remember the name?''

Both Chen and Laurel look at Dean. ''Sorry?''

''The name of the agent you were sent in to retrieve,'' Dean clarifies. ''You remember the name?''

Chen looks at him for a moment, and then he takes a step back. ''Miller!'' He flags down one of his men. ''You got the name of the target?''

Miller, a tall, lanky kid lacking the heavy SWAT gear but holding a tablet, hurries over when he's summoned. ''Uh, yeah.'' He flicks through the tablet and then hands it over. ''Right here.''

''Oh yeah.'' Chen barely even looks at it. ''That's right.'' He hands the tablet back and waves Miller away without even looking at him. ''Flag,'' he tells Dean. ''Name we got was Rick Flag.''

Dean reacts to this with a terse nod and nothing else and Agent Chen resumes his business, excusing himself from them to go yell at some dude who has just managed to slip in a puddle of blood and seems to be having trouble getting up. He doesn't appear to think anything of Dean's reaction to the name Rick Flag. Why would he? He doesn't know Dean Winchester.

Laurel, on the other hand, does.

She's picking up a hell of a lot more than carefully constructed indifference in that nod.

He tenses when he hears the name, hand curling into a fist before that familiar stress related tremor can be seen. He recognizes the name Rick Flag. He recognizes the name of a supposed ARGUS agent. Did not see that one coming.

''Friend of yours?''

He seems agitated by the sound of her voice, whipping his head around to face her. ''What?''

''Rick Flag,'' she says. ''You know him.''

He says, monotone, ''Don't know what you're talking about.''

''Dean - ''

He's gone before she can get another word out. Just up and walks away from her. Barely even looks in her direction. Okay, she may have deserved that. Still going to go ahead and pretend he just didn't hear her. Before she follows, she takes a moment to take stock of the situation she's found herself in.

All right, so, she's alive, for starters. That's neat. And Dean's alive. Which is the best thing to come out of this shitty day. He's bleeding from the head and she has fingerprints around her neck to go along with the gnarly wound on her shoulder, but they're alive and kicking.

Ricky Moretti is worse than ever. And also not dead. Or possibly undead. That is…an unfortunate complication.

Some random woman appears to be stalking Dean, but also being helpful, so that's a super weird fact to file away for later.

ARGUS is on the scene, which she has conflicting feelings about, if she's being honest. On the one hand, she's not thrilled about them being down in the Glades. The folks down here are understandably spooked and angered by what they feel is the performative presence of law enforcement. If they don't even trust the SCPD, there is zero reason for them to trust a random and inexplicable black ops group taking over their neighborhood 7-11. On the other hand, this is a big mess. She's not sure how she would even begin to clean it up without their help. This place is battered. And there's blood everywhere. It's on the ceiling. How does that even happen? So, yes, she will keep her mouth shut about ARGUS for today.

Overall, it's not shaping up to be a wonderful Wednesday. But she's also had worse. One time, she died. This is a cakewalk in comparison.

Laurel eyes the agents moving around the store. A few of them have managed to wake up a couple of the bleary eyed and injured Dolls, placing them in handcuffs, lining them up in the back of the store. Others are up at the front of the store, grouped behind the register, no doubt looking for the cameras. A lot of them appear to be just kind of standing around talking on their radios. The one who slipped earlier has managed to get himself to his feet. Big day for him. She looks over at the few conscious Dolls. They look the way they always look. Blank. Hollow. A nothingness. And completely and totally focused on her.

She looks away from them, attempting to suppress a shiver from running down her spine and failing horribly. She crunches over broken glass, quickly walking away from them, and steps out the open and destroyed door into the fresh air.

Dean has not, much to her surprise, ignored Chen's warning and left. He's standing in the middle of the parking lot, head tilted back to look up at the sky, eyes closed. He looks both exhausted and...something else. Something she can't quite put her finger on. He seems to sense her presence right away, tensing before he looks over at her.

She tries out a small, timid smile. ''That was bracing, huh?''

He doesn't respond. The look on his face is not particularly friendly.

She keeps the stubborn smile on her face anyway. ''What a day, am I right?''

Still nothing.

''Seriously, I know it's a Wednesday, but doesn't it feel more like a Monday?''

Oh my god, there is something wrong with her.

Dean starts to raise an eyebrow, the tiniest of bemused smiles starting on his lips. He still says nothing.

She feels like she needs to chill, be a little less frantic, less desperate, but the problem is she doesn't know how to chill. She's never been good at that. Drinking helped. Benzos helped. Dean helped. She has none of those things right now. So, like an idiot, she just keeps going. ''If you did have a code name, what would it be? And please don't say Flannel Man. You can do better than that.''

Someone really, really needs to stop her.

Dean, who has been pinching the bridge of his nose in utter exasperation since the second ''Flannel Man'' came out of her mouth, looks up at her, expression positively flabbergasted. He does not put forth a potential code name. He looks like he is genuinely starting to worry that she has lost the plot entirely. Which is -

A) better than him being mad at her.

And B) probably a legitimate worry, given the state of things.

Laurel nibbles on her lower lip. ''No? Not in the mood?''

That would, apparently, be a resounding no.

This is, without a doubt, the most awkward moment of her marriage. She thinks this might be the most awkward moment of her life.

''You're not even going to talk to me?''

He just shakes his head, pulling his phone out. ''I need to make a call.''

''Oh, sure, I'll just - I'll stay here,'' she stammers out, watching him walk away from her. She should stop there, just shut her mouth, but, again, for some reason, she does not. ''That was great work in there, by the way,'' she calls after him, determinedly perky. ''I'm a fan!''

Holy shit.

Creepy motel bathtub corpse, if you're out there, please kill me now.

She closes her eyes, heat rising in her cheeks. What is wrong with her? Dean, thankfully, does not react. Does not even turn around. It doesn't make it any less humiliating. Two weeks gone and she has already forgotten how to people properly. She really did come back from the dead wrong, didn't she?

''Wow,'' comes an unfamiliar drawl from behind her.

She turns, eyeing the completely random ARGUS agent.

''That was the worst thing I've ever seen,'' he informs her. ''And I once saw a guy get blasted in the eye with a shotgun shell. The entire half of his head just - '' He mimes something blowing up, complete with sound effects. ''It was like a pumpkin filled with strawberry jello with bits of cauliflower in it. This was way worse.''

She stares at him for a second. She has never met this man in her life. ''Thank you,'' she says crisply, ''for that visual.''

''Yes, thank you, Kyle,'' Agent Chen's voice says as he's strolling up to them. ''Fuck off inside now, Kyle.''

Kyle straightens up, the casual look on his face shifting into one of healthy fear. He gives a prompt nod. ''Yes, sir,'' he says, and gives Chen a salute.

''You don't need to - '' Chen sighs, but then shakes his head as Kyle all but runs away from him. ''Never mind.'' He turns back to Laurel. ''Sorry about him,'' he says. ''He's new.'' A pause. ''And his name is Kyle.'' Sure, sure, say no more. ''He's on loan from the CIA. They're all like that.''

''The CIA,'' she echoes. ''As in the organization that is meant to - and I'm quoting the actual US government's website here - safeguard national security?''

''Yeah, they're morons. Complete fuck ups.''

''Well, that makes me feel very safe.''

''You expected better?''

''Not at all, but it's still disconcerting to see in person.''

''You'll be fine. You're super powered. And probably ten times smarter than the average CIA employee.'' He slides his gaze over to where Dean is standing, chatting away on his phone. Then he looks back to Laurel, one eyebrow raised. ''That was bad, though. Painful to watch. Aren't you two supposed to be married?''

She narrows her eyes at him. ''How would you even know that?''

''I'm a secret agent,'' he says. ''Also, I once heard Director Michaels planning a double date with you two.''

She crosses her arms, swallowing a sharp inhale at the pain in her shoulder. ''We're separated.''

Chen nods, with a sympathetic wince. ''That's rough. When my first husband and I separated, I thought I was going to die from loneliness. But then I realized he was a dick. He's dead now.''

''...What?''

''Mmhm,'' he nods. ''He got eaten by a lion.''

Laurel has to replay that sentence a few times in her head to be sure she heard him right. ''What?''

''It happens sometimes.''

''Does it?''

''Sure. Just look at Siegfried. Or Roy.'' He tilts his head to the side. ''Honestly, I still don't know which one was which. There was two of them, right? It wasn't just one guy with two personas? I can never remember.'' He looks more troubled by the fact that he can't remember if Siegfried and Roy were two different people than he was about any of the bloodshed in that 7-11.

''Okay, first of all, it was Roy - and yes, they were two different people.''

''Good to know.''

''Second of all, that was a tiger.''

''Eh,'' he waves it off. ''Big cats.'' He offers no elaboration on that comment. ''Is your shoulder injured?''

She falters, thrown off by the abrupt change in course. ''Sorry?''

''Your shoulder,'' he says. ''You've been favoring it. Are you hurt?''

''I...'' All right, well. Agent Chen is, in fact, good at his job. That was clever, what he just did there. Bet he knew Siegfried and Roy were two different people all along too. ''No,'' she lies - again. ''I'm fine. Just bruised.''

''Ma'am - ''

''Laurel.''

''Laurel,'' he accepts. ''If you're injured, we can have a medic take a look.''

''My husband has a head injury,'' she says, trying to make her voice sound confident enough that he believes her. ''And there is a guy in there literally spurting blood. One of your men slipped and fell in it. I am not the priority here. I don't need a medic. I just need some ice.''

Agent Chen does not believe her. He can see right through her. He still gives her a small smile, a nod, and says, ''Ice it is.'' And that's that. No more pushing, no more prodding. He accepts her lie, even though he seems to know it's a lie, and goes back to work.

Laurel continues to ignore the throbbing pain in her shoulder.

To her left, where the entrance to the parking lot is, there is a construction crew milling around, working without working. They are awfully clean cut for construction workers. Their shoes look new. There is no dirt underneath their neatly trimmed fingernails. If you look closely, if you know what you're looking for, you can just spot the earpieces in their ears. They will know immediately that you're watching them. They're not construction workers, the same way she is not a patron of this 7-11, here by chance and a sudden craving for a shitty taquito.

Chen and his team sure have worked swiftly to secure the scene, blocking it off without anyone even realizing what they're doing. The SCPD probably would have contaminated the crime scene by now.

To her right, there is Dean. He's talking on his phone, back to her, the space between them growing, becoming more and more insurmountable. It's not funny - the level of tension between them. The way she doesn't know how to talk to him and he won't even talk to her at all. It's not funny. It's terrifying.

She was dead for over half a year and when she came back, they barely stuttered. Despite all the confusion and the fear, the lasting trauma, they picked up right where they left off. She had a nervous breakdown, nearly drank their entire life away, and tried to kill herself. When she started to pick herself back up, it was hard, but they pulled it together and patched up the holes she made.

Now it's...

It's only been two weeks.

Two weeks and they're already strangers? They have never been strangers before.

She watches him as he talks to whomever he's talking to. Studies his body language, the exhaustion that is evident even with his back turned, the way she can tell he's rubbing at his forehead. The call ends after about a minute, but he doesn't turn around. He puts his phone away, bringing one hand up to his head wound, the blood now drying and, thankfully, clotted. She fully expects him to take a hard right, jump in the SUV, and book it out of here without waiting to give his statement.

He doesn't.

She can tell he thinks about it, notices the way he turns his head to look over at that safe, reliable Chevy Equinox that he hates with a passion, but he doesn't make a break for it. He pauses, debating, and then he turns around and walks back over to her.

She has never been more nervous to see Dean striding over to her. ''Hey.'' She puts on a smile. ''Was that Sam?''

He can't meet her eye. ''Yeah, sure.''

Bitterly, just for a fleeting second, she wonders if Sam has shared his low opinion of her with his brother. She wonders if Dean agrees. Someone has to raise your daughter, he'd sniped at her, and you've made it clear from the beginning that's not going to be you. It slipped out of his mouth so easily it's hard not to think that's what's been in his head the whole time.

Has Dean been thinking the same thing for the past four years? Could she really blame him if he did?

She eyes him for a second, the way he keeps clenching and unclenching one fist, the lines of tension around his eyes. ''Are you okay?''

''Not really,'' he deadpans. ''I was just assaulted and the most annoying antagonist I've ever had the displeasure of meeting is some kind of undead zombie freak.''

''That's redundant,'' she tries to joke. ''I don't think he's actually a zombie. Which,'' she adds on hastily when he tosses her a look, ''is not an important distinction right now.''

Two vans, one unmarked, one with the name of a local cable company on the side, pull into the parking lot, followed closely by what looks like a private ambulance. The ambulance, moving slowly, no lights and sirens, drives past them toward the back, where two ARGUS agents - now out of their SWAT gear - are waiting for it. The two vans park near the front door. It's not an entirely smooth operation. If any local looked close enough, they would notice something off. Not to mention, even with the two vans blocking the view of the destroyed storefront, how are they going to clean this up?

Laurel watches as a few new agents pile out of the cable company van, instantly heading inside. John and Lyla are the ones stepping out of the unmarked van. Out of everything going on, they're the ones that look the most out of place, his nice pressed suit, her pencil skirt, blouse, and heels. They do not look like two people who spend a lot of time in the Glades. They pause to talk to Agent Chen before they head over to Dean and Laurel.

She takes advantage of the time before the inevitable onslaught of questions to look back to Dean. ''You seem really keyed up,'' she comments, which, for the record is true. She's not sure if he's tense because of what happened or because of her or because of something else, but he's like an exposed nerve standing here.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. ''Did I mention the machete?''

''The what?''

He cracks a tiny smile and then brushes it off. ''I'm not overly fond of the US government getting in my business.''

Ah, right.

The ARGUS issue.

Historically speaking, it is not an organization that has been a major presence in Laurel's personal life, but they do exist in this city and they do have a tendency to pop up in vigilante business. Even more so now that the woman running things is married to one of the Star City Vigilantes. They are reluctant allies. The Winchester brothers are not fans of that. Never have been. Especially Dean.

Sam bristles, but grudgingly accepts them, careful to remain wary but otherwise quiet.

Dean hates them.

It's unexpected considering his love of action movies and all their spy games, but then again, given his history with law enforcement and authority, she supposes the dislike is valid. She's not a huge fan herself. An agency like this is unpredictable. There are too many variables. Lyla means well and she does her best, but even she cannot clean up the decades worth of blood on the pages.

With that said, Laurel recognizes that she cannot afford to make an enemy out of them with what she does, so she is going to keep her mouth shut. ''That's understandable,'' she says with a nod. ''Who is?''

''Laurel!''

She turns - and immediately finds herself wrapped up in a John Diggle bear hug. At least there is one ARGUS employee who will always be on her side. ''Johnny.'' She hugs him back, but can't quite squash the grimace of pain that crosses her face at the tight hug. Normally, she is very on board with hugs, but with her shoulder wound, there is far less comfort in the action. ''Hi.'' She pulls away, giving him a smile. ''I'm fine.''

''Are you sure?''

''Completely,'' she says. ''I'm fine,'' she says again, directing it toward Lyla, who has found her way to Dean, inspecting his head wound without so much as a hello. ''This is nothing.''

''Don't listen to her,'' Dean advises, allowing Lyla to turn his head to the side so she can see his bloody wound better. ''Look at her.''

''Rude,'' Laurel fires back. ''Maybe I just forgot to brush my hair this morning.''

''Respectfully,'' John says. ''You both look like hell.''

''You're just saying that because you two look absurdly fancy for a Wednesday,'' says Dean. ''Did you have to go to the bank or something?''

John's lips twitch. ''I work security for the Mayor. Suit's required.''

''Also, believe it or not,'' Lyla starts, ''but some of us prefer to look put together and not like we're auditioning for a Home Improvement reboot.''

''Um, excuse me.'' Dean holds a hand up as soon as she steps away from him. ''This is a new jacket.''

''Mine too,'' Laurel comments. ''Seems expensive too. It's real leather.''

''Not exactly subtle for broad daylight,'' says John.

''No,'' she admits. ''But look at it.'' She tugs at the jacket, doing a quick twirl for him so he can see the back. ''It's way too pretty to only wear in the dark of night.''

''In that case, you two better get working on those bloodstains,'' Lyla retorts, fixing Dean's jacket and patting him on the chest. ''Try some vinegar.'' She looks back to Laurel. ''You will be looked at by a medic before you leave. Both of you.'' She swivels her sharp gaze back to Dean, cutting him off before he even has a chance to get a single protest out. ''That's non-negotiable.''

It's best not to argue with Lyla. For several reasons. One of those reasons being the Mom Voice she's using. It's highly effective. She's got them both over by the unmarked van with a medic checking them out before they even fully realize what's going on.

Dean grumbles about it, tries to brush his injuries off as nothing, but he dutifully perches on the back bumper when Lyla tells him to, lets the ARGUS paramedic clean up his head wound, and even does a quick, rough field cognitive test to check for a concussion. He even willingly gives John and Lyla his statement about what happened inside. He's wary and likely not being as forthcoming as he should be, but he gives a good enough rundown of the day's shitty events.

In any case, Laurel can't blame him for his possible dishonesty. She wouldn't necessarily say she lies when she gives her own statement, but she's...careful. Perhaps clipped. She tells them about the mysterious phone call. She tells them that she came here as soon as she hung up. She is intentionally vague about everything else, providing mostly one word answers to questions and declining to go into detail about where she was when she got the call, where she's staying, and what she's been doing for the past two weeks.

She also does not tell them about her gaping shoulder wound. She considers it, lets the medic take a look at the bruises on her face, both old and new, and the marks around her neck, and gets a butterfly bandage for a small cut on her cheekbone that she hadn't even realized she had, but she brings no attention to her shoulder. When Agent Chen, true to his word, brings her some ice, she insists she's just bruised, making up a story about being slammed into the ground. It's a stupid move. There is a paramedic on sight and she should take advantage of that. But what is she supposed to say? How does she explain the bloody wound?

Oh this ugly thing? No idea how it got there. Found a random fingernail in it, though. I think it happened in a dream? Yes, I've heard of the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, thanks for bringing up the comparison.

She doesn't think that would fly. It is crystal clear that ARGUS is in the know about a lot more than metahumans, but she feels like this might be a bridge too far. Luckily for her, because she was only on scene for the tail end of the fight and isn't actively bleeding - that they know of - they all seem much more focused on Dean. Much to his chagrin.

''How did they know you were here?'' John asks, while Dean is doing his best not to wince through the swipe of a cotton swap soaked in antiseptic. ''They had to have known you were going to be here to pull this off.''

''They must have followed me,'' Dean says.

''Plus, we suspect they already had a man on the inside,'' Agent Chen says. ''Did some digging and the brainwashed clerk has been in place for at least a week. He was a plant.''

''But why? Why put a plant in some random convenience store?''

''It's wasn't random,'' Laurel says. ''This 7-11 is directly in the middle of the Glades, which is Edie's hunting grounds, it's open 24/7, and it's known to be popular among late night crowds, which would include young locals, the homeless population, and addicts. From a security and surveillance standpoint - ''

''It's the perfect place to keep an eye on things,'' Lyla finishes.

''Not just keep an eye on things,'' Dean says. ''It's the perfect place to find new recruits. I seriously doubt that clerk is the only one they have stationed down here.'' He is trying to remain perfectly still while the medic applies a butterfly bandage on his temple, but his eyes keep sliding over to Laurel. ''Dollars to doughnuts I was watched the entire time I was down here. I took a phone call when I pulled into the parking lot. It wasn't long, but it would have been just long enough for the clerk to take out the other employee and get the other Dolls in position.''

''That's lucky,'' John comments.

''Nothing lucky about it,'' Dean says, flippant. He relaxes when the medic pulls away. ''Whether or not they're trained in combat is up for debate but Edie's Dolls are for sure trained in us.''

''That's a scary thought,'' Laurel mumbles, pulling the ice pack away from her shoulder.

''So,'' Lyla's lips purse. ''If there are Dolls stationed all over the Glades...''

''We're probably being watched right now,'' he says. ''Yeah.''

There is a brief but intensely uncomfortable moment where every present ARGUS agent looks around shiftily. Odd they didn't put that together until now. ''All right,'' the paramedic strips off her gloves. ''I'm all done here.'' She looks at Dean closely, eyebrows furrowed, lips tight in concern. ''Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?''

''Nah, I'm good.'' He throws her one of those dazzlingly charming Winchester grins. ''You should see the other guy.''

''Oh?'' She gets to her feet and throws her first aid kit over her shoulder. ''Would that be the one your wife had to save you from?''

John laughs, but tries to cover it up with a cough, turning away, pretending to clear his throat.

''That - '' Dean sputters, watching her walk away. ''I did some stuff!''

The unnamed but brazen medic does not turn around.

It's bizarre to see these ARGUS employees displaying actual real personalities. Didn't know that was permitted in their super secret club.

''You did,'' Agent Chen says, giving him a conciliatory shoulder squeeze. ''You did do some stuff.''

''Thank you. I did.''

''Your wife's still cooler than you.''

''Always has been,'' Dean says, brusque, without looking at said wife, but confidently.

Laurel does not bother trying to thank him for the compliment, but the corners of her mouth tick up, just barely, just for a second. It's not much, but it's something. At least he doesn't totally hate her. She watches him for a second, aware of all his tells. He's stubborn, not unlike her, but she can see that the adrenaline is starting to wear off and he's beginning to feel the damage from the fight. She wants to move closer to him. Sit down next to him without thinking and inspect his wounds for herself. She knows it wouldn't be a good idea. Without a word, she holds out the ice pack to him, desperately hoping he'll take it.

After a second of hesitation, he does.

It's a step.

''You didn't notice you were being followed?'' She keeps her voice purposefully light. ''You always notice when you have someone on your tail. You have a secret code for it and everything.''

''Guess I must be rusty,'' he says. ''I am technically retired. It's not like riding a bike.''

Chen lets out a bark of laughter. ''Says the guy who just took down six armed bruisers - two of which were highly trained government agents.''

Dean moves the ice pack. ''What?''

''Agents Morris and Friedman,'' Lyla tells him. ''The ones Edith Hart nabbed back in November when the transport carrying the Moretti brothers was hit. She turned them. They were the ones you took down closer to the back of the store.''

He does not have a huge reaction to that. He doesn't even look surprised. ''They did seem to have a higher skillset than the others.''

''Wait,'' Laurel looks at Chen. ''There were agents in there? The intel you got was correct?''

''Nope.'' He seems unconcerned with this. ''Morris and Friedman were never even mentioned in the message we got.''

''Far as we can tell, them being here was a coincidence,'' says John. ''I'm assuming Edie sent them because she knew they were trained and she knew trying to grab this one,'' he jerks his thumb in Dean's direction, ''was going to be a chore.''

''The extraction team was specifically sent in to pull out Rick Flag,'' Lyla says. ''Only problem with that is - ''

''Nobody knows who the hell that is,'' he finishes.

''Yep,'' she nods. ''I have never once heard that name in all the years I've been with ARGUS. And it's not just that. I can't find anything about him in our system. No personnel file, no picture, I even checked the database with all the names of our undercovers and their aliases and got nothing.''

''Gotta be one of Waller's pet projects,'' John says. ''It's the only thing that makes sense.''

''Except all of Waller's projects were dismantled after her death.''

Laurel watches Dean, trying to get a read on him, but he remains relaxed, ice pack over his eye. ''So,'' she starts, ''then the message sent through your private server - ''

''Was a breach,'' Lyla confirms. ''No idea how, no idea who, no idea when. I don't know if it's related to the situation with Edith Hart or something entirely unrelated, but now we have that to deal with.'' She looks visibly annoyed just talking about it. ''I think we're going to have to do a total system overhaul,'' she says, directing her attention over to Chen. ''It's going to be a long night.''

He nods, dutiful as ever. ''Yes, ma'am.''

John, on the other hand... ''Uh.'' Worry creases his forehead as his gaze moves to his wife. ''When you say it's going to be a long night...''

She lets out an exasperated sigh. ''John...''

He holds up his hands. ''I'm not trying to step on your toes,'' he assures her. ''Although... You are pregnant.''

''Which doesn't mean I can't do my job.''

''Of course not,'' he's quick to agree. ''Although...'' He is doing a terrible job at trying to sound nonchalant. ''The doctor did say - to your face, less than an hour ago - that you should be avoiding stress and staying off your feet as much as possible because of your blood pressure.''

''What?'' Laurel jerks her head around to Lyla, a wave of concern from all fronts cutting through the strained mood. ''Lyla, if you're not feeling well - ''

''I'm feeling fine.''

''Right, but if you're not, you should take it easy.''

''Your guys seem to have it covered,'' Dean agrees. ''And Dig's here - '' He swings a look at John. ''Can I call you that?''

''I'll allow it.''

''Dig's here,'' Dean repeats. ''I'm sure he can handle it. I can give you a ride home.''

''John doesn't have the clearance.''

''What about this dude?'' He gestures to Chen. ''He seems competent. And far less insufferable than most secret agent types.''

Chen looks like he can't quite decipher whether that was meant to be an insult or a compliment, but he rolls with it anyway. ''Thank you.''

Lyla gives both Dean and Laurel a flat look. ''Neither of you work for me. But thank you for your opinions.''

''Uh, ma'am,'' Chen tries. ''If I may - ''

''Stop right there.'' Lyla cuts him off, a stern finger pointed in his direction. She narrows her eyes slightly and then turns her head to level a displeased look at her husband. ''Do you see what you've done?''

''I recognize that, in hindsight, airing your private health information at a job site may have been the wrong direction to go in,'' he admits, choosing his words very carefully. ''And that's my bad.''

''And?''

''And I will be handling both bath and bed time by myself tonight.''

''And?''

''And I'll...order your favorite takeout for dinner?''

She relaxes a little, but still looks tense. ''It's a start.''

Laurel gets it. She understands John's concern, but if Dean had come into her work and started airing her medical information to everyone while vaguely insinuating that she wasn't fit to do her job, she thinks she would have lost it on him. And she was lucky when she was pregnant. She was working at her own business, her partner was her best friend, and the majority of their staff were women. Lyla is the Director of a violent government sanctioned black ops group that is mostly full of men - and from the few conversations she's had with Lyla since she took over ARGUS, not all of those men like her or that she's in charge. No shit she's pissed at the airing of her personal medical information.

On the other hand, Laurel is also quite confident that if she were pregnant right now, she would be a nervous wreck. Just a constant state of panic. She would walk on eggshells. Follow every single rule, no matter how absurd or outdated. Every twinge would be the end of the world to her.

Lyla is not quite at that level of paranoia. But... ''Agent Chen,'' she says. ''Do you think you can take point here?''

He gives one short nod. ''Absolutely.''

''Two things before I leave you in charge. One: I'm ordering an immediate overhaul of all our cyber security systems. Which I will be overseeing...'' There's a pause before she gives in. ''Virtually. From at home.''

It is incredibly unlike her to hand over a scene and go home.

Laurel looks over at John, watching him visibly breathe a small sigh of relief.

''You're going to be my eyes and ears at the office,'' Lyla's telling Chen. ''Can you do that?''

''Yes, ma'am.''

''Good. If this was a breach, it means someone has either found or punched a hole in our supposedly secure system. I want that hole plugged. Immediately.''

''Understood.''

''Two: ...Never work with your spouse.''

Agent Chen nods, gravely serious. ''Yes, ma'am.''

Still tense, she turns back to John. ''I need to do a walk through and check on the status of the wounded,'' she says, voice tight. ''And then we will go home. Deal?''

He looks like he is still trying to figure out if it's safer to verbally answer her or just nod. He decides on both, a short nod and a, ''Deal.''

Without another look at any of them, she turns to storm away. ''And find out who the hell Rick Flag is!''

They wait until she is safely out of earshot before Dean lets out a low whistle from behind the ice pack and Laurel sidles up to John. ''Sweetie, I think you might be sleeping on the couch tonight.''

''I could've handled that better,'' he agrees. ''She hates when I draw attention to her pregnancy during business hours. She thinks it compromises her authority.''

''It shouldn't,'' Laurel says. ''But, unfortunately, statistically speaking, it likely does. Misogyny and discrimination in the workplace drastically increases during pregnancy. Especially if the woman is in a position of power and especially in male dominated careers. When I was pregnant, I went up against this old fashioned corporate lawyer and he tried to have me removed from the case because I was pregnant. Submitted a formal complaint and everything. He thought it made me an unfit liability. Apparently the hormones made me unstable.''

Agent Chen, their new BFF, puts forth a succinct, ''Ew.''

John asks, ''It didn't work, right?''

''No, and I won the case.''

''Good.''

''Still.'' Dean lowers the ice pack. ''Can you believe she wouldn't let me leave a flaming bag of dog shit on his doorstep?''

John looks at him. ''...Yes. Yes, I can.''

''I apologize for my abruptness,'' Agent Chen's voice is cautious, his eyes lowered to his watch. ''But may I cut in?'' He looks to John. ''Agent Diggle, so happy for you and the Director. Congrats again. Let me know where you guys are registered. Gift giving is my love language.'' He eyes Laurel. ''Canary, sorry about the misogyny, this country is a nightmare. But...'' His eyes dart over to Dean, but only briefly, before he leans in closer to John, lowering his voice. ''How did we just gloss over a random civilian taking down two of our men? Morris was a Navy SEAL.''

John throws a somewhat alarmed look in Dean's direction. ''You took down a Navy SEAL?''

''What - like it's hard?''

''Okay.'' Chen shakes his head. ''Who is this guy?''

''Trust me,'' says John. ''That's a question better left unanswered. Besides, he wasn't the only one who went hard today.''

''Besides,'' Laurel adds, with a cheeky smile. ''Shouldn't you know? You're the secret agent. How did you know we were married?''

''It's in his file.''

''ARGUS has a file on me?'' Dean screws his face up. ''Not sure I like that.''

''Yes, but that's all that's in his file,'' says Chen. ''There are two pieces of paper in it. One is just a basic info sheet - name, date of birth, relationship status, next of kin, his address, phone numbers, license plate, social security number - ''

''Definitely don't like that,'' Dean says, and then, after a beat, looks at Laurel. ''I have a social security number?''

Chen doesn't even pause. ''The other is literally just a blank sheet of paper with a question mark on it.''

''Wow.'' Dean sounds vaguely amused. ''That's super ominous.''

''Ah,'' John nods understandingly. ''You got the thin file.''

''The what?''

''That's a decoy file, man.''

''...Seriously, who is this guy?''

''Currently,'' Dean pipes up casually, tossing the ice pack into the van and rising to his feet. ''I'm just a dad. One who is going to be late picking his kid up from school if we don't hurry this exposition up. You've got my statement. You've had your medics check me out - and probably implant me with some kinda freaky government tracking chip - ''

''When would we have had time to do that?''

''Is there anything else you need from me? Because I'm gettin' restless over here.''

Chen stiffens up, mask of professionalism sliding right back into place. ''Yes,'' he says. ''Just a few minutes longer.'' He looks back to Laurel. ''You said a woman called you?''

''Yes. Unknown number. I've never heard the voice before. I have no idea how she got my number.''

He mulls this over for a second and then switches his attention back to Dean. ''Before the attack, did you notice anything weird about any of the other customers that sticks out in your mind?''

''Well.'' Dean pretends to think about it. ''They tried to kidnap and/or kill me. That was a little weird.''

''Any women hanging around? Scoping the place out? Familiar faces you might have seen elsewhere?''

Dean's voice is smooth and matter-of-fact as he replies, ''Everything happened fast. The only woman I noticed was the one who did this,'' he points to his head wound. ''Check the security cameras.'' ''Disabled. And cheap.''

''You got nothing from them?''

''Even if they had caught what happened, the footage is crap and as of right now, because the equipment is so outdated, it's unknown if we'll be able to clean up what we do have. I've got my guys poking around the neighborhood to check for any other cameras that might have caught anything, but we're under strict orders to be as discreet as possible. We can't just barge in and take over.''

''Sorry,'' Dean says, though he does not sound all that sorry. ''I'm not much help. I didn't notice anything until the situation went south.''

''Are you - ''

''Yes, I'm sure. I came here to grab a quick cup of coffee and some sour worms for Mary. She's having a rough time lately. I thought I'd get her an after school treat. I didn't expect to be attacked by deranged human toys. That's it. Anything else?'' He says it all so easily, with complete confidence and annoyance, never wavering once. It's so convincing.

It's also a lie.

Laurel is not sure if anyone else catches on, but she does. He never looks at her once when he's speaking, not even when he talks about Mary having a rough time, which she is assuming is a dig at her absence. He can never look at her directly when he's lying.

''You live in Avalon Park,'' John says, eyeing Dean. ''And you came all the way over the bridge, through the city, and to the Glades to get a cup of shitty 7-11 coffee and candy you could have gotten from literally anywhere else?''

Dean doesn't miss a beat. ''No, that would be ridiculous,'' he says. ''I have a bunch of errands to run today. One of those errands is running to the market down the street. That's where I get my produce. The Mendoza's have the best produce in the city.''

''That's true,'' Laurel says. ''Mr. Mendoza has connections. You haven't lived until you've tasted their peaches.''

''It's a hidden gem.''

''It is a hidden gem,'' she agrees. ''The people of Orchid Bay can keep their Whole Foods and overpriced organic juice bars. We'll stick with the Mendozas.''

''Also,'' Dean adds. ''Every time I go into one of those fancy organic grocery stories, I feel like everyone is judging me. It's like they can smell the poor on me.''

Agent Chen lowers his sunglasses enough to peer over the lenses and gives Dean a critical onceover. ''You don't think that has anything to do with...'' He gestures vaguely. ''You can't walk into a place full of Adidas and Lululemon and expect them not to raise an eyebrow at the lumberjack aesthetic you've got going on here.'' When he gets a look in return, he raises his hands. ''Not that there's anything wrong with lumberjack chic. It's very Canadian. I love Canadians. My husband's Canadian.''

Dean looks at him for a long moment. Then looks to John. ''I like him. Don't Suicide Squad him.''

John stiffens at the mention of it. ''That program has been terminated.''

''Whatever helps you sleep at night.'' He makes a show of checking his watch. ''Hey, so, we're done, right? I want to pick up some tangelos before they're sold out. Mary's on a real citrus kick recently. I'm hopin' if I indulge that craving, she'll stop asking for McDonalds eleventy billion times a day.''

''She won't,'' John deadpans. ''My kid has been to Olive Garden once and she still asks for it at every meal. Have you ever been to an Olive Garden?'' He shakes his head, looking traumatized. ''It's disgusting.''

''Wow.'' Dean looks insulted. ''No need to be cruel about it. The best birthday I ever had was at an Olive Garden. I was twelve and all by myself with bottomless free breadsticks. Don't be dissing the OG in front of me.''

John looks ready and willing to defend his anti Olive Garden stance, but something else seems to take precedence. ''Your best birthday was when you were twelve and left all alone at an Olive Garden?''

''I'm sorry, did you miss the part about the bottomless free breadsticks?''

''Aren't those breadsticks only free if you order something else?'' Agent Chen asks. ''If you just go in there and just order breadsticks, they'd have to charge you, wouldn't they?''

Dean looks at him for a second, looking like he is having a fairly disappointing light bulb moment, and then he looks to John. ''Turns out I might have stolen some breadsticks when I was twelve. Is that in my file?''

''Go get Mary her tangelos.''

''Fuckin' finally,'' he mutters, and then claps a hand on John's shoulder. ''Thanks, man.'' Before he leaves, he turns to Chen. ''Agent Chen,'' he nods. ''Nice to meet you. Shame you're part of some freaky ass government sanctioned cult. Otherwise, I would've bought you a drink.'' He takes a step away from them, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout, ''Lyla!'' He waits until she's turned around from her spot just inside the 7-11 and then gives her a wave. I'm leaving, he signs. Call me if you need anything. I owe you cookies.

She signs back, Nutella shortbread please.

He gives her a thumbs up and turns to leave, but pauses immediately, his eyes catching the ARGUS agents milling around. ''Catch you later, super sketchy government folks,'' he calls out, waving obnoxiously. ''Have fun being part of an organization that has undoubtedly committed countless atrocities and violated the Geneva Convention!'' He turns and throws one last smile - and an eyelash flutter - at John. ''Bye, John Diggle,'' he says, and then walks away.

He says nothing at all to his wife.

It is a very pointed nothing.

She watches him walk away anyway.

As does, apparently, Agent Chen. ''Did he just flutter his eyelashes at you?''

''It's the arms,'' says John, unfazed. ''Everybody loves the arms.''

''Then I guess the real question,'' Chen begins, ''is did that guy just say goodbye to everyone but his own wife?''

''Oh, it's fine,'' Laurel says, forcing a tight smile. ''I deserved that. I've caused some damage recently. There may or may not have been what could be potentially perceived as a Dear John letter.''

''Oh, ouch. I almost wrote one of those once, but then I decided to just fake my death instead.''

She waits for him to add onto that. Maybe a ''ha ha, just kidding'' but he adds nothing. He just turns and walks away, back to work. She cocks her head to the side. ''I can't tell if he was joking or serious.''

''No one ever can,'' John says.

''Nice to know ARGUS agents have personalities, though.'' She tries not to let her eyes stray over to Dean, but she fails miserably, her gaze finding him without even trying.

He's standing over by the SUV, that reliable Chevy Equinox that he hates, not peeling out of here to go buy tangelos, eyes fixed downward on his phone. She can't imagine he's going to stick around for long. He just lied through his teeth about why he was down here and what he saw. He clearly knows who this Rick Flag person is. He likely has some stuff to deal with.

But she wants to run over there and stop him. Beg him to talk to her. Tell her what really went down, what he didn't say so they can deal with it together. A bad idea. She knows that.

''You sure you're okay?''

She swivels her gaze back to John. ''Fine,'' she assures him, with a small smile. ''I should - I should give him some space, right?''

''Seems like the best thing to do right now,'' he agrees.

''Right. It's the best thing to do. I can do that. I can give him space.'' She nods her head, doing her best to sound resolute. ''I'm going to give him space.''

She looks over at Dean, the man she has shared her life with for the better part of seven years, the one who she does not remember how to sleep without, who always, always manages to piece her back together when she falls apart. He is not looking at her, will not look at her, will barely even talk to her, and suddenly it's like it all catches up to her and this unexpected burst of fear explodes in her chest. What if...

What if this is the end of the road? What if this thing between them is unfixable now, the mountain too steep to climb over? What if he wants out? It's not like she was completely unaware of this possibility when she left. She knew what she was risking when she walked out that door. But now it's like there's this part of her - the part that is so beyond exhausted, sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, desperately lonely and homesick - that is panicking. She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want this to happen to them. She doesn't want to get divorced, to be without him, to become her parents. She doesn't want to end up the cold, selfish, hollow person her mother is and she doesn't want him to become the bitter, hurt, manic person her father is now.

But aren't they already halfway there?

It seems like such a silly, premature worry, but... Is it? It's only been two weeks. Just two weeks. That's not long. Except it's not just these past two weeks. It's all of it. After everything she has put him through over the years, it would be well within his rights if he just held his hands up and said, I've had enough.

''I'm going to give him space,'' she repeats, looking back to John with a weak smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Dean slip his phone away and pull his car keys out. She watches him walk over to the Equinox, get in, and then -

And then she snaps.

''No, I'm not.'' She sends John an apologetic look and then breaks away, jogging over to the SUV. ''Wait, Dean!'' She catches him just as he is about to put the keys in the ignition, jumping into the passenger seat. ''Hey,'' she greets breathlessly. ''Wait a minute.''

He stiffens when he sees her, pulling the keys back, but he doesn't immediately tell her to get out, which seems promising.

She's not sure what to say. Please don't leave me? Beg him not to divorce her? ''Are you sure you're okay to drive?'' It's the only thing she can think of to say.

He barely even grunts out a response. ''I'm fine.''

''Okay, well, can you - can you maybe stick around for a few minutes?''

''What for?''

''I just, um...'' She trails off, unsure, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ''I wanted to - ''

''What?'' He finally looks over at her, visibly tense, impatient and gruff. ''What do you want, Laurel?''

The frustration in his voice shouldn't catch her off guard, but it does. Her voice sounds rather pathetic when she pleads, ''Can we just talk for a second?''

''What's there to talk about?''

Well, kind of a lot actually. For starters, she was just forced into her very own one woman low budget horror movie and he just tore through a pack of particularly nasty Dolls like Steve Rogers if he was Rated R.

''How did you know I was back?'' In the end, she opts to start slow. ''Back in there with Moretti. You weren't surprised when he told you I was back.''

He looks back out the front window, still tense. ''Oliver dropped by the house this morning.''

''Oh.'' Absently, she runs her fingers over her left hand. The rings that should be there aren't there anymore, but that sprawling tattoo that winds around her ring finger and creeps all the way up her arm, signaling her forever connection with her ex-boyfriend. ''I didn't tell him I was here,'' she says. ''Just so you know.''

He side eyes her, still clinging to his irritation but also slightly confused. ''...Okay?''

''I didn't want you to think I told him before I told you.''

''I didn't think that.''

''Oh. ...That's good.'' She looks out the window, watching the ARGUS agents milling around. They're mostly chatting at this point, likely discussing clean up. Most of the Dolls have been carted away at this point, either in handcuffs or via ambulance. She is not entirely sure what they intend to do with these people. She's going to have to try to keep an eye on the situation somehow. After a moment, she allows her attention to drift back to Dean. She doesn't say anything to him, but she gets the impression that he can feel her gaze.

With an inhale, he looks back at her and asks, softer, ''Do you need a ride anywhere?''

She wants to say yes. Tell him to take her back to the motel. Tell him to take her home. ''No,'' she declines, regretful. ''I'm close by.''

''You're staying in the Glades?''

''It's perfectly safe.''

''Safety isn't really what I'm concerned about,'' he says. ''They know you down here.''

''Yes. They do.''

''So that's how you're doing this then?''

She picks at her cuticles. ''I'm not going to go around making public announcements and grand I am Iron Man-like declarations, but I'm... I'm easing into it.''

''Do me a favor,'' he says after a second, calm, pausing to meet her eyes. ''At some point, when you're ready, bring Joanna into the loop with this.''

''Dean - ''

''Laurel,'' he insists. ''You're going to need her. You know you're going to need her. For a lot of reasons.''

He's not wrong. Laurel relaxes back against the seat, closing her eyes. The risk she's taking by walking around in broad daylight is not a small risk. She is making her presence known and there will undoubtedly be consequences to that. It is inevitable. Sooner rather than later, the SCPD is going to realize their dead outlaw isn't so dead after all. Which means Ike Mitchell will be out for blood. He'll have a warrant issued for her arrest within hours. If that happens - when that happens - she is surely going to need her lawyer.

And, let's be honest, she needs her best friend right now.

''I'll think about it,'' she concedes. ''If this gets out of control. If it doesn't, I don't want to put a target on her back.''

Dean doesn't look completely happy with her answer, but he seems to accept it.

Before he can tell her to leave, she bites the bullet and asks, ''What were you doing down here?''

He looks at her before he answers, eyes sweeping over her, scrutinizing her as if trying to decide if she is trustworthy. Evidently, she is. ''Do you know Madison Westlake?''

She tenses, startled by the question. That is the last thing she expected him to lead with. ''Madison Westlake,'' she repeats. ''I - Yeah.'' She frowns, confusion etched onto her face. ''I remember her. She was Madison Crawford back when I knew her.''

''Her kid goes to preschool with Mary.''

''Oh, yeah. Jemma, right?''

''Jemima. I was...'' A brief hesitation. A stutter in his stillness. ''Talking to Madison at drop off today. Turns out her sister's missing.''

''Her - wait. Paige?'' Something flashes in her head, just a two second memory, a flash of the red lights of a dark smoky club, a hand in her own, and fingers splayed against her thighs. A secret she has never told anyone. Not even Dean. ''Paige is - oh my god.'' She stops, a terrible coldness settling in her chest, feeling, inexplicably, as if the wind has been knocked out of her.

Her past flickers in her mind like a dying lightbulb. 2014 and the winter nights she would leave the house on an errand, withdraw stupid amounts of money from the ATM at the strip mall a few blocks away from home, and drive over the bridge to meet Paige Crawford in her Orchid Bay art studio. Her early twenties, her law school days, when she would borrow money from Tommy or her friend Simon and meet her at the Starbucks near the SCU's bookstore - Paige's unofficial office, the place you knew to go to when you needed something from her. And last night, standing in front of that Black Canary street art, the elaborate mural signed only with PEC.

Paige Emilia Crawford.

Paige painted the Black Canary mural across the street from the deli. Paige drew those larger than life angel wings. Paige visited Laurel's grave and saw the alis volat propriis inscription - the same phrase that's on the tattoo on Laurel's back, the one that Paige herself designed when they were nineteen and spontaneous - and added it to her mural in that delicate gold handwriting. Paige painted a eulogy for her dead old friend.

The same friend who abandoned her.

Twice.

''She...'' Laurel swallows hard. ''Paige Crawford is missing?''

Dean is looking at her closely, wary, but when she looks at him, he schools his features into a display of total ease, pretending he hadn't noticed the look on her face at all. ''Her family hasn't heard from her since Saturday,'' he says. ''Her father was supposed to pick her up on Sunday, but she was MIA when he got there. Nobody's been able to make contact since.''

''And he was supposed to pick her up here? In the Glades?''

''At the Sundowner Inn.''

''The Sundowner Inn,'' she repeats. ''The one near the laundromat?''

''That's the one.''

''That place is - ''

''A drug den,'' he finishes. ''Yeah. Apparently, it's her home base now. It's where her dealer was. I did some digging after I talked to Madison. Her father and stepmother cut Paige off financially last spring when she refused to go to a treatment center. Her mother's been transferring money to her account, just enough to keep her alive, but she lost her condo and art studio downtown and it sounds like she's been couch surfing down here ever since.'' He pauses, giving her this cautiously sympathetic look as if he thinks she is unaware of what he's about to say. ''It doesn't sound like she's doing well. She's - ''

''She's an active user,'' Laurel cuts in. ''I know.''

''Madison says it's been going on for eight years.''

''Oh it's been going on a lot longer than that.''

''Do you know what she's into?''

''Whatever she can get her hands on, I'd imagine,'' she says. ''That was how it used to be anyway. But I know...'' She picks a little too hard at her cuticles, drawing blood. She thinks of the last time she saw Paige in that Orchid Bay studio and all of the things she could have said but didn't, all the times she could have reached out but didn't because she was too scared to compromise her sobriety, too afraid of being handed something she wouldn't be able to turn down. ''I know she's into heroin.'' She looks out the passenger side window, biting at her bottom lip. She looks back over at him after a second, lips pulled down. ''Did Madison actually tell you that? That Paige is using?''

''Pretty much,'' he says. ''She was a little afraid of the word addict, but she said that Paige had called her and said she wanted to get clean. She wanted to be a part of her nieces' lives. That was why her dad was picking her up.''

Huh.

That's a pleasant surprise. Rich people, especially old money rich people like Gerard Crawford, don't usually admit to things like that. Words like heroin and addiction do not tend to be part of their vocabulary. Too messy. You keep that shit locked down tight in that world. What would the neighbors think?

Things must really have escalated with Paige over the past couple of years for her family to acknowledge the problem.

''I was, um...close to Paige at one point,'' she confesses. She knows she is going to have to elaborate. She knows she is going to have to tell him the thing she hasn't told him for going on seven years now. She's just trying to work her way up to it. ''Really close.''

''Yeah?'' Something clouds over in Dean's eyes, this almost grimace, like he was afraid she would say that. ''You've never mentioned her.''

''We haven't been close in a long time.''

''There are a lot of people you're not close with anymore that you've told me about. What makes Paige different?''

She lifts her eyes to the roof of the car, blinking a few times, inhaling sharply. Talk about a loaded question. ''I don't like to look back at that time of my life,'' she says. ''It was a - a rough patch. That said, you're right. I should have told you about Paige. Especially considering what she...was to me. She was - Uh, we were - ''

''Holy shit,'' he says, and she cuts her eyes to him. ''She was number six.''

''What?''

''Number six,'' he says, and then starts counting off on his fingers. ''Oliver, Tommy, Joanna, weirdo from law school - ''

''He wasn't weird and his name was Simon.''

''Me,'' he continues on, ''and a mysterious number six you've never told me about.''

She tilts her head to the side, a small smile curving across her lips despite the knot in her chest. ''Technically, she was number three.''

His only real reaction to that appears to be triumph that he has figured it out. ''Man, you sure do like 'em rich, huh?'' He shakes his head. ''What a downgrade I am.''

She rolls her eyes, and then looks down at her hands. ''It had nothing to do with that. We weren't - It wasn't a relationship. We just - ''

''You slept together,'' he finishes. ''She was your fuck buddy.''

''That's such a crude way to put it.''

''Booty call.''

''That's somehow even worse,'' she says, wrinkling her nose.

''Friends with benefits.''

''That's...closer, I guess,'' she confirms, albeit reluctantly. ''I thought she was fun. I needed some fun in my life.''

Which is true, for the record.

Paige Crawford was a lot of fun. It was a known fact.

She was the opposite of her sister. Madison could be bubbly, but she was awkward and there was something fake about her. She often came off as cold, snobby, and her entire life mostly revolved around Graham. Breaking up with him, making up with him, fussing over him, trying to make him love her the way she loved him, rug sweeping his constant bad behavior. Laurel hated spending time with her because it was like holding up a mirror to her own unhealthy relationship and she didn't want to see that.

Paige was different. She was more down to earth and she was incredibly charming in that smooth, elegant Carolyn Bessette kind of way. She was personable and had this easy kindness to her that put people at ease when they met her. She liked to laugh a lot. She had a great laugh. Loud, full body laughter. You could hear it from across a crowded, sweaty nightclub no matter how loud the music was. If you didn't know her very well, that was all you saw. This tall, charismatic blonde with a perma smile, an insanely gorgeous, contagious laugh, and these sparkling eyes that always seemed to tease a secret.

However, if you did know her...

''She was big in the party scene,'' she says. ''We all were back then. We all...did the same things she did. Maybe not as much, but we did it. It was just what you did. But then, with her, over the years it became all she did.''

I could have been that, she doesn't say. I so easily could have ended up just like her.

That would likely sound comically farfetched to most of the people in her life now. It's not. Back in the day, especially right after the boat went down, she spent most of her time fucked up or recovering from being fucked up or waiting impatiently to get fucked up again. Most of those fucked up nights were spent with Paige.

It's not that she was a party girl. She didn't like to party. That was the worst part of it. She just liked to get high. She liked to get drunk - blackout drunk, as a matter of fact. It was so much easier than being sober. Her boyfriend and sister had an affair and died screwing on his father's yacht while she was at home looking for apartments to move into with him and waiting patiently, like a good girl, for a ring. Her parents were broken, her father drunk, her mother gone, and they both blamed her for what had happened, for bringing Oliver into their lives, for being the daughter that lived. Of course she liked to get blasted. Who wouldn't in her situation?

When she was drunk on cheap vodka or high on whatever Paige gave her, she felt lighter. She didn't feel like she was going to die. She felt like she could breathe again. Things hurt less. It felt good. It eased the harsh sting of the grief and the humiliation. Soothed the pain of the gnawing, constant, unrelenting anger. It was just...

It was easier.

Hell, if she went out right now and got wasted, it would still be easier than being sober. That's the trap. It's easy to fall into. It's a hard one to get out of. Sometimes she is still not sure how she got out of that deep water back then. Without a doubt, there is an alternate timeline where she didn't. Where she ended up just like Paige. Maybe even one where she and Paige ended up at the bottom together.

Honestly, she just...got busy. As ridiculously simple as that sounds.

Things faded between her and Paige. Binge drinking and taking whatever she was given in dark night clubs eventually became downing coffee and strictly taking (and yes, sometimes snorting) dubiously obtained Adderall to get through the day. Then once she graduated and needed to get her career off the ground, she tapered off the Adderall and the only pills in her medicine cabinet was her prescribed Xanax and whatever antidepressant she was trying out at the time. And yes, she did abuse the Xanax for a while. But life went on. She got busier and busier. She drank less. She saved the Xanax for emergencies. She moved on. It just seemed like the thing to do. It wasn't quite sobriety and obviously it was not the end of her problems with various substances, but it was something.

For her, it was time to grow up. She didn't have a trust fund to fall back on. She could not afford to be a full time addict. She simply did not have the time for it. She wanted to be a lawyer. She had bills to pay, she had rent due, she had a job to do, another job to search for, and an eagle-eyed grandmother who was starting to catch on that something was up. She had responsibilities.

Paige did not.

She remained, like a lot of rich kids with unlimited funds and zero accountability, completely unmoored.

And so that is where she stayed; stunted and stagnant and starved, wasting away in those same sticky nightclubs and those same dark bars from here to Seattle, stuck in place while time moved on around her.

Laurel remembers seeing her once in late 2012, that one night at Max Fuller's first solo club shortly after Oliver's return. She spotted her outside after she was escorted out of the club by security because of Max's bruised ego. She was busy waiting for Joanna and trying to find a cab (and trying to avoid Cat Fuller and her claws) when she looked over and there was Paige. Standing outside in her sequined dress and heels, smoking a cigarette, makeup smudged. She looked much skinnier and she looked agitated, but it was her eyes, glassy and dazed and empty, that were the most startling.

She did not look like herself. She did not look like the girl they all used to know, the one with all that casual elegance and genuine warmth and Kennedy adjacent charm. She did not look like the gorgeous self-assured, personable Crawford girl that everyone liked, the girl who would steer you around the curves of your first high and take care of you if you were too far gone to take care of yourself. She looked like a phantom that night, standing in the shadows, silhouetted by the headlights of the cabs lingering by the curbs, unsteady on her feet. She looked like she was the one who was too far gone this time, like she was the one who needed someone to take care of her.

No one did.

Laurel didn't say anything to Paige that night. She could have, she should have, even if it was just a hello, but she didn't. She didn't ask her if she was doing okay, if she had a ride home, if she was alone. She could not even bring herself to step out of her pristine new life long enough to make sure Paige was safe. Instead, she turned away and pretended she hadn't seen her at all. Because she was pregnant and married. Because she was an entirely different person, a well respected lawyer, not an addict, not a mess. Because she had worked very hard over the years to bury the ghosts, wash away the mess, hide the chaos she used to be under thick layers of haughty self-righteousness and well tailored pencil skirts and pant suits.

But nothing ever stays buried.

Certainly not in this place.

Less than a year later, she went right back down that same rabbit hole, losing herself in the booze, the highs that made it all easier, and the hungry black hole inside of her that consumed everything but never felt full enough to be happy.

Which brings us back to Paige Crawford, that old ghost, the girl who took care of you and got you whatever you needed to make it through the day.

Laurel shifts uncomfortably in her seat, the weight of her guilt like a gnawing in her chest. ''Okay.'' Her voice sounds like a shaky croak. She chews the inside of her cheek and looks down at her hands. ''Um.'' She clears her throat. ''Do you remember...'' She pauses again. Wonders how long she can stall for. ''I've never told you this before,'' she confesses, looking back to him. ''I've never told anyone this before. Not the people at my meetings, not my sponsor, not my therapist. No one.'' In the spirit of total honesty, if it were not for this moment right here, right now, she doubts she ever would have told him either. ''You once asked me if I was buying pills off the street.'' She tries to straighten her spine. Tries not to look too frail. ''I was.''

''You were - ''

''I was getting them from Paige.''

Dean looks...not shocked, really. More disappointed. It's much worse. ''Paige Crawford was your dealer?'' His voice is harsher than expected, but she can't tell if it's anger or fear. ''You had a fucking drug dealer?''

''She wasn't - She was just...helping out a friend.''

''Oh yeah,'' he snarls. ''What a big help she was.''

''Well, there was nowhere else to - I couldn't get anything anywhere else. My doctor wouldn't - ''

''Laurel, you almost fucking died!''

''I know that.''

''Does she know that? Does your former fuck buddy know she could have killed you with that shit?''

''She didn't do anything!'' She raises her voice, turning her body in the seat. ''She didn't have anything to do with what happened that night. I did. I was the one who made a choice.''

''I'm well aware of your choices, thanks.''

She presses her lips together and stares at him, waiting, but he refuses to even look at her. ''I'm sorry I never told you.''

He is quiet for a moment, but then, just when she thinks he's not going to acknowledge what she said at all, he asks, ''Were you ever going to tell me?''

''Probably not.''

He nods, but doesn't verbally respond. His gaze is still fixed out the window. ''How many times?''

''...More than once.''

''That's not the answer I'm looking for.''

''I don't know. Maybe four or five?''

''How did you - '' He doesn't seem to want to continue. ''How did you pay for it?''

''How did I - '' She stops, unsure why he sounds so terrified to ask that question and then she realizes. ''Oh god, no. No, I - With money, Dean. Not with - I would never do that to you.'' She shakes her head emphatically. ''And she would never ever ask that of me.''

He takes that in without a word, seemingly processing. She's not sure what she's waiting for. Anger maybe? Disgust? Eventually, he just says, ''Guess that explains where all our money was going back then.'' No real anger. No disgust. Just matter-of-fact. In this light, he looks more tired than angry. ''I tried to tell myself it was just binge drinking and drunken online shopping, but... Should've known.''

''To be fair,'' she starts, attempting a lighter tone of voice. ''There was also a lot of that going on. Why do you think we own six Snuggies?''

''I thought those were for guests,'' he says, and he says it so seriously that she's not sure if he's joking.

''I bought a wine holder shaped like a giant stiletto.''

''I know,'' he says, and finally cracks a smile. ''I see it every time I walk into the garage. Which reminds me - we should have a garage sale at some point during the summer. You picked up some borderline hoarding habits from your grandparents.''

''I'm just sentimental.''

It's lighthearted ribbing, just normal banter between spouses, and it should make her feel at home, but it's halfhearted at best. Nothing feels the way it used to. The way it should. He's angry, she's guilty, and they're both shattered. They are not themselves. She can't remember the last time things were this uncomfortable between the two of them. She's not sure it has ever been this troubled between them, this disorienting. Even at the beginning, back when they barely knew each other, there was an ease, like they'd known each other for years. They fit together. Made each other comfortable. There was always something to talk about.

Things are different today.

There is a lot to say, but neither one of them knows how to say it. It's not about the length of time they've been apart. It's not about the distance. It's about how she did it.

''What'd you buy from her?'' He is trying to sound casual when he asks this, visibly attempt to relax his tense shoulders, but she knows him too well to buy it. ''Just the Xanax?''

She folds her hands in her laps and forces herself not to pick at her cuticles. ''Mostly.'' She doesn't bother dancing around it. ''Sleeping pills. Klonopin.'' She picks at a bloodstain on her jeans that she doesn't know the origin of. She's guessing the guy whose eyes she gouged out. ''The last time, I asked her if she could get me some Percocet.''

''Percocet,'' he repeats.

''I thought... I don't know. I don't know what I thought. I don't know why I asked for that.'' It's such a stupid thing to say. I don't know why I asked for that. Of course she knows why she asked for that. She asked for drugs because she was an addict. Is an addict.

''Right.'' He doesn't really look at her differently when she says this. There is no judgment. But he looks sad. There is an undercurrent of what she thinks is fear there, even, for whatever reason, guilt. ''So. Oxy.'' Yes. Definitely fear.

Laurel chews the inside of her cheek.

Sounds awful when you say it like that. Actually sounds terrifying. It's interesting, you know. When you're in it, deep in it, lost and aimless and craving, it doesn't seem all that scary. Addiction can be a bizarrely methodical thing once you're that far gone. You take the upper, then the downer, or sometimes the other way around. You take this to take the edge off the comedown, that to quell the nausea and the shakes, and the other thing to help you sleep.

And that's it.

That's your life. The whole thing. Everything else fades to the background. It becomes routine. One day, you are a whole person. The next, you're in pieces; illegally buying drugs from an old fuck buddy because you can't make it through the day without them. You rationalize it in your head in a way that makes sense, you make excuses, you lie, you take the pills, you don't realize or don't care how sick you are, and then you die. Eventually it all ends there. Everything dies. It doesn't seem scary when you're in it.

It seems scary now.

Especially when she is sitting here and her husband, who loves her, who lived through her addiction with her and scraped her off the bottom, is looking at her like that. Especially when she is thinking about Paige, someone who did the same things she did, felt the same things she felt, and wound up going so far down the road that she couldn't find her way back.

It was a slow but steady trajectory for Paige. First the party drugs, the coke and the molly and the acid, then the Adderall and Xanax abuse, then the Oxy, the harder drugs, and then, finally, the heroin.

One slip, one wrong turn, one fork in the road, and that is how Laurel's story could have ended.

''I guess that makes sense,'' Dean's saying. ''That was what you stole from your father, right?''

What she stole from her father, what got her arrested, what got her fired and nearly disbarred. And she still ended up going back for more. ''Yes.''

''She at least give you the friends and family discount?''

''Think she overcharged me actually. Payment for abandoning her all those years ago, I suppose.''

''Laurel.'' There is an edge to his voice that she can't put her finger on. He doesn't finish his sentence for a few seconds. ''Do you know how often street Xanax is cut with fentanyl?''

''I do. I did.'' How could she not? Even back then, standing in Paige's art studio, handing over the money, she knew. ''I just didn't care.'' A shameful revelation, perhaps, but not one that should be in any way surprising.

Despite the way people cover their ears, avert their eyes, and pretend it's not happening, the opioid crisis is not something quiet. It does not just exist in the shadows. It is a real monster, deadly and pervasive and far scarier than any witch or urban legend could ever be. It crosses state lines, ravages entire countries, wipes out entire families, leaving behind nothing but destruction and grief and rage in its wake. It strikes hard and fast, an epidemic started by drug companies that target people below the poverty line because they're easy targets and even the rich one percenters because of their easy access to drugs. It does not discriminate. And it never ends.

Every day, a new wave of overdoses threatens to overwhelm the fragile, heavily flawed system that is American healthcare. It is something plain as day to Black Canary, the driving force behind all vigilantes now carrying Narcan with them when they go out on patrol. It is plain as day to Laurel Lance, a devoted attendee of not only Alcoholics Anonymous but Narcotics Anonymous. In the NA group she used to frequent, every other person there had lost someone they knew to an overdose. She knows the dangers of buying off the streets. She knew it before she did it, she knew it while she was doing it, and she sure as hell knows it now.

She just simply could not find it in her to care back then. At that point in her life, she was drinking from the time she woke up to the time she went to sleep and abusing every drug she could get her hands on, including the Percocet she stole from her father. She was very, very ill. She was a full blown addict who could no longer hide it.

Dean still, even knowing this, witnessing it first hand, sounds hurt. ''No, of course not,'' he says. ''Why would you? Not like you had anything worth staying for back then, right?''

She wants to say something, but finds herself unable to speak for several seconds. ''That's not - '' It comes out in a croak. ''You know that's not how it works. It's not that you weren't enough. It was never that you weren't - ''

''Yeah, yeah, I know,'' he cuts her off, voice gruff. ''It had nothing to do with us.''

Suppose she can't blame him for his bitterness. She bought pills from Paige approximately four or five times between December of 2013 and February of 2014. Every time she did it, she hated herself a little more. It chipped away at her. But she still did it. She wallowed and whined and couldn't look at herself in the mirror. But she went back, time and time again, because the truth, the one that she will never speak out loud, is...

Well, no.

Dean and Mary weren't enough.

As appalling as that sounds, no, they were not enough. Nothing was. Love does not cure addiction. Every time she went there, she would tell herself it was the last time. She would swear it. She would be adamant. There could not be a next time. The thing that gets her, the worst part of it is that she knows that if she hadn't tried to kill herself that one night in February, she absolutely would have gone back. Even when she was detoxing in the hospital, she was thinking about it.

In the end, she is one of the lucky ones.

Paige wasn't.

Now she's trapped in another web.

The realization is like cold water being dumped over her head. Laurel left her family behind, walked out on them in the middle of the night, put miles and miles of distance between her and her whole world to keep them safe, keep them out of this, and Edie still found a way to screw her. Still found a way to hurt her by hurting someone else.

The sudden shock of pain, all those bad memories and regrets and secrets, sits in her throat. She doesn't know if it's a scream or a cry, but it sits there, a weight, and it must be visible on her face because when Dean speaks again, his voice is low, softer.

''I'm not trying to hurt you,'' he says. ''I'm just - I didn't...'' He sighs, closing his eyes. His shoulders slump in something like resignation. ''I didn't do a great job of taking care of you back then, did I?''

All at once, the rock in her throat turns into a bout of incredulous laughter. ''Are you kidding me?'' She blinks a few times to clear her glassy, wet eyes. ''What more could you have done? You did everything. You were amazing. You were the only one...'' There are so many different ways to finish that thought and yet none of them feel like enough.

She thinks of Madison, Paige's twin who she tried to protect the best that she could. Tried, repeatedly, to get her away from Graham, shielded her from the hardcore party scene, from all the designer drugs and deadened hazes. She thinks of Gerard and Veronica Crawford, who love all of their children openly, unconditionally, in a way that is uncommon for waspy elites but who enabled her too much during her youth, turned a blind eye one too many times. She thinks of the older brother, Reid, who tried so hard to get Paige to calm down, cool it with the parties and the clubs, and of the younger sister, Brooke, who wanted nothing more than to be like her cool big sister. They all must be worried sick right now.

Laurel bets she knows exactly what they're thinking, what they're afraid of, the thing they don't want to say out loud. It is difficult to love an addict. To wonder and wait and dread the day something like this happens. The day you can no longer get a hold them. The day the check in phone calls or texts stop. When that precarious bridge over troubled waters finally gives way.

She can imagine it so clearly in her head. Veronica sitting by her phone, full of fear and resigned grief and maybe, deep down, a tiny bit of relief while she waits for that phone call from the cops informing her of her daughter's inevitable overdose.

None of them has any idea what's really happened.

''I left her,'' she says eventually, breaking the silence. ''I knew she was in trouble, I knew she was sick, and I just left her there and never looked back.''

Beside her, Dean asks, softly, ''What could you have done?''

''I could have helped her. I saw how bad she was. I knew where she was going. I could have said something. I - I know what it's like.''

''No,'' his voice is kind but firm. ''You don't. This is heroin, Laurel. Whole different ballpark. You were far from that.''

A fleeting melancholic smile crosses her face and she turns to look at him. ''None of us are far from that.''

It's not what he wants to hear, it never is, but he can't argue with it.

''This is Edie,'' she says. ''She took her. She took her to get to me.''

''Maybe. Maybe not. It could be nothing,'' he tries. ''According to Madison, Paige told her that she wanted to get clean. She could have just changed her mind. Decided she wasn't ready. It happens.''

''Do you really believe that's what happened here?''

He doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.

''You know this has Edie and Moretti written all over it,'' she continues. ''This is their brand of cruelty all the way. Him, especially.''

He looks like he has arrived at the same conclusion, but wants to give her hope anyway. ''How would they know about Paige? I didn't even know about her.''

''Edie knows a lot of things,'' says Laurel. ''She's in my head. Sometimes she likes to dig around and see what she can find.'' She says it plainly, simply, because at this point she's numb to it. It is what it is. They are what they are. Chained together until the end of this, however it ends. She forgets not everyone is as used to it as she is.

''Right,'' he says. He looks like he's trying not to appear too shaken by what she's said and the casual way she's said it, but he's having a hard time. She can understand that.

''Dean, I - Listen. I just...want you to know Paige isn't a bad person. She's in a rough spot and she's sick, but - ''

''I'm not going to stop looking for her just because she was your dealer,'' he cuts in. ''That was never in question.''

''Oh. Well. ...Good then.''

''I'm not that petty.''

''No, I - I know that. Just...'' She fiddles with the necklace around her neck. ''She's a good person. I wanted you to know that. She just got lost. Any one of us could have ended up where she is.''

Paige is more than lost and they both know that, but he doesn't say that out loud. Doesn't warn her that this might not have a happy ending. He just looks at her for a moment, silent, like he is trying to determine what her state of mind is, and then says, ''Whatever happens, it's not your fault. You get that, right?''

She can't help but scoff. ''Thank you, but I think we both know that's not true. If Edie has her, it's because of me.''

''If Edie has her, it's because of Edie.'' He is being exceedingly patient with her. It's much more than she deserves from him right now. ''Her choices are hers, Laurel. This has way less to do with you than you think it does. Girl's one sandwich short of a picnic. You had nothing to do with that. You just - ''

''Got caught in the crossfire?''

''Something like that.'' A beat. ''But you're never going to believe that, are you?''

She can't answer that. Like, she physically cannot speak. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Honestly, no. She's never going to believe that.

''What's going to happen,'' he starts, voice slow, considering, ''if this Paige thing has nothing to do with Edie at all? What are you going to think then?''

''I'm going to think that I should have helped her a long time ago.''

''How? Did she ask? Did she want help? I'm seriously asking here, honey. She is a long way down. You know as well as I do that someone in her position isn't going to accept help until they're ready.''

''I know that,'' she says. ''I do. But she was my friend.''

''Addicts don't have friends. They have drugs.''

He does not say it harshly, and she knows he's not trying to be hurtful but the comment still makes her feel bruised. He's right, is the thing. That's the kicker. For addicts, there are the drugs and then somewhere far away, always out of reach, there is everything else. That's how it was for her. Almost every friend she had before her spectacularly brutal fall from grace is lost to her now. Joanna stuck with her the best she could, too stubborn for her own good, but even she is distant in a way she never was before. Nobody wants to deal with that kind of mess. It's understandable.

She wonders how many people Paige has. There's Madison, of course, her twin, a part of her, but she has two kids, two more on the way, a husband who - if he's still the same person he was ten years ago - has a rather chilling knack for isolating her from her family. There's her brother, Reid, and sister-in-law slash former best friend, Poppy, but they've taken over the Crawford family company, something in the aerospace industry, and relocated to Seattle. Her mother retired to Bainbridge Island after the divorce. Brooke lives on the other side of the world in Australia. There's her father and his thirtysomething wife number four, but she can't exactly imagine Paige running to Gerard for comfort. He loves his children very much, but he's still an old man who was raised in a very different time with very different ideas on what a father is supposed to be.

Addiction is a lonely thing.

Paige must have felt terribly, terribly alone.

''Thank you for telling me about Paige,'' Laurel says. ''I'll keep an eye out.'' They both know Canary's going to do much more than that.

''If you want, I can text you all the info I have,'' he suggests. ''Might require you to look at your phone instead of ignoring me.''

''I can do that.''

Evidently, he does not believe her because, without a word, he leans across her, opens the glove box, fishes out a pen, and then takes a folded up piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it, jots a few things down on the back, and hands it over.

It's Paige's missing poster. She takes it, but can't bring herself to look at it for too long, folding it up and slipping it in her pocket. ''Thank you.''

He nods, back to all business. He looks at his watch without really looking at his watch. ''I should get going.''

''Oh. Right.'' She doesn't move.

''Laurel - ''

''Who's Rick Flag?''

All at once, his body language shifts. His entire body tenses, face tightening into a mask of harsh indifference and blatantly false blankness. ''Why are you asking me?'' His voice is even, but she recognizes a lie when she hears it. ''How should I know?''

''Sweetheart, come on, I know you recognized that name.''

''I don't know what you're talking about.''

''Uh-huh.''

''Seriously. Never heard of him.''

Still with the lies.

She could theoretically push the issue, poke and prod until she annoys the truth out of him, but they have both tried hard not to make that part of their relationship and this seems like a monumentally shitty time to start. Besides, she recognizes that edge to his voice and the tension in his shoulders.

Whatever skeletons Dean has locked away in the trunk of his haunted old car, he wants no help with it.

It would be hypocritical of her to force him to tell her everything when she knows she will not be returning the favor. After all, she has no plans to tell him about a lot of things. The thing in her bathtub, for starters. The increasingly frequent bouts of mysterious illnesses, fevers, and hallucination. The ever changing landscape of her nightmares. Vomiting up blood and nails and graveyard dirt. The gaping wound on her shoulder. Everything that happened in California.

He can keep Rick Flag.

She'll keep Helena.

''All right,'' she says, and drops it. Just like that. It would, she knows, be best to go. She shouldn't push her luck. She just...needs a second to work up to it.

It's always hard to leave him. Whether he is aware of it or not, Dean Winchester has a certain kind of gravity that she has never before encountered. It's easy to fall into his orbit. It's damn near impossible to walk away.

Back in 2010, in Seattle, when she barely knew him and he barely knew her, he put her on a bus back to Starling after everything and she could not, for the life of her, understand why leaving this man made her chest ache.

Last April, when she stood in the cold space between life and death with Death Himself standing before her, it was so excruciating to leave her husband that her mind created a child she could look at and think of him to protect her from the trauma of leaving.

Two weeks ago, when she finally accepted that the writing was on the wall, she took the coward's way out and left in the middle of the night while all was quiet because she knew she would not be able to look in his eyes and then walk away.

Dean is the safest shore she has ever known. He is the only person who has ever been able to make her feel completely 100% unafraid. And she has been afraid these past two weeks. It feels like that's all she ever is now.

Laurel remains in the passenger seat, mind going a mile a minute, trying to determine whether or not it would be okay to touch him. Probably not, right? I mean, she really fucked up. A hand on the knee is not going to fix this.

Even a blow job is not going to fix this.

''Did - Did you get my letter?''

It's a silly question to ask. Course he got the letter. There's no way he could have missed it. Whether or not he read it is up in the air.

Dean bristles at the question, but doesn't kick her out of the car. ''Did you think it would help?''

''I hoped.''

''You hoped a few sorry words on a piece of paper would - what? What was it supposed to do? Make it better? Magically make you walking out on your family okay?''

''I hoped it would explain things,'' she tries. ''I wanted you to get it.''

''I don't.''

''I see that.''

''You left her.'' His voice is colder now, like stone. ''You left her.''

''I did.''

''I'm never going to get that,'' he tells her. ''If you want to leave me, that's fine. I can understand that, but how do you do that to our kid? After everything she's been through? She thinks you're the most amazing person to ever walk the earth. She thinks you're magic. And you just...'' He looks over at her, steely eyed and biting. ''You left her.''

''I thought - '' Her voice sounds like a pitiful whimper. ''I did what I thought was best.''

It's far from good enough for him. If anything, it only seems to make his hurt and anger worse. ''Yeah, my dad used to say shit like that too.''

She can't help but flinch. ''...Ouch.''

He just shakes his head, his stormy hurt and anger festering. ''You did what you thought was easy.''

''You think this was easy?'' There is a version of this story where she fights fire with fire. Where her own anger and frustration comes pouring out and they exchange heated words that only make things worse, widens the crater between them. She is determined not to make that this story. She is too tired for anger, too worn out, too raw. Her shoulder hurts. She has likely lost a lot of blood. She's lonely. What good would it do? What would it change? ''However you feel about me and what I did, you need to know that walking out of that house was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.''

''But you did it,'' he throws back, predictable in his harsh response. ''And you didn't have to do it. Don't fucking tell me you had to do it. That's bullshit. You made a choice.''

She nods her head agreeably. ''I did, yes.''

''What was your plan anyway? What were you going to do? Spend the rest of your life playing a fucked up game of cat and mouse with your demented cousin?''

''No.''

''Then what was the plan?''

It's a valid question. One she's not totally sure how to answer. She weighs the options in front of her. Lie or tell the truth. Which is worse? ''I wanted her to chase me,'' she says. ''I wanted to lead her as far away from here as possible.''

''And then what? What were you going to do then? Go up against her? Fight her and her cult all by yourself? Laurel, you would have died.''

That is very plausible, yes. In a fight to the death, she would have most likely been outnumbered by Edie's Doll's and, considering Edie's own power level coupled with Marlene Moretti's, outgunned. And she did know that. She has never not known that. She looks up from picking at a hole in her jeans to meet his eyes. ''But I would have taken her with me.''

A look that she has never seen before, something dark and haunted, passes through his eyes. ''And there it is,'' his voice is hostile, tinged with something thick and heavy, like grief. ''It always comes back to that, doesn't it?''

''Comes back to what?''

He looks at her and for a second, it's like he can't recognize her. But then he brushes past it and tries to sweep everything under the rug. ''Nothing. Forget it.'' He busies himself pulling his keys back out, sticking them in the ignition but pausing before he turns them. ''Can you get out of my car? I really need to get out of here.''

''No.'' She tenses up, narrowing her eyes. ''Comes back to what? What were you going to say?''

He sighs and closes his eyes. He rubs at his face tiredly and mutters under his breath, ''This fucking day.'' Finally, he looks at her and asks, ''Do you want to die?''

There is a period of unbearable quiet between them after he asks that question. Maybe a second where she can't quite decide how to react to that. She has her own questions – why on earth would he ask her that? How could he? Did she make him? Is there something she has done recently to make him wonder? How long has this been a question for him? Is that what he thinks this is about?

She finds herself switching rapidly from guilt to indignation to regret and then back again, but what she finally lands on is anger. It is a much easier thing to cope with than the guilt that remains just under the surface, simmering away, ready to boil over. Anger she can do. If there is one thing she's good at it is righteous anger. Defensive is her default. She can roll with that. And you know what?

What a fucking stupid question to ask anyway.

Since 2014, she has done everything in her power to prove to everyone – including, at some points, herself - that she wants to live. She has done the work. She has walked with purpose. She has, she thought, made declarations. Announced her intentions to live. Yet here they are. Years after that night and he still thinks she wants to die? Perhaps anger is not the correct response to the question, but her frustration bubbles up anyway.

This vehicle is suddenly too small for the both of them. She pinches her lips together to keep herself from saying something she might regret later and turns away from him, fumbling with the door handle. She spills back out into the overcast day, taking in a few breaths of fresh air.

Despite his previous proclamations that he needs to leave, Dean follows her out into the open air, driver's side door slamming shut behind him.

She turns on him the second she feels him behind her. ''Why the hell would you ask me that?''

''Because I don't know!'' He sounds exasperated, helpless, and unwilling to let go of his own resentment. ''I don't! How am I supposed to know the answer to that question?''

''How are you - Because you know me!''

''Maybe that's the fucking problem, Laurel!''

She tries not to recoil at the blow, but she knows she fails.

He looks, for a second, remorseful, visibly taking a breath, but it doesn't seem to do much to quell his aggravation. ''Look – '' He stops, cutting himself off with a look over her shoulder, likely at the ARGUS agents. ''Let's be honest here for a second.'' He steps closer to her, voice lower, but still just as urgent. ''You're not in a good place right now. I see that. Everyone can see that. And – yeah, you're right, I do know you. I know that you've got at least one suicide attempt under your belt. I know that means something.''

She is pitifully unable to maintain eye contact with him.

''I know that night wasn't the first time you've thought about it,'' he goes on, ''and I know it probably wasn't the last. I know you've got a history of depression, addiction, and impulsive, reckless self-harming decisions.''

''Oh my god, that is not - ''

''You know it's true. You know it is. And now I know it's...'' There is a sudden hesitation, a look in his eyes like he's wondering if what he's about to say is going to cross a line that can't be uncrossed. He apparently decides it's worth it to cross it anyway. ''It's in you,'' he says. ''It runs in your family. You've got an aunt that's spent most of her adult life trying to die, a dangerously unstable cousin, and a long line of sad dead women in your history. There is a darkness in your bloodline. We can't just pretend that's not a thing.''

''I get it!'' It comes out a harsh and overly defensive snap. ''Believe it or not, I know my own history. But if you know all that then you know how hard I've worked to get better.''

''Is this better?'' His voice raises, not in anger, but in desperation. ''Look at you. You're out there all by yourself, fucked up and traumatized. You look like hell. I don't even know if you've been...'' He never says it, just gesturing uncertainly, but he doesn't have to.

''I haven't been drinking,'' she says, forcing herself to sound as calm as she possibly can. She doesn't know if he'll believe her, he has no real reason to, but she has to say it. She has to tell him.

In retrospect, it really is something to be proud of.

She has made it through two weeks of loneliness and not a drop of alcohol has touched her tongue. It's an accomplishment for someone like her.

He is still skeptical. He is looking at her dubiously, with sharp eyes he cannot seem to soften. He sighs again. He sighs a lot around her. She seems to be able to do a number on him just by existing. He looks like he's in pain just talking to her. Guess all the others can finally welcome him to their Anti Laurel Lance club now. There are some weirdos on Twitter who will be more than glad to have another person on their side. ''You've spent the years since that night working on your mental health, keeping your sobriety, putting in all this effort - and then immediately turning around and shoving your nose into ridiculously convoluted, dumbass life or death situations like you don't give a shit what happens to you,'' he accuses. ''And you think it's out of line for me to wonder what it is you want?''

''That's not what - '' She squeezes her eyes shut, takes a breath, and tries to swallow it down. She knows, logically, that her fiery indignation is not going to help anything, but it is hard to feel anything other than extremely defensive. ''I don't think that's fair.'' Her voice, shaky, almost steely, is not as calm as she would like it to be.

''I don't think any of this is fair,'' he throws back. ''But here we are.'' He pauses, looking at her like he needs her to say something to fix this, but she can't give him that. ''I get that Black Canary helped you,'' he continues. ''I know she gave you focus. I know you talk about this like it saved your life. Like she saved your life. But did she? Or was all of this just a different way to die?''

''No,'' she says it with as much conviction as she can possibly muster. ''No.''

''Black Canary,'' he starts to list, ticking items off on his fingers. ''Edie, the booze, the drugs, the way you throw yourself into helping your loser ex until there's nothing left of you for your own family, everything you've done to keep yourself at arm's length from Mary. I mean, we got married and had a kid and then you just fucking bounced. You started acting like your life was some garbage thing you needed to run from. How can I not wonder if what you're really looking for is an exit when you've spent the past couple of years acting like you'd rather die or devote yourself to Oliver than spend time with us?''

''I'm not.'' She wants to move closer to him, to touch him, make him look at her the way he used to, but she feels hopelessly rooted to the ground, unable to get to him even when he is only two steps away. ''I'm not looking for an exit,'' she says again, pleading. ''Dean, please. Please. That was never what any of this was about.''

''Okay, well...'' He pauses, trailing off, a gloomy look passing through his eyes. He doesn't say anything else for a second, very obviously trying not to look at her. There is a truth written all over his face that neither of them want to confront. It's in his eyes, the way he looks at the bruises littering her skin when he finally looks back to her, the way he's angled away from her like he expects something bad is going to happen to her, something he can't bear to watch. ''I don't think I can trust that.'' It is a revelation that comes quietly, something he says with no particular heat in his voice, just sorrow. Something tells her he has been keeping that one in for a long time. ''I don't think I can trust you.''

The worst part of it is that when she thinks about it, when she really thinks about it, she's not sure she's all that surprised.

''I want to.'' He sounds truthful when he says this, earnest and raw, flayed open just for her. ''You have no idea how much.''

''I don't want to die,'' she says, straightening up as she says it, as if the words and her confidence saying them are enough of a magic spell to get him to believe her. ''I don't want to die. I wouldn't rather be with Oliver than with you. I have never once felt like that. I swear. I swear, Dean. I don't want to die.''

''I'm not trying to be an asshole,'' he says, softer, but still disbelieving. ''I don't want to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I'm just trying to say...'' He doesn't seem to want to say the rest. ''You scare me,'' he says after a pause. ''You scare me, Laur. It's fucking terrifying to love you.''

She does not flinch at the words, although, boy, does it ever sting. She doesn't know what to say in return. She had no idea he was living with this fear. He never told her. She feels terrible that she never knew, that she never saw it. How excruciating that must have been.

In the aftermath of her overdose back in 2014, they went to couples counseling. She was attending AA and NA meetings as often as she could, sometimes as often as twice a day, had weekly appointments with therapists and psychiatrists and addiction specialists, everything that was available in outpatient treatment, even going so far as to go to a spiritual healer recommended to her by Cas. The one thing that was heavily recommended to her by multiple people was that she and her husband should see someone together.

It made sense to her. What happened had affected her entire family. She had a nervous breakdown. She was an alcoholic, a pill addict, a junkie. She tried to kill herself. And he watched it happen. Watched her slip under the water, draw farther and farther into herself, away from him. Eventually, he was the one who had to pick her lifeless body up off the bedroom floor, throw her in a cold shower, and stick his fingers down her throat. It made sense that he would need to talk to someone too.

It took some cajoling, but for three months, every two weeks they went to the same office downtown and they sat on that couch while their counselor, Lynn, helped them repair the ropes of their marriage that had frayed under the weight of the past year.

Dean was not necessarily what you would call open, especially not in the beginning. He cheated the system, danced around certain locked doors without ever opening them, put on a performance just real enough that Lynn believed it. He conned their marriage counselor, basically. They made it through nearly a month of sessions before Laurel looked over at him one day, noticed that his body language and facial expressions were completely unidentifiable to her, and realized that her grifter spouse was mirroring Lynn to get her to lower her defenses and feel comfortable with the ''progress'' he was making.

He didn't even realize he was doing it. It's just what he does when he's in an unknown situation. When he's uncomfortable - or, more often, bored - he slips. He approaches the situation, whatever it may be, like a hunter. He works the case. He brings out the cold reading, the mirroring, the charm, and all the psychological tricks he picked up over the years, oozing just enough charisma either to con his way over to the nearest exit or to make himself a plate at the table. Which was great when he wanted to make a good first impression on her grandparents, but not so great when they were in marriage counseling.

She had been so unbelievably pissed off at him. The day she realized what he was doing, they went home and had probably one of their top ten fights about it. She begged him to take it seriously, he insisted he was, she didn't believe him, and around and around they went. Ultimately, he did do the work. He was still far more closed off than she was in the sessions, but he dropped the act, lowered his wall enough to talk, to listen, to participate, to do the trust falls and the exercises. It seemed to help.

At least she thought it did. She thought they were in the best place they had ever been after those three months. She thought they were steady. Rock solid. It hadn't occurred to her that he was thinking anything else. It hadn't occurred to her that he could still be scared. Never once in those three months did he say anything to suggest he was going to spend the rest of their lives waiting for her to die.

Nevertheless, here they are now, in the midst of a separation, more weak and flimsy than rock solid, and he is being more honest than he ever had been with Lynn.

''I don't know if I can keep doing this with you,'' he's saying, nearly begging.

''What - What does that mean?''

''It means - I don't know, Laurel. I don't know what to do here. Do you ever just wonder if maybe...'' He doesn't say the rest. He looks over at the 7-11. He eyes the ARGUS agents milling around the property. A disgruntled look crosses his face, fading away almost faster than it appeared. ''We're not the same people we were when we got married, are we?''

Something about the way he says it gives her this sickening jolt of dread. ''No,'' she admits. ''We're not.'' Panic rises in her chest, up her throat. ''Tell me what I can do to make this better,'' she pleads. ''Tell me what I can do to make you trust me again.''

''I don't know if it's that simple.''

''I don't understand,'' she gets out, feeling winded. There is something else fluttering in her chest now, rising above the panic and dread. ''Have you just been...waiting for me to slip up this whole time?'' When they were in counseling, Lynn once made them do those clichéd trust falls. It was mostly pointless in Laurel's eyes. They were there to work through what had happened over the past year. It was about grief, addiction, and depression. It wasn't about a lack of trust. Neither one of them had any doubt about that. She certainly didn't. She knew he would be there to catch her, the way he always is. She never stopped to think that maybe the reason he's so good at catching her when she falls is because he doesn't trust her to say on her own two feet. ''Do you honestly have that little faith in me?''

''It's not about faith,'' he tells her. ''It's about choices. It's about your choices. I found you half dead on our bedroom floor because you swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. I stood there and watched you convulse and die because you decided being Betty Badass was more important than being a mother. You come back to life, you get your second second chance, and then you turn around and walk away from it.''

''I wasn't walking away from it! I was trying to protect you!''

''You were trying to punish yourself,'' he throws back at her. ''We were barely part of that equation.''

''I wasn't trying to - ''

''Yes, you were. You do that.''

''I don't.''

''You do.'' He looks at her, eyes hard. ''Isn't that what your mother taught you to do?''

She winces slightly. Then she hardens. Feels her fists clench, her throat ache. ''And what did your father teach you, Dean?''

He doesn't take the bait, but it seems to take a bit of the steam out of him. ''What happened in Seabeck - ''

''I don't want to talk about that.'' It's an instant reaction. She doesn't think about it, just immediately starts shaking her head, taking a step back. ''I don't want to talk about Seabeck.''

Frustration flashes in his eyes, a white hot flicker. ''Well, maybe I do!'' His shout is loud and angry enough to make her jump. ''Maybe I fucking do! Am I not the one who bled out? Was that not my body in the dirt? You do not get to tell me I can't talk about what happened to me! You don't get to do that. It was awful. It sucked. Dying hurts. It hurt. But it happened to me. I get to talk about it. And don't - '' He points a finger at her when he notices the way her face crumples, tears filling her eyes. ''Don't you dare do that,'' he warns. ''Don't you dare start crying.''

''Dean - ''

''You left because it was another excuse to stay miserable. You left because you always do. You always choose misery over us because you think that's what you deserve. You left because - ''

''Because why?'' There is something about the tone of his voice, the shakiness, the twinge of guilt that raises her hackles.

He says nothing.

''Because I'm sick,'' she says for him, deadpan. ''That's it, right? That's your whole thing right now, isn't it? You think I'm crazy. Too crazy to trust. Too crazy to be a mother.''

''Don't put words in my mouth. You know that's not what I said.''

''It's what you meant. It's what you've been saying this whole time,'' she bites out. ''You don't trust me. You can't even count on me to keep myself alive.''

''Laurel.'' He sounds drained. ''I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to keep losing you. I have spent more than half of our relationship worrying about you making some stupid choice that takes you away from us forever and I don't want to do it anymore. It's not fair. It's not...'' There is no bitterness in his voice anymore, no malice, no frustration. He seems as shaky as she does. He looks away, composing himself. ''Listen,'' he says. ''Honey, if it was just us, just you and me...'' He takes a small step closer to her. ''There is nothing that could ever keep me from you. I'd be all yours for good. You know that, right?''

Stunned, she has no response. Not even a nod.

Her silence does not deter him in the slightest. ''If things got bad,'' he continues. ''If you deteriorated the way I know you're afraid of deteriorating, I'd still be there. Right by your side. Every day. No doubt in my mind. Relapse, mental illness, generational trauma, witchcraft, a fuckin' ancient heirloom curse - whatever. Bring it on. I can handle anything for you. I would spend the rest of my life taking care of you,'' he says softly. ''And I wouldn't regret a single second of it.''

She cannot speak. She doesn't know how she can possibly respond to that. What does one say to something like that?

''And that would be my choice,'' he goes on. ''I know you well enough to know that you would feel guilty. Hell, you'd probably try to White Fang me.'' He smiles at her. It feels like it's been forever since he smiled at her. ''It seems like something you would do,'' he says, a faint twinge of amusement in his eyes. ''Wouldn't work on me. Not for anything in the world. You'd be stuck with me. You think there's someone else out there for me? You think there's someone better? No. You're it. Just you.''

She feels, now, like she knows what it was like for him the night she left. Before she wrote those letters, when she stood in their bedroom and told him all the things she loved about him, poured her heart out to him, and he balked at the praise, flinched at all the tender, loving words because he knew there was a 'but' that was coming that was going to hurt like hell.

That's how she feels now.

Underneath every sweet word, every promise, every declaration of love is a thick layer of grief. Grief that she put there long before she died on April 6th, 2016.

''You're it, Laurel,'' he says again, fiercer. ''No matter how it ends. I'd still choose you. Every time, I'd choose you. If it was just us...'' He looks pained and desperate, like he so badly wants to touch her but can't bring himself to reach out, still bound by his hurt and anger. ''I would take care of you,'' he finishes. ''I would hide the knives and clean out the medicine cabinet and make you a safe place to land. I would be grateful for every day you chose to stay. And it would be worth it. Just to be here with you. I know that.'' He pulls away from her. ''But,'' he says - the word she has been waiting for. ''It's not just us.''

He is, of course, correct.

It isn't just them. They are not just a couple. They're a family. They're parents. He has no business dedicating his entire life to taking care of her and keeping her away from knives and the Drano in the garage when there is a beautiful little creature who deserves their undivided attention, and she has no business making him feel this torn.

She tries to pull herself together, hastily straightening up, shoving away her emotions - a useless endeavor. Something she has never been good at.

''We have a child,'' he reminds her. ''We chose to be her parents. We chose to bring her into this world and we have to put her first. Part of that means that we cannot keep putting her through crap like this. Her life can't just be this. It's not enough. We owe it to her to give her more.'' He goes silent for a second, like maybe he's waiting for her to say something, but she's too busy trying to stifle the cries growing in her throat, clawing at her from the inside, trying to get out. ''I can't keep telling her you're gone,'' he says. ''I can't.'' It's a plea. ''You can't keep slipping through her fingers. She's four years old. She's just a baby. She shouldn't have to hold onto you this tightly. You're her mother. You should just be there.''

Laurel avoids his eyes, covering her mouth with her hand, gaze fixed on the concrete beneath her feet. She's trying to focus on maintaining her composure, keeping herself from breaking down at all costs, but all she can think of is Mary. There has never been a moment where she has not been thinking of her.

That's not enough.

Contrary to whatever it is he apparently believes, she is aware of that. ''I know,'' she croaks out between shaky breaths.

''You can't be in and out of her life like this.''

''I know.''

''She deserves better.''

''I know!'' It bubbles out of her in a jarringly hysterical sounding shout, a sudden fire in her eyes as she lifts her gaze back to him. She notices the way he glances over her shoulder, but she can't say she cares too much about the ARGUS agents hearing this. ''You don't think I know that? I know! She deserves better. She deserves so much better. I didn't - I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this.'' Her voice breaks on the last word. ''I don't want to walk away. I don't want to be my mother. That's never been - '' She breaks off, clamping her mouth shut with a shake of her head, nauseated by the flash of her mother the day she left. ''I never planned on any of this.''

''I know you didn't,'' Dean says, and he sounds genuine, he sounds like he believes her, but it's nothing like absolution.

''This isn't at all the life I saw for our family,'' she practically whispers. ''I saw...'' She trails off, nearly choking on the memories of a life they never lived. ''I saw something much better than this.''

And it's true.

When she was pregnant, she saw nothing.

She would lie awake in bed at night, trying so hard to picture their future, to imagine a life where they were happy and together, where they were parents, but all she could see was this thick dense fog made up of uncertainty and paralyzing fear.

It cleared a little, somewhat abruptly, during those last miserable weeks of her pregnancy when the persistent, grueling on and off contractions - prodromal labor, her midwife called it, nothing to worry about, just your body preparing for the big event, rest up and remember to stay hydrated - pulled everything into focus for her. The realization that there really was going to be a baby, that she really was going to have to give birth became an inescapable truth.

But it wasn't until her baby was born, until she was holding that screeching little alien that the image of what lay ahead of them became clearer in her mind, sharper, a real possibility. It was terrifying, sure, it was one of the most terrifying moments of her life, but it was something. There was something. She had not been able to imagine a future, to look ahead of her since Sara died. Then she looked at her daughter and it was as if a whole new world unfurled before her eyes, a vibrant future rife with possibilities, full of life and hope.

When Mary was born, Laurel could see the sunlight again.

She saw long walks in the park with her child, holding her hand among the luscious green trees and honeybees, the scent of flowers hanging in the air, her little girl's bare feet in the grass.

She imagined herself telling stories and secrets; fantastical tales about dragons and brave knights, magic kingdoms and castles, and princesses who saved themselves; stories about Auntie Sara, that little blonde ghost in Mommy's eyes, about how wild and free she was, how unafraid she used to be; stories about Daddy and how much he loves you, all the storms he weathered to get to you, always you, little bird. Family history and fairytales, enough to fill all the spaces left by those no longer here.

She saw herself, vividly, teaching their daughter how to garden. They would plant flowers in the yard of a home somewhere quiet, outside the hustle and bustle of the city - bushes full of English roses, a lilac tree or two, beautiful blue delphiniums, foxgloves for the bees and hanging baskets full of fuchsias for Nana Bea and hyacinths for their sweet smell. They would plant fruits and vegetables too, a way to add to the table without having to cook - a lemon tree in the backyard, a garden of fresh herbs for Daddy to cook with, tomatoes and zucchini and squash, strawberries that they would eat outside under the blue skies and summer sun.

She imagined a future laid out before her where they were joyful. Where they were what they had always wanted to be: a happy family. Mom, Dad, Baby Girl, a big breezy kitchen full of light and the salt and pepper shakers passed down from her grandparents, with Joni Mitchell playing in the background and the porch light left on for anyone who felt ready to come home.

A future in which she was always loving, always kind, soft but strong, patient, and unflinching. The way a mother should be. All the things she wanted but never received from her own mother. She imagined a life of steadiness, of grace.

It was a good life. It was beautiful. Idealistic, but so was she back then. Always trying to save the world, foolishly pretending that her willpower and stubbornness was enough to change the corrupt system, so sure of herself and who she was and who she needed to be.

She thought she could do that for Mary. She thought she could give her that. The happy ending. The blue skies. The foxgloves and the strawberries and the healthy mother, full of grace.

That was the plan.

She looked at Mary, felt her slippery, warm little body against her skin, marveled at the life her body had grown; the eyelashes, the fingernails, the tiny nose and the big eyes, the barely there wisps of hair still slick with blood - and that was the plan. To give her more. In that moment, that first moment, it had seemed so simple to her.

Laurel and Dean had both lived different but somehow similar lives, lonely and wandering, aimless until they met each other. They did not want that for their child. They wanted to give her something better. They wanted to give her everything.

So far, over the past four years, Dean has managed to keep his end of the bargain but all Laurel has given her daughter is a damaged, easily flustered mother who is occasionally cold, emotionally incompetent, and too often absent in this corrupted city of fog and rain. There is little sunlight to be found. Certainly no grace. Just a lot of blood, a lot of loss, and a lot of history repeating

and repeating

and repeating.

She can tell herself that it's not her fault thing are the way they are, can put all the blame on things like trauma and postpartum depression and other various mental illnesses, family curses and her parents and some well meaning but boneheaded ex from when she was a dumbass teenager. She can blame this city and this chaos and this shaky world. But it's her. It's always been her.

Somewhere along the way, without her even noticing it, she became a sloppy, messy collection of all the darkest parts of the women who raised her. Her mother's coldness, her grandmother's secrets, Natasha's indecisiveness, Valerie's crippling mental illness, and the running, all that Ellard running. It just trickled down and trickled down, covered her like moss before she even knew what was happening. It's like Dean said.

It's in her.

She should not be surprised by the wreckage left behind in the wake of her destructive storm. She should have known there would be collateral damage. She should have understood the ripple effect. The consequences. She is not, after all, the only one stuck in the endless loop.

Dean, who has only ever loved her, has himself become a tapestry of every man who has ever loved a hurricane - her angry, abandoned father, her permanently terrified uncle, her overly devoted grandfather, the dead love of her aunt's life. The Ellard women sure have a knack for picking the loyal ones. The ones most willing to die for love.

This has always been a ghost story.

And then, of course, there is Mary.

Her little bird, left alone in the nest, standing in the same spot she once stood, starved for her mother's love and attention, constantly wondering what it was she did to drive her away. It's a sickening thought.

It's also probably true, isn't it?

She is not too far gone to realize that she, being only one person, cannot be 100% at fault for all of their problems, but the percentage of crap that is on her is likely a hefty sum.

She thinks of her uncle's journals, the ones Sara showed her back when they broke into Val and Dan's house in Tacoma, the entries detailing Valerie's illness and instability. The spirals, the rages. The manic spending sprees and frantic middle of the night furniture rearranging. The depressive episodes where she would be left unable to get out of bed, keep food down, or even brush her own hair. The times where he would spoon feed her and bathe her. All the suicide attempts, one after the other after the other. And there, among her ruins, there was - there is - Danny's steady hand and his undying devotion. That stubborn, everlasting love evident in every single written word.

Danny will love Valerie until the day she finally succeeds in dying, and he will love her every day after.

Ellard women.

Like black holes.

There has never once been anything about sweet, simple, placid Uncle Danny that has even remotely reminded Laurel of Dean before. Not one thing.

Until she read those journals.

She, too, has paced the hallways in the middle of the night, suffocated by something she could not name, choked by her own misery, like a ghost haunting her own home. She has raged and spiraled and come undone. Has drank to forget. Her husband has physically picked her up out of bed. He has washed her hair for her when she couldn't. Has loved her when she wanted to die. Adored her when she could only muster up crippling self-hatred.

Laurel, I would spend the rest of my life taking care of you, he said to her, moments ago, the way Danny once wrote of spoon feeding his catatonic then 45-year-old wife like it was a perfectly normal way to spend a Tuesday night.

I would be grateful for every day you chose to stay, he said, in the same blindingly devoted way Danny wrote, I will thank whoever is listening for every day she remains with me.

God, how awful.

How petrifying.

Laurel does not have the same diagnosis as Valerie, but there is one thing they have in common, one major defect they share, one terrible straight line from eldest daughter to eldest daughter.

Maybe this fear Dean has been walking around with isn't that out of line.

''Dean,'' she rasps, feeling timid, afraid of meeting his eyes. ''I don't want you to spend the rest of your life taking care of me. I don't even want to think about it. That's not the future you deserve.''

''That's not what I'm - ''

''You're wonderful,'' she cuts him off. ''But that is not how this is supposed to be. I want you to be my husband, not my caregiver. I'm so sorry if I ever made you think they were one in the same. I don't want to die. I can promise you that.''

The expression on his face never wavers. He remains wounded. Unconvinced.

''I mean it,'' she maintains, instinctively stepping into his space, tugging at his jacket. She wants him to wrap her up. She knows he can't. ''That's not what any of this has been about. I'm sorry you've been living with that fear the whole time. I'm sorry you don't trust me. I know things have been hard. I know they've been hard for a long time, but I never meant to leave you with that.''

His jaw clenches, a familiar tic, and he clears his throat, stricken, but can't bring himself to look at her. ''I know you didn't.''

''Dean.'' She says it sharp enough that he doesn't have a choice. ''I don't want to die,'' she repeats, perfectly willing to say it again - and again and again. Over and over until she's blue in the face. Until he can finally put her ghost down. Realize he doesn't need to carry it anymore. ''I haven't for a long time. I want to be here. I do not want to die.'' There is a brief pause. Just long enough for a small crack to form.

But I'm afraid I might anyway, she does not tell him. I'm afraid there's no way out. Every morning, I wake up feeling like I've crawled closer to my grave overnight. I'm afraid there might be no way to stop the rot spreading inside of me. What if I never really came back? What would that mean for you? Could you let go? Could I? What would you think of me then? What would I be, she does not ask, if I am already gone? How long will you let me haunt you?

These are impossible questions to ask, just as they are impossible questions to answer. But - my god, she wants to ask them so badly.

She releases her grip on his jacket. ''Sometimes it crosses my mind,'' she admits, taking a step back. ''It is not what I want, not now, but. Yes. I think about it from time to time. Especially with everything going on right now.''

What she means is this:

Sometimes she lies awake and thinks about that feeling you get when you've just heard a song you love for the first time. When you've just read a good book that's going to be stuck in your head for days. When you look out at the ocean. It's in your chest, your stomach. The feeling that stops the world, just for a flash, just for a second, just long enough for you to feel like you're falling. The feeling of being moved, changed forever, even by something as inconsequential as a song on the radio or a book you grabbed at random.

That's what it means to be alive. That feeling. Life is a series of small moments, little details, blips really, that change your life. Shape you into who you are.

Sometimes, when she can't sleep, she thinks about that. She lies in the dark and thinks about how sad it is that she might not get to experience that again. No more songs, no more books, no more ocean, no more moments, big or small.

She knows what will be waiting for her when she goes. A house in the sun, a sunflower field, blankets of trees, a lake down the path and around the bend, a boy who looks like his father, and memories. Happy ones, wonderful even, but not new. No more butterflies when her husband looks at her. No more tightening in her chest when her daughter holds her hand. No more relief when her sister smiles.

Just memories. Just her and a boy who never was, walking the path, swimming forever, making apple tarts in a kitchen that does not actually exist.

Even the most powerful force in the universe cannot replicate the feeling of being alive when you are not.

''I want this all to be over so I can come home,'' she says, pushing back the pressure behind her eyes and the rock in her throat. ''That's all I want. I don't want to die. How could I? I want to be with you. I want a chance to be a better wife and mother. I want to live the life we should have had. I - I mean, we - '' She shakes her head, trying to shake off the sharp pang of grief in her chest, like a wound. ''We were just talking about having another baby. I don't know how you're feeling, but I still want that. I still want you. I don't want you to think...'' She swallows. ''...That I could ever want anything else.''

Dean's expression is loaded, too much to unpack. He has softened, even amidst the hurt, but there's still anger there, churning below the surface. There is a lot he wants to say, she can see it in his eyes, ready to pour out. He doesn't say any of it. He looks over at the ARGUS crew again and says, voice dull, ''Okay.''

It stings more than it has any right to.

Still, he doesn't walk away from her.

He could. He could end it there, insist he has to go, and walk away, but he doesn't. He doesn't even move away from her. He's closer to her now than he has been all day. She cannot tell if he believes her pleas, if he's finally content with telling him she doesn't want to die, but his hand is close to hers, nearly touching, his fingers just barely grazing the back of her hand, and when he looks back to her, the anger is gone. It reminds her of the look on his face back in April, when she woke up in the hospital after surgery.

''Laur.'' He leans in closer, not touching but barely. ''Laurel.'' No one has ever said her name the way he does. Like he is lucky just to be able to say it. ''Get in the car.'' His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. ''Please get in the car. Let me take you home. We don't have to do this. We don't have to be like this.'' His hand, knuckles bloodied, always softer than one would expect it to be, wraps around her wrist gently. ''We can move on,'' he murmurs. ''We can just move on.''

She closes her eyes. The one thing she was hoping he wouldn't ask of her. The one thing she knew he would. Selfishly, she says nothing for a moment. It's not that she has to think about her answer. She knows her answer. She just wants a second to savor the nearness of him, the tenderness of his words, the feel of his hands, because she knows it's not going to last long and she knows it might be a long time before they're this close again. ''I can't.'' She opens her eyes just in time to see the expression on his face change. ''I'm sorry.''

He draws back, visibly tensing. He doesn't look surprised by the rejection, but he still looks wounded. ''Why?''

''You know why,'' she says. ''It's not safe.''

''That's weak and you know it.''

''I can't put you two in that kind of danger.''

He laughs humorlessly. ''Hate to break it to you, but we're already in danger. Do you seriously not get that? If we love you, we're in danger. It doesn't matter if you're with us or not.''

''Yes, but - ''

''No.'' His eyes flash. ''No buts. Look at me!'' His voice rises, his mounting exasperation boiling over. ''Look what happened today! They still came for me. You weren't here and they still - ''

''All right,'' she cuts in tiredly. ''I get your point.''

''If she decides to use us against you, it won't fucking matter where you are! And you know that. You have to know that!''

''Okay!'' She holds her hands up, like that will stop him from unleashing two weeks' worth of pain and frustration on her. ''I get it! I fucked up! I fucked up! Is that what you want to hear?''

He stops, and they lapse into a painful silence, only made worse by the few looks they're getting from Agent Chen and John.

''I don't know what else I can say,'' she blurts. ''I don't know what you want from me.'' In all honesty, Laurel just wants to leave. Her shoulder hurts and she needs to change the bandages. She was just strangled. She needs a break. She tries to not look like she's coming unraveled. ''There's - There's so much more going on here,'' she says, sounding more cryptic than she wants to sound. ''More than I think either of us know.''

''What does that mean?''

''Nothing,'' she says quickly. ''Nothing.''

''Laurel – ''

''I have to go.'' She hesitates for maybe a second and then she spins on her heel and starts to walk away. She ignores his voice calling after her. She keeps walking. She needs to get back to the motel. She needs to change her bandage, she needs to look more into Paige's disappearance, and she needs to see if Felicity's made any progress in tracking down Shiva. If she stays here for much longer, she's not sure she'll be able to leave.

Dean, resentful and not over the sting, isn't finished with her yet. ''She's worried about you, you know,'' he calls after her, voice measured and calm, even though she can easily pick up on the spite simmering underneath.

She stops walking.

''She hasn't been herself since you left. She's been acting out,'' he goes on. ''Quick to tears and tantrums. Hasn't been sleeping well. Just last night, she had this nasty nightmare. She was hysterical. It was about you.''

She can't make herself turn around and face him.

''She wants you to come home so we can take care of you,'' he says, voice coming closer and closer as he strolls over to her.

She finally turns around. ''What are you doing?''

''Just thought you should know what the consequences of your actions are,'' he says, voice cold.

''The consequences of my - '' She breaks off in a huff and just like that - she fucking snaps. Now that - that burning, itching, aching in her chest, like a rock has wedged itself into her ribcage - is rage. ''Are you seriously using our daughter to hurt me?''

''I'm being honest,'' he says. ''Maybe you should try it sometime. You can't even be honest with yourself about why you left.''

''That's low,'' she spits at him. ''You self-righteous - ''

''Self-righteous? Oh no. We all know that's your thing.''

'' - Condescending prick. That is so fucking low.''

''You know what's low?'' If he is surprised by her anger, by her doing something other than groveling and sniveling, he doesn't show it. ''Being a deadbeat.''

''Screw you,'' she fires back, the harsh words tumbling out before she can even think them through. ''You sound like Oliver right now. You know that?''

That one seems to hit harder. Like a slap in the face. ''For the love of - '' He looks beyond pissed at the insult, but also exasperated and just plain done. ''Jesus fucking Christ, Laurel!'' There is little doubt whether ARGUS heard that one. ''Can we please have one conversation without involving your loser ex?!'' It practically explodes out of him, a burst of long held, pent up animosity. It makes her jump, a bit of guilt chipping away at her anger. ''Just one fucking conversation!''

''Oh please,'' she sneers. It is probably not the right way to go about this, but she is far too angry and far too stubborn to admit that perhaps bringing Oliver up was too low of a blow. Considering. ''I wasn't trying to - ''

''Why does that douchebag need to factor into every goddamn part of our - ''

''He doesn't! He doesn't! That's not - '' She clenches her teeth, exasperated. ''Will you please get over the Oliver issue? I understand that you don't like him but I can't do anything about the fact that he exists in my life.''

''Why? Why does he need to exist in your life so badly?''

''Thea - ''

''This isn't about Thea!'' He looks ready to start pulling his own hair out. ''This has never been about Thea! She's not a child you two share custody of. You don't need to pass her back and forth every other weekend,'' he throws out. ''She is a grown fucking woman and she can make her own choices. Don't put this on her. You keep him in your life because you want him there!''

''Well, he's my friend!''

''He's not your friend! He doesn't even like you half the time!''

''Stop.''

''You hang around him like a pathetic yes man and he lets you stroke his ego like every other ass kisser in his life because he's too stupid and too miserable to function as a person without regular CW network teen drama level pep talks,'' he seethes. ''But you're not friends. A friendship is a two way street. You're a fucking groupie.''

She lets out a disgusted, offended little huff of laughter, propping her hands up on her hips. ''Wow,'' she spits. ''Nice, Dean. Real nice.''

He does not seem to give a shit. ''Am I wrong? I mean - fuck, Laurel, is the dick really so good that you can't hop off it ten fucking years later?''

The silence that follows only lasts a minute, less than, but it is one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She is, once again, reminded that there is a group of low budget James Bond wannabes crowding the parking lot, likely hearing every word they're screaming at each other. Her skin crawls and she grimaces, but she can't think of anything to lob back at him. What could sting more than that? Her voice is, much to her chagrin, a little shaky. ''Do you feel better now?''

Even he seems to realize that he has stepped over some invisible line, visibly drawing away from her, closing his eyes. He rubs a hand over his jaw and when he raises his hand, she can spot that familiar stress exacerbated tremor that never went away after he quit drinking. ''No.''

He doesn't apologize for what he said.

She doesn't expect him too.

She crosses her arms and ignores the fiery pain in her shoulder when her wound pulls. She's just going to pretend the tremble in her body is from anger. ''You're an asshole,'' she says, just because she can't not acknowledge it.

He doesn't respond.

''I know you're hurt,'' she says. ''I know you're mad. I know I ruined everything and screwed up our lives, but you can't just - You can't just...say shit like that. And you can't...'' She is trying to keep her anger afloat, let it carry her, but she can feel it evaporating already, replaced by that all too familiar guilt. ''You can't weaponize our child to hurt me. You can't do that.''

''Weaponize our - '' He looks back at her, incredulous. ''Do you even hear yourself?''

''God, can you just – '' She stops. Tries to think through her next words. She stands firm. ''You know that's what you were doing.''

''My daughter is in pain!'' This time, when he yells, it's far more despairing than angry. That hurts more than any rage ever could. ''What part of that isn't getting through? She's four and she loves you and you keep leaving her and she doesn't get it. She doesn't understand why you're doing this to her.''

''I'm not doing this to her,'' Laurel says, nearly begging. ''I'm doing this for her.''

''You keep telling yourself that.'' He looks at her for a second, waiting, but evidently doesn't find what he's looking for. ''I'm done fighting with you. I'm not gonna waste my time doing War of the Roses with you, Dinah. My kid is hurting. That's all I care about. She's miserable and she's so fucking tiny and she doesn't know what to do with it. And that's because of you. You did this to her. Live with that.''

''What do you want from me?'' She means to sound angry but her voice comes out sounding small. ''What do you want me to say? Can you please tell me?''

His silence is more deafening than any cruel, cutting comment ever could be.

Suddenly, without warning, hysteria stirs in her gut, works its way up. It's much worse than anger. She thinks, for a second, that she might scream, she might vomit, she might do something even worse and tell him how much she loves him - a truth, of course, but one he is far too raw to hear right now. It would be like rubbing salt in the wound. But what about her wounds? Today sucks. It more than sucks. She already feels flayed open and put on display, her shoulder searing, her head aching, the memory of vomiting up fingernails and bloody pins still there, still close enough to make her feel bruised and afraid. She already feels like she's losing her mind. She does not need him to push her off that edge.

''Do you want me to say I'm a fuck up? Is that what you need me to do? I'm a fuck up!'' It comes out in a yell much louder than she intended, but, unraveling, unspooling, she keeps going. ''I'm pathetic!'' She throws her arms out and the jerky movement tugs at her wound. She plays off the gasp of pain as a hysterical gasp of something that resembles laughter. ''Does this work for you?'' She barrels on without even letting him respond to her nonsensical demands. ''I'm a horrible wife - and a shitty mother too, right? There! Is this what you wanted? Is this good for you?''

''Laurel - ''

''Or do you want to keep berating me while I stand here and take it like I do with every other man in my life?''

''Stop it.''

''Why? Isn't this what I'm supposed to be doing? I left you. I left her. You're angry. You want to humiliate me. Let me do it for you. I have no idea how to be any of the things I'm supposed to be. I don't know how to be a good wife. I don't know how to be a good mother. I'm not even sure I know what a mother is. I'm a runner.''

''Okay, I get it, I'm sorry, but you need - ''

''This is it, right? This is what you want. I run because I'm an Ellard and that's what we do. We run scared. We're cowards. I'm just like my mother.'' She lets out a shaky laugh. ''I was always going to be just like my mother.''

''Laurel!'' Dean steps forward, reaches out and before she even realizes what he's doing, he's latched onto her wrist and tugged her closer.

It shocks her enough to snap her out of it. ''What - '' She wriggles and when she tries to break free of his grasp, he instinctively grabs onto her other wrist and tightens his hold, keeping her in place. ''What are you doing? Let go of - ''

''Laurel.'' His voice is different, less angry, and when he looks at her, every single bit of hurt and fury has given way to concern. ''You're bleeding.''

She has no idea what he's talking about for a second. Not until she finally follows his gaze to her hand, the wrist he has grabbed, and sees what he's looking at.

Blood, bright red and smeared all over her new jacket, dripping down her arm.

.

.

.

October 2016

There are three cardboard boxes sitting on the bedroom floor - two large, one small, all three of them empty; waiting.

Today is donation day.

He was supposed to have these boxes filled and ready for pick up by 2:30. It's 2:08 and he hasn't yet filled any of them. The boxes still remain where they were first placed, empty, bare, mocking and he is sitting on the bed, staring at the closed closet doors. This is not something he knows how to do. Not something he's good at.

The part of grief where you let go.

Today is October 2nd, almost six months since that day in April, and everything in this house is still waiting for Laurel to walk in that door. Including him. He is trying. He has tried. He's doing his best. He doesn't know what else to do.

There is a box in the hallway, small-ish but not tiny, full of unopened skincare and haircare products. Things like shampoo and moisturizer and body wash. A bottle of her favorite bubble bath. She liked to buy things when they were on sale, whether she had more at home or not, and wound up with quite an impressive back stock of her usual products because of that.

This morning, Dean got up early, unable - as usual - to sleep and put all of that in the box. He kept a few things here, mostly things that were open, a bottle of body wash that Mary likes to use every now and then just because she misses the smell, but the rest went in the box. It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. The donations are for the women's shelter downtown and that's what she would have wanted.

Plus, this house is cluttered as it is, especially the small bathroom. They don't need a bunch of unused shampoo and retinol creams hogging up the space in the cabinets. So he put it in the box. It was for a good cause. It felt logical. He felt okay, good even. Maybe Sam and Thea were right when they suggested cleaning out the bedroom, getting rid of a few things, might help him sleep better. Might make the place feel less haunted.

But then he brought these boxes into the bedroom. He started making a list of everything she had in here. He pulled out some of her unopened, unused makeup and piled it on top of her vanity.

That was as far as he got.

The makeup didn't even make it in the box. For the past few hours, he has been wandering in and out of the bedroom, restless, aimless, making zero progress whatsoever. He's made up numerous excuses in his head for his inaction - he had to do the dishes, he had to put a movie on for Mary, he had to scrub marker off the wall because the movie did not distract her enough to keep her from being a tiny tornado - but those were only excuses.

It was the red lipstick, to tell you the truth.

It was the last thing he pulled out of the drawer. An unopened tube of her favorite red lipstick. It's bright, bright red, matte style, and there is a sticker on the bottom that says Juicy Apple. She used to wear it on date nights. During the days, she would experiment with different makeup looks and trends, but on date nights, it was always the same. Side swept hair and Juicy Apple red. She told him she liked the look on his face when she would step out of the bedroom, ready to go.

It was a fair play.

He still remembers the way it felt when she would walk out of the bedroom with those apple red lips and that coy look. It was like getting the wind knocked out of him every time. He hasn't thought about this lipstick in months, he's had other things on his mind, but today, on donation day, the day of letting go, he fished it out of that drawer, and there she was.

The ghost in the walls.

Now he is sitting here, with less than half an hour to fill up these boxes, and it feels like his ribcage has been cracked open. No. He has never been one for letting go.

There are so many parts that go into making someone a whole person.

You know?

There are so many pieces. So many echoes. You don't realize that until you lose someone. When a person dies, it's like all these glittering pieces scatter. Tuck themselves away and leave you to find them. A single strand of hair on her pillow. A piece of junk mail with her name on it. A mug with a lipstick ring on the rim. The scent of her that lingers, somewhat inexplicably, in the laundry room. A tube of Juicy Apple red lipstick.

And this.

This whole bedroom.

Six months later, and he is still finding pieces of her everywhere.

His wife wore red lipstick on date nights. She hummed while she put on her makeup. The last thing she did every night was put on hand cream and if she put on too much, she would ask to ''borrow'' his hands. She wore perfume from time to time, to work generally, occasionally to fundraisers, but most perfumes made Mary sneeze, so a lot of time she just smelled sweet - like her vanilla coconut shampoo and conditioner, maybe some kind of body mist, that lavender pillow spray she used. She used Pond's cold cream at night as a makeup remover because that was what her grandmother used and the smell of it made her feel like Bea was still with her.

Dean kept the cold cream. Even the unopened one. He has no use for it, but it smells like home.

In this bedroom, these four walls, she is everywhere he looks and yet nowhere to be found.

He looks over at the dresser and there are framed pictures - most of them taken by her. She liked to take pictures. Every time they went out, every party they had, it was snap, snap, snap. They will all be grateful for those memories one day, but right now all he can think right now is - fuck, why didn't he take more pictures of her?

He looks over at her bedside table and there's her books. Her glasses. She liked poetry books and short story collections. She liked to read in general, usually fiction, sometimes some depressing as shit memoir, but in between the DA's office Black Canary, and being a parent, she rarely had the time. He was the one who started picking up short story collections for her.

It started Christmas of 2014. He knew she liked poetry books, knew they were easier for her to get through with her tiny bits of spare time, so he picked her up a few, and then, on a whim - and also because Cas is actually very persuasive - he grabbed a book of short stories too. It was a hit. Such a hit that it became their ritual. Whenever he'd notice her getting to the end of a book, he'd pick up another from the library or a bookstore or even have Cas pick one out and run it over after work and leave it on her bedside table. She slept better after reading. She's like Mary that way.

Well, she was.

Couldn't manage to keep a bookmark, though. Every time he was in a bookstore, he would make sure to pick up a bookmark for her and left it on top of her book. Within two or three days, it would be gone, replaced by a Starbucks receipt or one of the many scraps of paper she'd had him sketch out yet another tattoo idea on. Never could figure out where all those damn bookmarks went.

On the vanity, beside all the piled up makeup, is her beat up phone with the cracked screen and the duct tape back that he hasn't been able to part with. Everything that is on her phone - all the pictures, the videos, the passwords and notes and music - has been backed up. He even had Charlie put all of her playlists on his phone. But he cannot seem to get rid of the useless phone.

She had such weird fucking taste in music, by the way. He tried listening to one of her many different workout playlists and it went from Britney Spears to Otis Redding to the Spice Girls to Tupac to fucking Mozart. The playlist titled ''3'' wound up being all of the songs she would regularly put on for Mary during car rides and it's been a life saver, but all the weepy indie shit on her ''calm'' playlist nearly bored him to death. He has not yet been able to make himself open the playlist titled ''DW.''

Then there's the closet.

That goddamn closet.

Dean sucks in a mouthful of air that feels too thin, painful, like slivers of ice piercing his lungs. He hunches over, elbows on his knees, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Here is the truth, as pathetic and cowardly as it may be: He does not open that closet often.

He tells himself it's just because he doesn't need to. He hasn't needed a suit recently - it's not like there are any date nights on the horizon - and his jackets are hanging in the laundry room and the coat closet by the front door. The rest of his clothes fit comfortably in the drawers. He takes up little space. Old habits die hard. He grew up on the road. He doesn't need a closet.

However, truthfully, it's the fear.

If he opens that closet, he will have to look at her clothes, hanging there limp, useless, waiting, still. The stillness is what gets to him. Nobody warns you about that stage of grief. After the storm, the initial shock of the loss, the violent raging waves of anger and denial and devastation, everything becomes very still. There is a life here that is no longer being lived. It's still here, there are clothes and shoes and makeup, an unfinished book, vanilla coconut shampoo, the wedding rings worn on a chain around his neck, but she is not. There's just an empty space left behind.

A stillness.

It is excruciating to live with.

Dean looks up at the closet doors. ''Okay,'' he says. ''Okay.'' He can do this. He can open a closet door.

Laurel died six months ago. She would understand. The women's shelter is a worthy cause. It was one of the only things he was able to slip into her obituary in between everyone wanting to put this, that, or the other thing: ''In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Starling Shelter for Women & Children.'' She liked flowers. She would have liked that more. Like she would have liked this. Would have appreciated that she was, even after death, able to help people in some way.

He stands, nudging the cardboard boxes out of the way, back to work. Before he breaches the closet, he puts the unopened makeup in the small box. Adds a few books. He thinks about adding The Hours to the box. Maybe even Pride & Prejudice, another favorite book of hers that he couldn't stand. But these were her books. Her favorite books. Her hands have been here, have touched these books, these pages. Her fingerprints are here. A few dried tears. The salt of her. Her DNA. He will never read these books again, just like he will never use the cold cream or the Juicy Apple red lipstick. He leaves the books on the bookshelf. Leaves the tube of lipstick on the vanity. He'll put it with the cold cream later. For when he's homesick.

And then there's just the closet.

He gives himself a few seconds before he opens it and in the quiet, he can hear their daughter in the living room, talking loudly to herself, expressing extremely strong opinions about Frozen. A small smile graces his lips. There's always that. There's always her.

He pulls open the closet doors.

In the past six months, the smell of her has mostly dissipated, lost to time like most things about her eventually will be, but if he closes his eyes, finds the right spot, the right article of clothing, he can still catch a whiff of the faint scent of vanilla coconut shampoo and her date night perfume. He works methodically, sifting through the clothes. He tries not to think too much about what he's doing.

He fails.

She had a lot of clothes. Partly because she did genuinely enjoy fashion - had a Vogue subscription and everything - but also because her weight tended to fluctuate a lot depending on how she was mental health wise. She gained a lot of weight when she was pregnant with Mary and then had a hard time losing it after giving birth so a lot of her pre-pregnancy clothes didn't fit her right. Then she had a nervous breakdown and got scary skinny. Then she finally worked herself back up to a healthy weight, only to then immediately start Canary training, which led to her bulking up enough to lose access to some of her clothes. It seemed like she was endlessly buying clothes. There are things in here that still have tags on them because she never even got a chance to wear them before they no longer fit.

''Son of a bitch, Laur,'' he mutters, flicking through the rainbow of clothes. ''You fuckin' clothes hoarder.''

He plucks a few things from the closet, everything with a tag still on, carefully removes the hangers, and puts them in one of the cardboard boxes. It doesn't even make a dent. This is way more overwhelming than he thought it would be. He adds a few more things to the box. A few things she rarely wore that are still in good shape from her pre-pregnancy days, some maternity clothes, items that were given to her as gifts that didn't fit her style. That godawful red jumpsuit that she wore once, on Tommy's last birthday, and then refused to look at after he was gone. Then he stalls.

He pulls out a little black dress that used to be a date night favorite and it stops him in his tracks. It's one of the only articles of clothing that still smells like her, just a faint scent of that light, floral date night perfume. It clings to the fabric like a moment in time caught in amber. He could stand here and inhale the scent like a pathetic lovesick puppy dog, but he doesn't. He hurriedly puts the dress back in the closet and moves on, stubbornly ignoring the ache in his throat and the worsening tremble in his hands.

He picks a few more things and adds them to the box, growing careless and urgent with his movements. She enjoyed fashion, but her style never changed that much. Little things here and there, but nothing too over the top. She was who she was. She knew herself, even if she, at times, maybe a lot of the time, didn't think so. It showed in everything about her, right down to the clothes she wore.

She liked soft sweaters, stylish leather jackets, and silky blouses. And socks. Always socks. Her feet got cold easily so she was rarely without a pair of thick socks around the house. Occasionally it was slippers, but mostly it was socks. Even during sex. He used to tease her about that, but she was unrepentant, reminding him that if she didn't wear socks, he'd just complain that her feet were like ice cubes.

Which, to be fair, was true.

She wore jeans when she wasn't in her work clothes, but slipped out of them as soon as she got home, pulling on comfy cotton drawstring pants or pajama bottoms. She had an impressive collection of fancy, expensive looking dresses but what most people didn't know was that most of them were thrift shop finds. She loved a good thrift shop. In the summer, she wore a lot of floral print sundresses and denim cut offs.

And yet, despite all that, despite the obnoxious amount of clothes she owned, she was forever, almost daily, stealing his. She wore his shirts, his flannel, stole his boxers to wear to bed, took his jackets from the coat closet when she went grocery shopping, insisting that his clothes were warmer, more comfortable, had pockets, that they smelled good. He would huff and puff about it, but never actually wanted her to stop.

It never mattered, at the end of the day, what she was wearing. She could make anything look good. Even that ugly red jumpsuit. Everything she touched turned to gold. She was radiant. He's biased, he knows, but he thinks she was the most beautiful woman in the universe.

You have no idea what it was like to watch that woman walk into a room.

She could stop the world.

He stops what he's doing, trying to gulp down the rock in his throat. He pushes on, his movements becoming rougher, more desperate. He yanks a black garment bag out of the back of the closet, hanging it on the hook on the inside of the door and poking his head into the closet to see if he's missed anything. He tries not to look at the black duffel bag he threw in here months ago, the one that holds the Black Canary suit, ripped apart and stained with her blood. He tosses a couple rarely worn, not really her style work skirts in the box and pauses to look at everything he has accumulated so far. It's not a huge amount, but still it -

It throws him a little.

His baby is in the living room, singing along to Let It Go, and he is in the bedroom, boxing up her mother. Maybe that's not really what he's doing here, but it sure as hell feels like that's what he's doing. And he could. That's the thing. He could get a few more boxes and put all of her away, pack her in the garage, make this bedroom his and his alone. And that wouldn't be wrong. That wouldn't be bad. It wouldn't be a betrayal because it's just the truth.

Laurel doesn't live here anymore. Laurel will never live here again.

He stares at the clothes in the box. He has been thinking, lately, of healing. The people around him, the ones who have been left to watch him fumble his way through this, think it's something to focus on. They tell him to get out more. Make friends. Go to therapy. Grief counseling. A support group. Maybe think about moving his wedding ring to his right hand. At least take off the chain with her rings on. Put them away somewhere they'll be safe. They'll be Mary's one day.

It's been six months.

Life goes on.

They want him to be happy, so he is trying to be happy. He has made a concentrated effort to get people to shut the fuck up. He goes out. He makes eye contact. He makes jokes. He smiles and laughs. He has a job now - and the people at work think he's well adjusted. Tomorrow, he is going out for coffee with Tina Boland, one of the moms from Mary's preschool. He even went back to AA, not because he thinks he's in danger of relapsing, but because it was the only place he could think of to go where they wouldn't force him to talk but he could still tell people he was doing something.

And today is donation day.

He's clearing out the weeds. He's letting go. He is, on paper, doing great. His wife is in pieces, in boxes, in the ground, rotting into nothing, but he is a whole person - out there doing people things.

Good for him.

But, gotta say, if this is healing -

It fucking sucks.

Every morning he wakes up and another piece of her is gone. Yesterday, he was making breakfast when he froze, whole body tensing as he realized that he could no longer remember exactly what her laughter sounded like. Even here, surrounded by her, he can't quite get the sound right in his head.

He looks at the box of clothing. He tries to picture her wearing these things. He tries to picture her in the date night dress still hanging in the closet. In the thrift store dresses. The floral prints. The jeans paired with his shirts on Sunday mornings when they went out to breakfast. He can still see her. One day, sooner than he'd like, he won't be able to.

''Laurel,'' he says, for no real reason other than to be able to say her name. He has no reason to say it anymore, does he? Another piece gone. ''Baby.''

It's not like she's going to answer.

He looks away from the boxes and over at the framed photos scattered on top of her dresser. She's barely in any of them. He looks at the one single picture on his own dresser, his throat and chest aching, burning. It's a picture of her taken on their wedding day. It's the same picture that is on her headstone.

She looks very happy.

''If you - '' His voice comes out strained and shaky, but there's an edge to it. ''If you had just stayed home, none of us would be in this mess.''

She doesn't answer. Not even a hallucination to keep him company.

How lonely grief is.

He sighs and goes back to the closet. He looks at the shoes next - the heels, the boots, the much loved Converse. He's not sure why it's so hard to look at the shoes for too long. Seems like a strange thing to get stuck on.

He gives himself a break from the closet and goes over to the opposite side of the room where her dresser is. After some rummaging, he adds a few items of clothing from her mother that were never quite the right size or style, a pair of pajamas she hated, a couple pairs of neatly pressed but rarely worn jeans, and a few maternity items to the donation box.

It's a good haul, he thinks. It's enough.

When he goes back to the closet, he makes the decision not to add any shoes and then a few minutes later, changes his mind and tosses a few pairs, ones he doesn't immediately recognize, into the last empty box. He should add more. The woman had a lot of fucking shoes. But he can't seem to make that work in his head. The thought of giving away her shoes makes him feel afraid. It's like this bolt of fear courses through him like a lightning strike.

If she comes back, he thinks, however irrational, she'll need her shoes.

It's not going to happen, this wretched universe has spent the past six months drumming that into his head - that he cannot save her, that he was never going to be able to save her, that an unpayable debt will live with him until he dies - but, still, it's a thought in his head.

What if she comes back?

He could give away all her clothes and they would still be able to scrounge up something for her to wear. But her shoes. People need shoes. He leaves the rest of them where they lay, an irrational, improbable ''just in case'' and then he starts to close the closet doors.

The black garment bag, forgotten on the hook inside the door, catches and prevents the doors from closing all the way. ''Shit.'' He pulls the doors back open and, without thinking, starts to unzip the bag.

The stupid thing is what's inside the bag doesn't even cross his mind. He's not sure where is head is, what he's thinking it could be, but he assumes it's harmless. Again, stupid. This is his dead wife's closet. Nothing is harmless. He unzips the garment bag all the way and white lace bleeds out of it, tulle and chiffon spilling out.

Her wedding dress.

Dean feels, for a second, as if someone has taken a hammer to his chest. He stands there, eyes transfixed on the delicate, detailed lace, the little cap sleeves, the layers of white fabric. He's not sure why he does it, it doesn't make much sense, but he pulls the dress all the way out, tossing the bag aside. Just to look at it.

She looked gorgeous in this dress. She looked gorgeous in anything, but she looked absolutely stunning on their wedding day. It was the happiest he had ever seen her. He wishes he had gotten more pictures of her that day. He wishes he had been able to make her that happy again. She deserved that kind of happiness, his wife.

Something passes through his lips then; something shaky and muffled that feels like it has been torn out of him. His vision blurs. His wife.

He had a wife.

What a depressing sentence.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He tries to conjure up the image of her on their wedding day, wearing this dress, radiantly alive and joyful. He tries to see her in her favorite date night dress, long sleeved but short and covered in sparkle and sequins, stepping out of the bedroom, golden hair swept to the side, lips Juicy Apple red, her smile wide and relaxed. He tries to think back to the night of October 31st, 2012, the way she looked when she was holding their child for the first time, flushed and weeping, still panting and exhausted from the birth, but in complete and total awe of their baby. He tries to imagine her as she was, as she would want to be remembered.

It's getting harder every day. It's only been six months and already he can feel her starting to slip away. The little things are what worry him the most. He feels like he can never get the edges of her quite right in his mind anymore. The way the sunlight shone against her hair at dusk in the summertime when she was standing on the back porch. The way she buttered her toast. The contented sigh she made when she took her first sip of a cup of her favorite tea. The sound of her heels on the hardwood floors. The little things, the small details, the pieces.

Loss takes a lifetime.

There will always be more to lose.

Right now, in this moment, with his eyes closed, desperately trying to summon her face, all he's coming up with is that April night six months ago. The way her voice did not sound like her voice the last time she spoke, the uncontrollable clenching of her fists, the way her eyes rolled back into her head before she started convulsing, her body slack on the hospital bed, lips parted, eyes open, unseeing.

That, and a long ago memory of his father's ragged voice. Manning, Colorado. 2006. A lifetime ago. A curious thing to be thinking about.

''I want to stop losing people we love,'' Dad said, inexplicably vulnerable and unlike himself in response to Sam's twenty two year old stubbornness and grief stricken rage. ''I want you to go to school, I want - I want Dean to have a home. ...I want Mary to be alive. I just... I just want this to be over.''

Dean opens his eyes, struggling against the tsunami of emotions threatening to spill over.

I want Dean to have a home, said Dad.

Imagine that.

A home.

Now here we are.

He had a wife.

He brings a hand to the wedding dress. Tries to fluff it up. The second his fingers touch the lace, he's disappointed. He wanted it to feel like her. It seems ridiculous now that he thinks about it, but he just wanted...something to be left over. Something left here of her that he could touch. He wanted something of her to stay.

She couldn't dance for shit, you know.

Couldn't cook either, for that matter. She was a human disaster in the kitchen. She could do a few basics - eggs, sandwiches, pancakes, boxed mac and cheese - and in the summertime, she pickled things and made homemade jam. The one thing she could make, the one thing that even he could not replicate, were those apple tarts she made every year during the holidays. It was her great grandmother Dinah Ellard's recipe and they were the most amazing things he had ever tasted. God himself would move Heaven and Earth to taste those apple tarts.

She had (mostly) terrible taste in music - indie crap and 90's pop and bad one hit wonders and classical music. Her favorite song was a tie between Starman by David Bowie (a great song) and One Headlight by The Wallflowers (a not so great song). She liked watching documentaries, but whenever she dipped her toe into true crime, she would go down these creepy rabbit holes where she could convince herself she could solve the unsolvable. Her favorite movie was Before Sunset and she could recite, verbatim, every line from 1985's Clue. She loved a good pantsuit. And her Converse. Rings were her go to accessory - sometimes to excess.

She loved the ocean, the beach, the way the stars looked above the water. Big Sur was her happy place, the place she always went back to in her head. She liked museums. Art galleries too. She wanted to travel. She wanted to go to Australia. She wanted to see London and Tokyo and Barbados. She had big plans for when they were empty nesters. She was going to retire and they were going to see the world together. She wanted to buy an RV. Go to Yellowstone. Back to Big Sur.

She liked tomatoes drizzled with balsamic vinegar and salt on her watermelon. She loved strawberries. And coffee ice cream. And really tart lemonade. And soft pretzels. And anything - anything at all - that he made for her.

She liked flowers. Always tried her best to make sure their house had at least one vase of them somewhere. She was a fantastic gardener. Their garden was small, but it was gorgeous in the spring and summer, full of all these bright, vibrant flowers. She wanted a bigger garden, a bigger yard. She wanted more flowers, she wanted a vegetable garden, strawberries, a lemon tree.

She loved tattoos. She had quite a few, but she wanted more. She was saving up to get a sprawling tattoo that covered her entire back. She didn't know what it was going to be, but she knew she wanted something magnificent, something that never seemed like it ended. She was always trying to get him to sketch out her ideas.

Her favorite book was The Hours by Michael Cunningham - depressing drivel in his opinion, but she loved it and read it at least once a year, usually in June. She didn't like scary things - couldn't handle it in any way, be it books, movies, or television - but she liked to read tragedies, heavy memoirs and angsty novels because she believed there was beauty to be found in themes like longing and grief every now and then.

She could not make a good cup of coffee. Her coffee was weak, and it had to be sweet - usually sweet and creamy, but she could do without cream in a pinch, as long as it was saturated with sugar - because she couldn't stand the bitterness. She preferred tea overall when it came to flavor, but she needed the caffeine jolt from coffee.

She wrote everything down. She didn't keep a diary or a journal. She kept notebooks and post it notes and yellow legal pads where she would jot down the most random shit. Grocery lists, to do lists, reminders, daily affirmations, song lyrics that were stuck in her head, things she heard on the news, a line from a book that stayed with her, anything she wanted to tell him the next time she saw him.

She wrote down every precocious thing their daughter said and every piece of wisdom her grandmother lovingly passed down to her. She scrawled hearts or smiley faces on the post it notes and stuck them to the bathroom mirror on the mornings she left before he got up and the nights she got in later than expected and slept in the next morning.

She left these random snippets everywhere. Stuffed every corner of this house with pieces of her days. He has spent the past six months finding scraps of her everywhere. The junk drawer in the kitchen, the pantry, the laundry room, the linen closet, in flower pots out in the shed in the backyard, her desk in the living room, every pocket of every coat, in between couch cushions, the china cabinet in the dining room, and here, in this bedroom.

Always here.

Like three minutes ago, when he found a folded up piece of paper in the pocket of the maternity dress she wore to her grandfather's funeral and then never wore again. He put the dress in the donation box. He kept the piece of paper. Just like he has kept every other scrap he has found. He has squirreled them all away in one of his dresser drawers for later.

It's for Mary, he tells himself. When she's older and has questions about the mother she barely got a chance to know, he'll pick out the best ones. The hearts. The smiley faces. The cheery notes about her day. The things she couldn't wait to tell him when she got home. The pieces of Beatrice Drake. He will find the best parts of his wife, written in her handwriting, and give them to Mary, so that she can know. She will appreciate them when the time is right. That's what he tells himself.

Truthfully, the reason why he does this, why he keeps things like this, is the same reason he does everything.

He has never been good at letting go.

She wasn't either.

One of the many things they had in common.

Dean grasps at the wedding dress, the delicate beading and lace, the tulle and chiffon skirt, and tries to find her.

His wife loved.

She loved completely, with every piece of her open heart, and he loved her just the same. There was not a single day of their marriage where he did not feel that love practically bursting in his chest. Not one day where he looked at her and did not think, Now this is luck. Even on the bad days. Even today. Even after everything.

He was so lucky.

He lets his hand fall away from the dress, but can't seem to bring himself to look away. He is so focused on the dress, on his own grief and inability to let go, that he doesn't hear the pitter patter of little feet in the hallway until -

''WOW!''

He turns away at the sound of Mary's chirp, blinking and sniffling surreptitiously wiping at his eyes, trying to shutter those doors back up in his head before she catches on. He grabs the garment bag from where it's lying discarded on the floor to make himself look busy.

It's not necessary. She's not even looking at him. She is completely focused on the wedding dress hanging on the closet door, eyes blown wide, as if it's the most beautiful thing in the world. She is standing just inside the door, with her horse blanket tied around her shoulders like a superhero cape. She's got her brand new stuffed animal tucked under her arm, a plush Piglet who, she has decided, is not the Piglet but Piglet's mother. Her name is Flower. A lot of her toys are or have extensive backstories about their moms lately.

Wonder why.

''Wow,'' Mary says again, breathing it out in total wonder, enthralled by the dress. ''Daddy,'' she shrieks, pointing a finger. ''Look!''

He attempts a smile. ''It's pretty, isn't it?''

She steps forward with uncharacteristic caution. ''Yeah,'' she whispers, still awed. She inches closer and closer until she is right next to him, close enough to reach out and touch the dress. ''Pretty.'' She starts to move, her hand twitching at her side, but she stops herself, peering up at him uncertainly. She waits until he gives her a nod and a shaky smile before she brings her hand to the dress. ''It's like a princess dress,'' she exclaims, running her hand over the fabric. ''Like Cinderella.''

''It is,'' he agrees, hanging the bag back up in the closet. ''You know whose dress this was?''

She shakes her head. ''Who?''

''Your mom.''

''Mommy's dress?'' Her fingers clutch at the fabric of the dress, her grip tightening.

''Her wedding dress,'' he says. He steps around her, nudging the boxes out of the way to get to the dresser. He picks up the framed photograph of Laurel on their wedding day, eyes lingering on her for a second before he hands it over to Mary. ''See?''

''Oh!'' She takes the picture and lets out a shrieky, very Mary giggle of delight. ''Mommy!'' She beams down at the framed photo, completely over the moon at the sight of her mother. ''She's so pretty, Daddy!'' She looks up at him, a twinkle in her eyes, so much like her mother's.

''She is,'' he agrees.

''Like a princess!''

''She's our princess.''

''Yeah,'' she nods. ''Our princess.'' She scurries over to the bed, holding tight to both the picture and Piglet's mom. She puts everything up on the bed before she unties the horse blanket from around her neck and climbs, with some difficulty, up onto the bed. ''It's okay, Flower,'' she's saying. ''You are a princess too.''

Dean's lips twitch slightly. He looks back at the wedding dress for a moment, just a moment. The dress, the beautiful dress his wife wore once, before all this, when things were relatively simple, when it was just them. Then he looks back to Mary.

She is sitting on the bed cross legged, one finger tracing Laurel's face through the glass, whispering, ''Mommy, Mommy, Mommy'' to herself.

Right.

So this is it. This is what they have now. Maybe it's not what they planned. But it's what they have. Consider it all.

A list of things his wife left behind for him: scraps of paper with bits and pieces of her days written down, shoes haphazardly strewn around the house like a trail of bread crumbs, a half read book of short stories by Lydia Davis, the floral patterned bookmark replaced by a Starbucks receipt dated April 5th, a tube of Juicy Apple red lipstick and two tubs of Pond's cold cream, the clinging scent of lavender and vanilla coconut, a name that seems to be whispered everywhere he goes in this fucking city, a wedding dress pushed to the back of the closet next to a duffel bag that contains blood stained leather and a mask she will never wear again, a cold space in the bed, a hole in the world, and her.

Mary.

The girl with her parents' hearts held in her open hands. The girl with her mother's eyes. The baby that caught them so off guard, but ended up being the best thing to ever happen to them.

''Honeybee,'' he says, just to be able to say it, just to have the sweetness of her nickname in his mouth instead of the bitterness of his grief for her mother. He sits down on the bed and stretches out behind her, eyes finding the picture of his wife's smile, the joy in her eyes, the wedding dress half covered by the baggy knit sweater she'd thrown on before and after the ceremony to shield her from the chill of a wet March. He looks away. ''You know what the best part of this picture is?''

She looks back at him curiously. ''What?''

''You're in it too.''

''I am?'' She looks confused, scrunching her nose up, the same way Laurel did. She squints down at the picture, bringing it up closer to her face. ''Nooo.''

''Yep. Right here.'' He taps the glass with one finger, pointing to Laurel's lace and beading covered abdomen. She wasn't showing the day of their wedding, not enough to where it was noticeable that she was pregnant, but she had gained some weight since she bought the dress, she was bloated from the awful morning sickness and her breasts had changed enough that the dress was tighter than it should have been and held together with safety pins. She didn't look different, but if you looked close enough, there was something. A look in her eyes. Something in the tilt of her lips. ''You were in your mom's tummy when this was taken,'' he says, watching Mary's eyes widen again.

She lets out a shocked gasp. ''I was?'' She studies the picture intently and then looks back to him. ''I was in the princess dress?''

''You were,'' he confirms, a smile pulling at his lips when he sees the look in her big doe eyes. ''Maybe one day, when you're older, a long ways down the road, you could wear it again on your wedding day.''

''Oh, yeah!'' She looks overjoyed at the prospect. ''When I'm older! I'll be a princess too,'' she says, determined. ''Maybe when I'm seven.''

He laughs again, louder this time, and the gnawing emptiness in his chest eases up, the waves of grief receding, falling farther back into the shadows. He ruffles her hair. ''I was thinkin' more like when you're thirty.''

She looks back to the photograph of her mother, admiring it from every angle, tilting her head this way and that way. ''Daddy, I like this picture,'' she declares after a minute.

''Me too.'' He rests his chin on her shoulder, looking down at the picture. ''That's one of my favorite pictures of your mom.''

''It's my favorite too,'' she decides. ''My - '' She swivels the picture around to show him. ''My mommy was pretty.''

''She was gorgeous,'' he agrees.

''Yeah, gorgeous.''

''So are you.''

She looks up from the picture. ''Like Mommy?''

''Just like her, pumpkin,'' he says. ''You're also smart like her. And kind. You're a good kid, Mary.''

She grins, bashful.

It's impossible not to smile back. ''You are your mother's daughter,'' he says. He hauls himself back to his feet, pausing to lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead before he turns back to the donation boxes. Not a single one of them is filled to the top and there are probably a lot of other things that should, logically, go into these boxes, but - fuck, he's not sure if he can do this again. He looks back to Mary, still sitting on the bed, staring at the picture of her mom like she is studying it for some kind of clue, like she's trying to commit it to memory. ''Hey.'' He grabs her little socked toe, waiting for her to look up before he continues. ''What do you think about putting that picture in your room?''

Immediately, her eyes light up. ''Okay!'' She scrambles off the bed, holding tightly to the picture. ''I'm gonna put Mommy in my room!'' She scurries out of the bedroom, happy as a clam, and Dean is, once again, left alone in this bedroom, the air still heavy with grief that will not, maybe ever, leave.

He is done with the boxes. Maybe they're not as full as they should be, maybe he should have started going through her things a long time ago, maybe he should be farther along in the process by now, but it is what it is. He is where he is. There is no rule book for this. You do your best. You take small steps. He has taken all the steps he can for today.

He moves back over to the vanity, the scattered pieces of her that he has clung to. The cold cream, the scraps of paper, the lipstick. His fingers find the lipstick first. He holds the small thing in his hand, turns it over, runs the pad of his thumb over the smooth plastic. He trades the lipstick for the piece of paper. It's a folded piece of paper, torn from a notebook. He is certain he has never seen it before, certain it has never been mentioned, so he is expecting a grocery list maybe, a scribbled phone number, a note to self about something she needed to do. Instead, he unfolds the piece of paper, reads the words scrawled in her loopy handwriting, and it's like a wave. It's like a tsunami. It envelops him completely.

Six months gone, and she is still knocking him off balance.

He laughs, quiet at first, then more hysterical, and then it's not laughter at all, but sobs, getting caught in his throat, clawing their way out.

His wife was fucking incredible.

Laurel Lance was fucking incredible.

She was everything.

She was kind. She was generous, sometimes to a fault, and thoughtful, a lovely person by every definition of the word. If she met you once, she would always remember your name. Once you knew her, you were hers. She was a bleeding heart romantic, and an enthusiastic mother hen. She took care of people. Everywhere she went, she'd find herself a stray. You took what you needed and she gave you what she could. No questions asked, no regrets, and she asked for nothing in return.

She radiated warmth so fiercely it was like staring into the sun. And no one gave better hugs. No one had a better smile. She had a bravery in her bones, a quiet strength, and more grit than he could even begin to dream of. There was a fire inside that woman that even the harshest of storms could not put out.

She was hardworking and loyal - again, sometimes to a fault. She had a certain capacity for forgiveness, understanding, and compassion that consistently blew him away, and she had enough love inside of her to blanket this earth and the next.

And she loved him.

He is still not sure why she bothered with him, but she did. He loved her, the way a bird loves a sky, the way the ocean loves the shore, enough to give himself over to her in every way imaginable, and, for some reason, through some sort of twisted miracle, she loved him back. She gave him a home. She gave him a daughter - a beautiful, intelligent, hilarious, amazing little girl who worshipped the ground her mother walked on.

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it.

She was not a perfect person, no one is, and she was, if he's being honest, a jagged soul, weary and lost, but so was he. She could be sad, that's true. Sadder than he ever thought possible, trapped under the weight of it, down so deep that he could not always get to her. She had a temper, a penchant for passive aggressiveness when she was angry, and her self-righteousness could, on occasion, border on obnoxious.

She was a pushover, forgiving people who had not yet earned forgiveness, and a doormat for two shitty, emotionally abusive parents and a flighty sister who could not seem to see over her own nose. He resented her for that, just like he resented her for allowing Oliver Queen into their lives without ever once asking him if he was okay with that.

She was a good mother, but she was a frightened one. She was too scarred by her own fractured relationship with her frigid mother to commit the way she needed to commit. She stood halfway in and halfway out of motherhood, full of love and adoration for their daughter but stuck in a maze of terror and anxiety and trauma, and she was ripped away before she could make it all the way in. He shouldered a lot more than he should have because of this, because of the baggage she never seemed to want to let go of.

And she was ill.

There is no way around that particular truth. No way to tell the story without it. There was a sickness inside of her that he could not fix, that he did not always know what to do with, and that probably was not being treated as aggressively as it should have been.

It was scary, sometimes, to love her. It was like loving a haunted house. She was full of ghosts that rattled their chains in the middle of the night and shook the house. You could see the echoes of them every so often, in the shadowy sadness in her eyes, the tightness of her mouth, the way she trembled and gasped, the wailing on the bad nights.

Love is not always easy. It's not always sunshine. It is hard to love an echo. But love her he did. He does.

Until the end of the world.

He loved every part of her, the good and the bad, every high and every low, the joy and the sorrow, the haunted and the haunting, and he would have spent the rest of his life taking care of her if given the chance. No matter the ghosts.

She was the ache in his chest and the fire in his belly, the blazing heat of summer and the cold chill of winter, the love of this life and the next, and if he was told to go back, he would do it all over again, even if it meant losing her a second time because loving her and losing her is better than never having loved her at all.

He thinks, perhaps, that's the thing his father didn't understand all those years he stewed in his misery and forced his boys down with him. That's the thing he missed.

Grief hurt, and it hurts, and it will continue to hurt, but grief also means that there was life here once, there was love, a love so strong it still echoes through this house, through him and the child they made together and everyone else she so much as smiled at, and that matters. That means something. She meant something. She was real. She was here, he held her in his arms and loved her the whole way through, and how empty would his life have been if she hadn't been here at all?

Dean looks at the cold cream, the red lipstick, the photographs tucked into the vanity mirror, all the snapshots of the people she loved the most, and, for a split second, in between breaths - there she is.

Sitting right here, right by him, looking into that mirror, applying the lipstick with her usual precision, the light catching on her sparkly dress. He can see her face, the pop of her lips, the color of the lipstick, the way she fluffs her hair, the way she smiles at herself in the mirror, checking her makeup one last time before she's ready to stop out of the bedroom and knock him off balance with a single smile.

She was always so good at knocking him off balance.

She turns, in the space between heartbeats, and smiles. He can see it so clearly. She is vivid and perfect and her. And then she's gone.

His girl was extraordinary. She found him when he was lost. She was his guiding light in the dark, the way she was for so many others. She was one of his favorite people. She was his best friend.

And she is not here anymore.

He has had to live with that.

For the rest of his life, there will be an empty seat beside him. At their daughter's graduation, at her wedding, on birthdays and holidays and every family vacation. One day, he might have a grandchild and she won't be there to see that. There will only be a coldness, an emptiness. It's going to follow him around like an echo. He will have to make space for that echo. He will have to live through this.

So he will.

He'll live. He'll survive. He always does. And he will do this better than his father did. He will make sure Mary has more than he ever did. She will have a full life. A good one. Because she's going to be an extraordinary woman one day. Just like her mother.

Dean gives himself a minute, maybe two, to sit here and wallow in his misery, and then he pulls himself together. He puts away the lipstick and the cold cream. He tries to force false cheer onto his face, to make it look like he hasn't just been standing here losing it. He puts the boxes in the hallway with the other. Then he goes back to Mary.

In her bedroom, she is cheerful, happy, lying on her stomach on her bed, humming loudly to herself while she flips through a photo album.

He hangs back in the doorway for a minute, watching her before he says anything. He listens to her hum Jingle Bells loudly and wildly off key. He watches tendrils of her honey blonde hair fall into her face, pushed back by impatient little hands. He studies the expression on her face as she turns the pages of the photo album. He spots the longing hidden away in her eyes and the tight corners of her mouth under all those vibrant layers of cheer.

But she's still smiling.

She is always smiling, always happy, this kind and gentle soul who, for whatever reason, picked him to be her dad.

Yes, he thinks to himself. This is exactly the thing that Dad missed.

His wife may be gone, but his child is not and that is the most important thing. He still has a home. It's right here, with her. He has never been homeless before, despite everything, and he is not homeless now.

In the doorway, Dean tries out a smile.

He pushes off the doorframe. ''Hey, kiddo,'' he greets brightly. ''You find a good spot for your mom's picture?''

Mary looks up with a grin. ''Uh-huh! Look!'' She pushes herself up on her knees and crawls across her bed. ''I put her here!'' She points to the picture, now in place on her bedside table. It will, without a doubt, be knocked over in a maximum of 48 hours. But she's proud of her placement, lips pulled back into a grin. ''And then - And then in the morning, I wake up and say ''good morning, Mommy'' and then - and then Mommy smiles at me.''

''That's a great idea, Mary. You found an awesome spot.'' He sits down on the bed, looking down at the photo album.

A prized possession of Mary's, now kept in her bedside drawer. It's full of pictures of Laurel. Every single page is Mommy, from 1985 to 2016, from the beginning to the end. It was started by Natasha Drake, Laurel's aunt, the only Drake sister who doesn't at least outright dislike him to a bizarre extreme. It was a kindness he wasn't expecting, but she was adamant about it, hand delivering it back in July after working on it for months, gathering all the pictures she could from everyone she could get in touch with. She needed to do something for Mary, she said. She wanted Mary to have as many memories of Laurel as possible.

She encouraged him to add more to it and he did what he could, but it was Thea who took the task to heart. She collected photos from everyone she could, reached out to old friends and new, even found some pictures in Tommy's things. She collected all the pieces and then lovingly, painstakingly captioned and dated every photograph and put them in the album in chronological order. It was all for Mary. It was also a little bit for Thea.

Mary adores it. She calls it her Mommy Book. Not a day goes by where she doesn't pull it out and take a look. She likes to be told the stories behind the pictures. She really likes to tell her own stories. Dean has never been able to make it through the whole thing.

He picks it up while Mary is fixing the picture frame, moving it around, making sure it's just right. He flips to the back of the book and in one of the few empty slots, he places the unfolded piece of notebook paper with Laurel's scribble. He has no context for it, no way to know what it is, if it's something she heard or something she read or even just something she thought, but it sounds like her. It sounds soft, loving, and kind. It has every ounce of the warmth she was known for.

I will tell you what I know of home, it says, written in her handwriting, a trace of her no one can take back. It's you. Always you.

Something like that belongs with Mary. He closes the book and puts on a smile just in time for her to look back at him.

She sees right through him in an instant. ''Daddy,'' she says, leaning in closer, narrowing her eyes. ''What's wrong?''

Busted.

''Nothing,'' he tries. ''I'm okay.''

Three years old and she's already calling him on his bullshit. ''Are you sad?''

He could lie. He could brush it off, tell her it's nothing, distract her with something, and then move on. ...Or he could tell her the truth. ''A little bit,'' he says eventually, because she already knows the truth anyway. Hiding it from her would be useless. She's little, but she already knows him too well.

As expected, she nods her head, unsurprised. ''You miss Mommy.'' She doesn't phrase it as a question.

''I do,'' he agrees. ''I miss your mom.''

''Me too.''

''That's okay,'' he tells her, not for the first time. ''It's okay to miss her. It's okay to be sad. We all get sad. That's just part of life. But we won't be sad forever, right?''

''Right! It's okay to be sad,'' she says, patting his knee. ''It's okay. We miss Mommy together. And we won't be lonely.''

''No,'' he agrees. ''We'll never be lonely.'' He takes her hand. ''Because it's you and me now, honeybee.''

She nods her head, looking determined. ''You and me, Daddy.'' She smiles at him, with far more tenderness one should expect from a three year old. She stares at him for a second with her mother's sharp green eyes, and then pushes herself up onto her knees, grabbing his face in her hands. ''Daddy,'' she says, very seriously. ''Don't worry, okay? Don't be scared. I'm here.''

''You are.''

''I stay with you. Even when you are sad.''

A soft smile eases onto his lips. He gently removes her hands from his face, keeping them held in his. ''Even when I'm sad?''

''Yes.'' She still looks gravely serious. ''I promise. And you can never ever break a promise.''

''That's right. Thank you for staying with me.'' He draws one of her tiny hands closer, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. ''I love you lots. Have I told you that lately?''

She giggles, that insanely gorgeous little giggle that cures all sorrows. ''I love you lots too!'' She launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug. ''Lots and lots! To the moon!''

''Wow,'' he mumbles into her soft hair. ''That's a lot.''

''Hey!'' She pulls back, eyes widening. ''I got an idea!'' She crawls away from him, snatching up her photo album and turning it around to show him. ''This is Mommy Book.''

''It is.''

''It's for missing her.'' She holds it out to him. ''Wanna look?''

He looks at the cover of the photo album, the picture of Laurel and Mary the night she was born. ''Sure, kid, I'd love to.''

''Okay!'' Mary beams. ''But we gotta start over, Daddy. Me and you.''

''That's a good idea, honeybee,'' he says. He looks at her face. Her mother's eyes. His smile. Her little nose. He doesn't understand how his father ever could have looked at his children and chosen anything else. ''Me and you,'' he says. ''Let's start over.''

.

.

.

February 2017

''Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable going to an actual medical facility to get this treated?''

The medic, Jennifer, peers down at the bloody wound on Laurel's shoulder with a hesitance in her eyes that is making Dean nervous.

Can't blame her.

It's an ugly wound.

''We can get you some anesthetic,'' she entices. ''Numb the area.''

Laurel, who seems more peeved that she has to acknowledge her oozing wound than bothered by the pain she must be in, shakes her head. ''No, I'm fine, thank you,'' she says, polite as can be. ''I don't think it's that bad.''

Uh-huh, sure.

Meanwhile, Lyla looked like she was going to vomit when she saw it and Agent Chen seemed extremely concerned about blood loss, radioing for an emergency medic ASAP and ordering Laurel to sit down, drink some water, and elevate her legs.

Dean folds his arms and watches the look of disbelief play across Medic Jennifer's face. ''This isn't her first rodeo,'' he says, tossing her a quick but effectively charming grin. ''She's become pretty well acquainted with stitches in the field.''

Jennifer looks in between them for a second. She likely thinks they're both out of their minds. Not an unreasonable thing to think. ''I see.'' She focuses her attention back on the gruesome wound and the bleeding she's been trying to stop.

He takes advantage of the moment of quiet to really take in the sight of his wife.

She doesn't look like herself. It's not like it's the first time he's noticed it, but he thinks it's the first time she's fully let her guard down today. Laurel postures, like anyone else. Right now, she seems too worn out to even try. She looks small, sitting there in the back of the unmarked ARGUS ambulance with her shirt peeled off, shivering in the cold February air. She looks like she is deliberately trying to make herself small, hunched over, curling into herself. He's not sure if it's because of the injury, because she's not sleeping or eating properly, because of the deteriorating spell, or...

Or maybe because she's been drinking.

He knows what she said and he would like to believe her but she just told him she used to pay a heroin addict for drugs. He can't be sure of anything right now.

The one thing he knows for sure is that he wants to take her home.

He is angry, he is so fucking angry, and he's smarting, and seeing her has made him feel restless in his own skin and discombobulated. But he wants to take her home. If she's sick, if she's injured, he wants to take care of her. It doesn't matter how angry he is or what she did, he can't stand the thought of her alone out there if she's hurting.

''This is going to need quite a few stitches,'' Jennifer says, still looking wary about treating this in the middle of a 7-11 parking lot.

Laurel, stubborn as ever, remains firm. ''Do you have everything you need to treat it here and now?''

''I think so.''

''Then we're doing it here.''

Jennifer looks up at Dean.

He knows Laurel is not going to back down on this. All he can give is a nod.

''Whatever you say,'' Jennifer gives in. ''I'll just make sure the wound is clean and then I'll get started on the sutures.''

''Thank you,'' Laurel's voice is hushed. ''I'm sorry for being a difficult patient.''

At that, Jennifer cracks a smile. ''Oh, honey, please.'' She laughs. ''Have you ever met an ARGUS agent? You are far from being the most difficult patient I've ever had.''

Laurel tries valiantly to attempt a smile, but doesn't quite get there. She doesn't say anything else and she won't even look at him, but he can see her readying herself, gearing up for the tug of the needle in her flesh, the sting of the clean out.

He should go. He has places to be and she's a grown adult. She can handle the stitches. He just can't seem to make himself leave. He inches closer to her to look down at the wound, getting an up close look at it as Jennifer pulls out gauze and other various things from her kit. It is a nasty, nasty wound. Five deep claw marks on her shoulder blade that won't stop bleeding. Deep being an understatement. He looks at the injury, the jagged edges of skin, the gouges that go so deep he's not sure how they avoided ripping muscles and tendons or anything vital in there. It does not look like an injury that's going to heal quickly.

He has no idea how the hell she's just been wandering around with that thing, fighting off Dolls, gouging out eyeballs, crawling through air vents, all while slowly bleeding to death - and all without a single complaint. Never said anything to anyone about any fucking holes in her body.

But he's the ridiculous one for not needing help for a completely superficial head wound.

He looks away from the bloody carnage of her shoulder and catches Jennifer's eye as she leans in. She looks concerned. He looks back to Laurel, still sitting there stoic, bothered more by the cold air against her bare skin than the gaping hole in her shoulder. He resists the urge to shake his head. Strongest woman he has ever known but - shit, if she ain't needlessly stubborn about things.

Who the fuck just walks around full of holes?

''You weren't going to tell anyone about this, were you?''

''What was I supposed to say?''

If he didn't know her so well, he would think she sounded perfectly calm and at ease. He does know her, is the thing. Better than most. Possibly better than anyone. She's in a lot of pain. He can tell by the way she's holding her brand new fancy leather jacket, balled up in her lap, fingers clenching it just a little too tightly. He can tell by her overly practiced calm, the way her mouth tightens. She's in pain. She was just going to let herself be in pain.

''Gee, I don't know,'' he bites out sarcastically. ''How about - Anyone got a band aid? Don't mean to bother anyone but I'm bleeding out over here.''

''Well, I wouldn't say it like that.''

He is not buying the false lightness in her attempt at a joke. ''Jesus, Laurel.''

''Okay, all right, just...'' She closes her eyes and takes a breath. ''Stop saying my name like that.''

''Like what?''

''Like my father says it.''

''I'm not doing this with you again,'' he says tersely.

''I'm sorry,'' she says it quickly, but without looking at him. ''I'm sorry.'' She bites her bottom lip, a nervous habit, and then drags her eyes up to him. ''I didn't know how to explain it.'' She drops her eyes again, staring down at her knees. ''I didn't - '' She shakes her head. ''I can't do this with you right now,'' she hisses through gritted teeth.

''How are you the one irritated with me right now?''

''I'm not - I'm not irritated,'' she gets out, and it's the tight rasp that does it. ''I'm just trying to - '' She breaks off in a grunt, pitching forward with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers visibly digging into her knees.

''Shit, okay.'' He doesn't think twice about it, crouching down in front of her, one hand automatically moving up to the back of her neck. ''Come here. I've got you.'' She grabs for his hand blindly, eyes still shut, latching on the second she finds him.

''Sorry, sorry,'' Jennifer winces sympathetically. ''I know that stings. I'm just flushing the wound. I need to make sure it's clean before I close it up.''

Laurel manages a jerky nod and a tight, pained, ''Mmhm.''

''Just keep squeezing my hand,'' Dean advises, moving his other hand to her knee. He can't see what Jennifer is doing, but he can see the frown on her face, the concern evident in her eyes and he can feel Laurel getting tenser and tenser. She's trembling slightly now and he can tell she's holding her breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jennifer grabbing for a pair of tweezers. That does not bode well. ''Babe.'' He focuses back on Laurel. ''Don't hold your breath. It won't help. Just take a few deep breaths.''

She's trying, he can tell, but her breathing is shallow, stuttering and catching in her throat. ''Can you - '' Her grip on his hand, already too tight, tightens. ''Don't leave.''

He could make a snarky comment here - tell her something like, nah, leaving is your thing. He doesn't. ''I won't,'' he says. ''Not until you're done here.''

''Did this happen outside?''

''It - '' Her eyelids flutter open at the sound of Jennifer's voice. ''Why?''

''There's dirt in the wound.''

''...Oh.'' Laurel's voice is very small.

''When did you say this happened?''

''Earlier today.''

''And you're feeling fine otherwise?''

''You mean other than the excruciating pain of you digging around in my open wound?''

''Yes, other than that.''

''I'm fine,'' Laurel says, her voice firm and commanding, even as she squeezes the holy hell out of his hand.

''No nausea? Dizziness? Fever?''

''Not currently, no.''

''Wait.'' Dean is already bringing a hand up to Laurel's forehead, checking for a fever. She doesn't feel warm. She's not flushed or acting lethargic. ''Why?''

''This wound is infected,'' Jennifer says. ''Badly.''

Laurel mumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, ''Of course it is.''

He stands up, keeping one hand in Laurel's. ''It's infected? Already?''

''Ms. Lance,'' Jennifer says, ignoring him completely. ''I really think we need to bring you in. If this infection spreads - ''

''Oh, it'll spread,'' Laurel whispers to herself, too quiet for Jennifer to hear.

'' - You could be in big trouble.''

Dean looks at the wound, red and angry, and then at Laurel - his beautiful, terrified, stubborn out of her goddamn mind wife.

Despite the pain that has dulled down her vibrant eyes, worn her down to the bone, she remains firm. ''Meh.'' She lifts her uninjured shoulder in an attempted shrug, playing at casualness. ''I'm always in trouble.'' She smiles, a real charming grin. ''Comes with the territory.''

Jennifer isn't buying it.

Frankly, Dean isn't either.

''I don't know what that means,'' the exasperated medic says. ''But this cannot be normal for you.''

''I didn't say it was normal. I just said it comes with the territory.''

''Ms. Lance - ''

''I'm not going to an ARGUS facility.''

''It doesn't have to be an ARGUS facility.''

''No.''

''Laurel,'' Dean finally cuts in, voice more impatient than he means it to be. ''What the hell are you doing?''

Her expression is completely even when she lifts her eyes to him, but he can easily see the frustration beginning to color her cheeks. ''Who's footing the bill?''

''We can figure that out later, but if you have an infection - ''

''It doesn't matter.''

''What does that - That doesn't even make sense. How does it not matter? You can't save the world if you're dying of sepsis.''

Infuriatingly, she continues to brush it off with a bizarre combination of calmness and resignation, her tone and expression completely flat. ''I'm not going to die of sepsis.''

He didn't know if it was possible for his day to somehow get even more frustrating, but here we are. ''Woman, I will physically pick you up and put you in the back of this fucking ambulance.''

Again, nothing. Even with him deliberately trying to rile her up, she just stares back at him, blank. ''Try.''

Well, shit.

She's got him there.

Dean looks at Jennifer. She looks concerned for her patient, torn between likely wanting to respect her wishes and possibly wanting to involuntarily commit her, but she also looks like she is trying not to raise a judgmental eyebrow at his phrasing. ''All right,'' she says eventually. ''How about this: I'll finish cleaning the wound, then I'll call in a script for antibiotics and get someone to run them down here. If it works out, they'll be here before the stitches are done.''

''I can't - ''

''No charge. ARGUS will eat the cost. I'll get Chen to sign off on it. He does stuff like this all the time.''

Laurel doesn't respond to it, not for a long time, but Dean can see that look in her eyes, can see the automatic refusal coming, so he makes an executive decision to step in and override her. ''She accepts.''

''Dean,'' she sighs.

''She accepts,'' he says again, blatantly ignoring her.

''Great.'' Jennifer doesn't give Laurel a chance to object. ''The antibiotic should clear the infection, but you're still going to need to keep an eye on this. If it starts getting worse, if you spike a fever or start feeling unwell, you need to get to the emergency room immediately. Deal?''

''Yes,'' Dean says, because Laurel won't. ''Deal.''

Jennifer does not appear to have any particularly strong amount of faith in them. ''All right, I'll just finish this up and make the call.''

''Thanks,'' Dean says - again, because Laurel won't.

She's too busy pouting because she's been locked out of the conversation. He doesn't even feel bad about that. Let her pout. She's being ridiculous about this. He watches her, mouth pressed into a grim line, and can't help but wonder, not for the first time, how they ended up here - essentially trapped in a nightmare role reversal. When she closes her eyes, body rigid with pain, focusing on breathing through it, he takes advantage of her current inability to run away from him to look at her up close.

She is strong enough to put up a hell of a fight wherever she can find herself some trouble. She is healthy enough to slip into Black Canary mode full time and stay alive doing it. She is firm in her convictions, confident and self-assured, with enough gas in the tank to take charge, to play True Detective while he's at home doing his best Betty Crocker. And, the biggest relief, he can still see the mark of magic sprawling up her hand, her wrist, confirming that the spell keeping her alive is still in place, still strong. It's a comfort. It is.

But she doesn't look well.

It was obvious the first time he saw her and it is even more obvious now. She looks ill. She can tell everyone she's fine, brush off concern with a smile, but he can see, better than anyone, the sickness surrounding her like a fog. It's in the pale pallor of her skin, almost gray in the right light. It's in the way she moves, each movement suggesting pain and discomfort. Her hollowed out eyes. The tightness around her mouth and eyes. The way she looks like she is ready to, at any given moments, start puking all over the pavement. She doesn't look as bad as she did during the height of her addiction, she doesn't even look as sick as she did when she was pregnant, but she looks tired and she looks hungry and she looks frail. And if he asks her about it, if he brings it up, she'll lie. He's sure of it. Not just because he knows her well enough to know her next move but because - well.

That's what he would do.

He would lie through his teeth. It's one of the many ways they're alike. Cut from the same cloth. Two sides of the same coin.

''Hey.'' He crouches back down in front of her. ''Look at me for a sec.''

Laurel blinks open her eyes to look at him.

It physically pains him to see how thoroughly bone tired she looks. By the look on her face, it seems to hurt her just to look at him period. He brings his hand back to her forehead, impulsively checking for a fever he knows she does not have. He cups her cheeks in his hands. She's not warm, doesn't seem feverish, but his concern persists. It's like a gnawing. Something feels off. ''You sure you're feeling okay?''

''Fine right now,'' she says, although her voice is tight. ''Just stings a little.''

''It's gonna be over soon,'' he assures her, moving one hand to her knee, trying not to grimace in sympathy when she hisses in pain and squirms. ''Just breathe through it. Nice and slow.'' He takes her hand. ''Keep squeezing my hand.''

Her wound is bad - deep and infected and bloody - but this level of pain seems abnormal for her.

Jennifer, doing her best to be as gentle as possible, looks like she's thinking the same thing. Her frown deepens with every groan her patient lets out. It doesn't take that long for her to finish cleaning the wound, a few minutes at most, but by the time she pulls away, announcing that it's over, Laurel is about three shades paler and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead. ''All right, I'm going to cover it to keep it clean and out of the elements. You can put your shirt back on if you want.'' Jennifer strips off her gloves. ''I'm going to go call in those antibiotics for you before we move onto the stitches. I'll only be a few minutes. Five at the most.'' She gives Laurel a warm smile and rests a hand on her arm before departing, off to go find Agent Chen, the world's most affable Secret Agent Man.

Laurel says nothing in response. No thank you, no smile, she doesn't even look up. She lets go of Dean's hand and draws away from him. Wipes at the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.

Dean stands straight and watches Jennifer go, scanning over the remaining ARGUS agents and vehicles in the parking lot.

Laurel hasn't moved to put her shirt back on when he turns back to her. She seems to be thinking about it, debating whether it's worth it. Ultimately, she doesn't reach for it. Just stays where she is, slumped and hunched over, head down, shivering in just a bra, picking at her cuticles.

Real talk: something is off with her, something more than her shoulder, and he maintains that she's hiding something, but it's possible that the reason she looks so crestfallen and vaguely nauseated right now might be because...

Look, he was a dick, okay?

He maybe lost it a little before. Unloaded on her when he shouldn't have. Said some things he shouldn't have said. The Oliver shit has been piling up for a long time, but that might not have been the right time to let it out. It was a fuck up on his part. He stands by a lot of what he said and he still believes some of it, the parts that have been festering for years, needed to be said. But he could have said it better. He could have handled it better. It wasn't the right time. It wasn't the right tone. He hurt her because she hurt him. He did it after he explicitly told her that hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do. That was unnecessary. It's just -

Holy shit, he is sick of this. He is sick and tired of his entire life unraveling. Today sucks. Yesterday sucked. Tomorrow is probably going to suck. This whole situation sucks. These past two weeks, the last three and a half months, hell, the whole damn year -

He's over it.

He's fucking dog tired. He hasn't slept properly in who knows how long. His wife is mentally, physically, and emotionally fading away and he can't do anything to stop it. His daughter is traumatized. And he just got fucking jumped by a group of brainwashed people. It's just been a monumentally shitty day.

Let's not even get started on this Rick Flag bullshit cropping up again. Exactly how many times should you have to tell someone to fuck off before they fucking fuck off?

Fucking Amanda Waller.

She has been haunting him since New Orleans with this stupid shit. Bet she's not even dead. That would be just like her. Amanda Waller showing up out of thin air would be the least surprising thing to happen right now. It's practically expected. Gotta be pretty damn hard to kill someone like The Wall.

Dean watches Laurel for a second, half waiting for her to say something, break the ice, but she doesn't. She's just sitting there, perched on the back bumper of the unmarked ambulance, waiting patiently. Breaking the ice is going to be on him this time. ''Do you - '' He pauses, somewhat awkwardly, waiting for her to look up at him before he goes on. ''Do you need help with your shirt?''

''No. I don't think - '' She looks at her shoulder. ''I don't want to have to move my shoulder.''

''It's cold.''

''I'll be fine. It's just a few more minutes.''

He nods, but can't let it go. Wordlessly, he slips out of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, mindful of her wound. She looks surprised. He kind of hates that. Offering your shivering, shirtless spouse your jacket in the middle of February is bare minimum shit. She must really think he hates her guts.

''Thank you,'' she says softly, tugging the jacket closer.

''Sure.'' He considers his next actions carefully, taking a seat next to her. He makes sure his voice is softer, less accusatory when he asks her, ''You wanna tell me how this happened?''

She does not want to tell him that, no. It's extremely obvious. ''Edie, I guess.''

''You guess?''

''It's...'' She licks her dry, cracked lips slowly, thoughtfully, and then turns to him. ''I don't want you to worry,'' she says, which immediately makes him worry. ''But things have been getting...dicey lately.''

''What does that mean?''

She looks like she is trying to come up with something to tell him, just enough to get him off her back, not enough to freak him out. ''Something's wrong with her,'' she says eventually. ''Like, really wrong. She's falling apart.''

Edie has been falling apart since she was fifteen years old, but okay.

''And she's taking you with her,'' he guesses, managing to keep his voice even.

''I keep getting these...'' She frowns. ''There are all these weird symptoms that keep popping up. Nausea, fatigue, fevers, body aches, migraines, and now this.'' She gestures to her shoulder. ''It's everywhere. Every part of her hurts. But it's not...me. It's not happening to me. I don't think. I'm just the echo.''

That doesn't make it any less terrifying. Just the thought of it makes him feel cold all over. Makes his stomach churn.

Laurel is already technically a dying woman. There is damaged witchcraft inside of her, liable to fail at any moment. She is essentially being kept alive on Oliver Queen funded life support. And now this? How much more can her body take before the ropes snap and she plunges right back into that grave? How is she supposed to deal with that alone? What if something happens while she is all alone? What if she gets too sick and it all just -

What if she dies alone?

''Fuck, Laurel,'' he murmurs, hand automatically moving to her back.

She just smiles, a shaky smile, an attempt to make him feel better. ''My thoughts exactly.''

Well, screw that. He's not letting her collapse and die in some cockroach motel in the Glades. He is not letting her bleed out on some dirty carpet that hasn't been cleaned since 1998. He's not letting her die alone. However this ends, she won't be alone. That was supposed to be his fate. That's a Winchester's end. It's not hers. ''We need to break that connection.''

Much to his surprise, Laurel dismisses that. ''That would just piss her off.''

''Uh, so?'' He eyes her strangely. ''This woman is out of her mind. She's unhinged. We've known that from day one. Now she's unhinged and apparently seriously ill. She's going to end up checking out early and taking you with her. I'm not letting that happen.''

''I know what the stakes are,'' she says sternly. ''I'm just...wary of what she'll do if we make her angry.''

''That's why we take her out before she can strike. We break the connection, we make the move, we hit her before she can hit back.'' He stands, moving in front of her. ''That should be our main focus. Taking out Edie. Not her possible zombie boyfriend, not Marlene and whatever the fuck her husband's name is, not the Dolls, not even the Soul Eater. We'll deal with all of that after. The number one priority needs to be getting Edie off the board.''

She does not look at all enthusiastic about that. She doesn't look particularly enthused about anything. She's sitting there, scratching at the back of her neck, a grimace seemingly permanently stitched onto her face, periodically avoiding making eye contact with him for too long. He doesn't think that has anything to do with whatever freaky art house horror movie connection she has to Mistress of the Dark. Nope. He knows her too well. This is about something else. ''Okay.'' She looks back to him with dull, empty eyes. ''How do we do that?''

''She's a witch,'' he says. ''She's just a witch. I can kill one witch. Wouldn't be my first time.''

There's that look again; a wince, followed by her pinching her lips together. She looks down. ''She's not just a witch. She's - ''

''What? Your family?''

She reacts to the words like they physically pain her, and then she squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't deny it. See, this is the problem. This was always going to be the biggest problem.

There is no version of this story where Laurel kills Edie.

It's just not going to happen. It's not who she is. Laurel is someone who believes deeply in the goodness of humans. The kindness. The worthiness. She believes in things like forgiveness and redemption and mercy and recovery. Not innocence, but absolution. To her, we are all fundamentally well meaning and good at our cores. No one is beyond saving. She doesn't want to kill her cousin. She wouldn't be her if she did.

Dean loves that about her, loves her grace and compassion, her capacity for tenderness, but he has no such reservations. Some people are rotten. He knows this to be true. Rotten down to their foundations. Beyond saving, beyond redemption, and far beyond forgiveness. Some monsters just need killing.

This part was always going to be on him.

Black Canary is merciful.

Dean Winchester is not.

''You don't want to kill her.'' It's not an accusation and he hopes it doesn't sound like one. It's just an observation.

She still bristles. She opens her eyes and looks at him for a second, blank. ''I don't want to kill anyone,'' she responds eventually, easy, honest, unashamed. ''But I will if I have to. And I know I have to.''

''What if you didn't have to? What if this didn't have to be on you?''

His proposal is not met with any real interest or intrigue.

On some level, he is not surprised, the same way he knows exactly what she's going to say, what she's already said, but he has to offer it anyway. ''Come on, Laurel,'' he begs, again. There are not many people in the world capable of turning him into this, of making him beg. ''Sam and I can handle Edie. We can handle Moretti. We can. This is what we do.''

''You're retired.''

He wants to laugh. Yeah, sure. Retired. Because today's events just scream retiree. He just shot up a 7-11 with a group of brainwashed cultists, killed at least one of them, possibly another if that dude with the femoral artery bleed doesn't make it to the hospital, took down two ARGUS agents, one of them a Navy SEAL, and got pummeled, but, sure, he's retired. ''You know I killed one of those people in there today?''

She looks up, but doesn't say anything.

''Used him as a human shield. Guy's in there riddled with bullets I might as well have put in him myself. Fuck retirement,'' he spits out. He wants her to look at his bloody bruised knuckles, the blood on his clothes, splattered on his boots, drying on his face and neck. ''Do I look retired to you?''

''Today isn't - ''

''Even if that was an issue,'' he cuts in, barreling past her excuses before she even has a chance to get the out. ''There are swarms of people - on my side and yours - ready and willing to help. There is an alien from another earth who told me to give her a holler if we ever needed anything.'' Still fries his brain when he thinks about it. ''Laurel, this is - I'm serious. We can handle this.'' He hates how pathetic his voice sounds, hates the way it is ultimately not going to change anything, but he has to say it. He has to try. If he thought getting down on his knees and begging would work, he would do it. In a heartbeat. ''Just...sit this one out. Be with Mary. Let us end this once and for all so we can move on.''

As expected, his impassioned pleas don't change a thing.

Laurel looks, for a second, torn. But it doesn't last. ''The whole reason I left was because I didn't want anyone to have to deal with my mess.''

''Spare me the rationalization,'' he snaps back. ''You know damn well that's not why you left.''

Something flares in her eyes, a little bit of life, a little bit of fire, and she drags herself up to her feet. ''I can't just let you - or anyone else - go out there and put your life on the line to clean up my poisonous, deranged family tree while I sit at home with my feet up eating bonbons. I can't do that. I won't.'' Her voice is steely and uncompromising. ''I will not put you in danger.''

''My entire life has been danger.''

''But it's not now.'' She straightens her shoulders, brushing off a flicker of pain. ''At least it shouldn't be. You're supposed to be safe now. You're a father. I need you to - ''

''And you're a mother,'' he gets out. ''Aren't you?''

Despite the flash of hurt, she maintains her composure like a champ. ''Yes,'' she says. ''I am. But I think we both know I'm not the parent she needs right now. Mary...'' This is where she falters, a strained look on her face. ''Mary is not safe with me.'' She says it like a plea, begging him to get it, to just understand where she's coming from.

''You're her mom,'' he tells her, gentle, soft, because he wants, despite the frustration, to soothe her. ''Of course she's - ''

''No!'' It comes out sharp and commanding. Her eyes are darker, shadowed. ''No,'' she says again. ''Mary isn't safe anywhere. Not anywhere, Dean. Don't you get that? She's not safe as a Lance, she's not safe as a Winchester, she's sure as hell not safe as an Ellard. She's not safe with Edie out there, she's not safe with her gone. She's not safe at home, or in this city, or in this country. She can't even be safe at school.'' She pauses, like she's waiting for him to disagree with her, but the sad reality is that he can't. ''She needs somewhere to be safe,'' she says. ''She needs at least one safe place.'' Her eyes burn into him. ''That's you. That's always been you. It's not me. Not right now anyway. I'm not equipped to be a mom right now. We all know that.'' In a mumble, just under her breath, audibly irritated, she adds, ''Your brother sure knows it.''

Dean perks up at the mention of Sam, raising an eyebrow. ''What?''

She stiffens for a second, looking regretful. Whatever fire she had goes out and she deflates all at once. ''Nothing.'' She looks away. ''Never mind.''

''No, not never mind,'' he says. ''What does Sam have to do with anything?''

There are a lot of answers to that question, but given the look in her eyes, he's guessing it's not good. ''Nothing.'' She crosses her arms over her chest, body suddenly angled away from him, defensive. ''Just forget I said anything. It doesn't matter.''

He flashes back to the conversation he had with Sam earlier. He remembers Sam telling him that he'd seen Laurel and that it was awkward, but he didn't mention anything that was said. Didn't mention a fight, that's for sure. Then again, he wouldn't, would he? Especially not if he was the jackass. Sammy's like that. He plays softness well, but he's a snide little shit when he wants to be. Most notably when it comes to family loyalty.

''If it doesn't matter, just tell me.'' Dean grasps Laurel's wrist. ''Did he say something to you?''

She tugs out of his grip and steps back. ''I shouldn't have brought it up.'' She turns away from him for a second, likely just to be able to avoid looking at him. He knows all her tells. ''Look, Dean.'' She turns back to him after a second. ''I'm trying to... I love you.'' She gives him a small, shaky smile. ''I love you so much. I do. You and Mary have my whole heart. I need you to know that.''

''I do.''

''I'm doing everything I can to get back to you,'' she says. ''If you'll have me, that is. I'm fighting, I swear I'm fighting, but I...'' She looks regretful. ''I can't...''

''You can't do that around us,'' he finishes for her.

Despite the shame and heartache clear as day in her eyes, she nods.

It's such bullshit. He was an ass before and he'll own that, but you know what he wasn't? Wrong.

This was always about punishment.

Anyone can see that.

This woman has been half of him for going on seven years now, the better part of a decade, and he has loved her in ways he has never loved anyone before. He knows her. Inside and out, he knows her. The depths of her love, the gore of her trauma, the music she listens to, the way she drinks her coffee, and the way she cares for everyone in this world but herself. He knows the lies she tells herself.

Oliver was a shitty boyfriend because she was weak and timid and she let him. She pushed him to commit when he wasn't ready, so he got on that boat with her sister and they both died because of her. She was a stuck up, self-righteous sister, too judgmental, too ornery, too cold, just like her mother, so Sara had to get back at her by stealing her boyfriend. She was an imperfect daughter, nothing they wanted, nothing like Sara, so it made sense that her parents didn't like her. Who would? Tommy died because he went to CNRI that night for her, because she was foolish and selfish and went back even though she had been warned to stay away. She killed herself and their baby because she made the choice to go into the field that night. She killed Dean in Seabeck because she was reckless and impulsive and let Edie goad her into a fight.

Everything falls back to her. Everything is her fault. She's the loose thread. The weakest link. The burden.

This was always about punishment.

Not like he can be mad at her for feeling that way. He's been known to have a rather self-destructive guilt complex himself.

Back in 2007, in the space between the sharp end of Jake Talley's knife and the ugly smirk on the Crossroads Demon's borrowed face, while Sam was nothing but a body, Dean made himself a plan. It was a simple enough plan. Easy enough to accomplish. He decided he was going to rot. Just curl up right there and rot along with Sammy. Because there was nothing left for him. Because he had failed. One job, one reason, one purpose, and he couldn't even do that right.

Except then he snapped out of it.

He's not going to say what he did next was healthy, he's not even going to say it was right - although you'd better believe he would abso-fucking-lutely do it again - but it's what he did. It's how he woke up. He pieced it back together. He fixed it.

Laurel works differently.

She gets...lost. She gets dark. She hurts - a deeper wound, he thinks, than he will ever be able to understand - and no power on this earth can make the pain stop. It doesn't matter what she fixes. It doesn't matter how much she drinks or how many pills she downs with the wine. It doesn't even matter how many people Black Canary saves. There will always be loss. For her, there will always be a wound.

Laurel lives her life as if she has come unstuck in time.

Nothing matters.

And everything matters.

She walks through her life, through memories, sifting through tragedies and traumas, making a list of reasons to hurt, things to feel guilty about. She is a different person from one moment to the next and every one of them is just as lost as the last, drifting through her own head, wondering how can I be happy when this happened here, when that is still happening over there, when this person I love is no longer here, how can I be a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, how can I live in this world, how can I keep going, how can I stop.

And, try as he might, he can never ever follow her.

He's not sure anyone could.

When she was gone, when she was dead, there were mornings where he would wake up after a night of tossing and turning and he wouldn't even want to sit up. He couldn't. Couldn't even find the strength to face the day. He did, of course, because it wasn't a choice. There was Mary and she needed him, she needed so much from him, so he got up. Nevertheless, on those mornings, before the alarm clock sounded, alone with the empty side of the bed, simply living seemed like the hardest thing in the world to him.

It was dark where he was, there was no chance of light, and he was tired. He just wanted to be still for a moment. To just lie there and exist as nothing but a body. It hurt too much to be anything more than that. It hurt to move, to breathe, to be alive in this world.

If he hadn't had Mary, he thinks he would have just stayed in bed. He thinks he would still be there now.

It never occurred to him, although perhaps it should have, that this is what she lives with all the time. Not until right now, standing here with her, watching her face, her guarded expression, her nervous hands, the lines around her shadowed eyes, wild with ghosts.

This is Laurel. This is the woman he married. This is who she is.

No amount of fixing, of love and support, will change that. There will be highs and lows, like with anything else, peaks and valleys to walk through, treatment and periods of recovery, good days and bad, but the scars will remain. She will always be, in some ways, lost, and he will always be, in some ways, searching. Neither of them can change that. This is it.

This is what they have.

Not everything - or everyone - can be fixed the way he wants them to be.

Moments ago, she stood in front of him and told him, over and over until she was blue in the face, that she didn't want to die. She said everything he needed to hear, everything he has been waiting for, and he is realizing, right here, right now, in between the grief and the guilt, the hurt and the anger, that it doesn't matter what she says now. He believes her, is the thing. At least he wants to. She was adamant. She was convincing. But it doesn't matter. Deep down, they both know what could be ahead of them. Where the truth lies.

Loving her is, like he said, terrifying.

And extraordinary.

It's like loving a bird. You have two options. You hold her for as long as she will allow, revel in the feel of her, the peace she brings, the new meaning, and then, when the time comes, you let her go. Or you choose not to hold her at all.

Dean - hovering in some strange epiphany, calm but still hurt, wounded but still hopelessly devoted to everything she is - will always choose to hold her. Nothing in life is free, after all. The price of love will always be loss.

He still thinks he would rather love. An easy choice, in his opinion. His mother once made the same choice. He understands why now.

He clenches his left hand into a fist, his wedding ring suddenly feeling cold against his skin. He looks at Laurel, still standing there, waiting for him to say something, those eyes of hers silently pleading for understanding. He doesn't think he can give her that. Not yet. One day, maybe, but it's still too raw. She wouldn't even accept his absolution if he gave it to her. But he can give her solace, perhaps, a kind of tenderness, and that will have to be enough for now. He exhales. ''Okay.''

She looks thrown. ''...Okay?''

''Okay.'' He steps into her space, going slow, giving her enough time to stop him if she needs to. She doesn't. He touches her face, cups her cheeks in both hands gently, and looks at her for a second, trying to see what it is that she's hiding from him, because he knows she's hiding something. It's not a puzzle he can solve right now. ''Okay,'' he repeats, barely above a whisper, and then leans in to press a kiss to her temple. ''You do what you need to do. I don't like it and I don't agree with it, but I know I can't change your mind. Besides,'' he draws back for a second. Attempts a smile. ''I fucked up enough in those first couple of years. I can give you this one.'' He pulls her in for a hug, an impulsive action that he's not sure is the right thing to do, not when they're both this fragile, but he does it anyway.

She looks like she could use a hug. She doesn't hug back at first, tensing slightly in his arms, but then he feels her let out a shaky breath, body relaxing as she winds her arms around him.

He dips his face into her shoulder for a second, closing his eyes, nuzzling at her hair. Grand scheme of things, it's only been two weeks. Except it hasn't only been two weeks. Laurel was gone for seven months. Two hundred and some odd days. And she will be gone longer now, off on her self-imposed sentence, hiding, chasing ghosts. The fact of it is this: their marriage is different now. It will be different.

He doesn't know how this is going to go, how this all ends, but he knows he would like to hold his wife in his arms for a minute. Just one moment where it's just the two of them - the way they were on Seattle, on their wedding night, in Big Sur, when she looked out at the view she had wanted to see in person for her entire life and he looked at her. There are so few moments like this.

Eventually, the moment ends.

She's the one who breaks the silence, voice wobbly, almost fearful. ''That's - That's it?'' She pulls away, reluctantly, and he lets her, reluctantly. She looks teary, even though she's clearly trying not to. ''You're not mad anymore?''

''I didn't say that. I'm still pissed. I just don't want you to - '' He stops. Shakes his head shortly. ''I still like you more than I dislike you.''

She smiles warily. ''I'm...'' She still seems apprehensive. ''Glad to hear that.''

He moves a hand to her face, a reflex, an instinct, a little bit of desperation to touch her again before she slips away. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, inspecting her pale face, her injuries. It is so easy to fall back into the role of caretaker, a role that she does not want him to fill, a role that he does not know how to let go of. He lets his hand fall away. ''Let's sit back down.'' He cautiously moves a hand to the small of her back, guiding her back over to the ARGUS ambulance, sitting her back down, and then turns his head to look for Jennifer.

How long does it take to call in an antibiotic? When he spots her, she's standing with Chen over by the entrance to the 7-11, the both of them fumbling with what looks like a good amount of paperwork, him with a phone pressed to his ear. Ah, yes. Useless paperwork. A government staple.

He focuses back on Laurel. He still doesn't think she looks quite...right. ''Listen, baby, if you're sick - ''

''I'm not sick.''

''Yeah, well, I still think you look like shit. When's the last time you slept?''

Defensive, although unable to hide her wince, she crosses her arms. ''Last night.''

''Uh-huh. Let me rephrase that. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep? 'Cause it looks like you haven't had any rest in - ''

''Two weeks?''

''And you're injured,'' he reminds her, gesturing needlessly to her shoulder. ''Gruesomely, in fact.''

''I am aware of that, yes.''

''Why don't you come back to the house and lie down for a few?'' He tries for a casual, hopefully charming grin. ''I promise not to come unglued and tie you to the bed Misery style.''

She doesn't laugh at his joke. She looks maybe like she wants to, but something won't let her. ''I can't.''

''You don't have to stay, if that's what you're worried about,'' he says. ''I'm just talking about a nap. Maybe a sandwich.''

''I know, but I - '' She ducks her head down. She wrings her hands. ''If I go with you, I'm not sure I'll be able to leave.''

''Yeah, I was kinda bankin' on that,'' he admits. ''Not gonna lie.'' He shrugs his shoulders. ''Sorry. Had to try.''

That one she laugh at. Warmth crinkles the corners of her lips and pools in her eyes when she looks up. ''You wouldn't be if you didn't, love.''

He smiles back at her, ignoring the way it feels slightly melancholic on his lips. He knows there's no way to get her to come home, he is working on coming to terms with that, he just had the big meaningful epiphany about it, but... He still wants to try. He checks his watch. He's got about an hour and a half before he has to go pick Mary up from school. He really should be getting home. Especially if he wants to wash away all the blood before he goes. He does his best to keep his expression neutral, but Laurel still seems to catch on.

''You don't have to stay,'' she says. ''Stitches are easy enough.''

That's true. Stitches are easy. She's an old hat at them. He would also like a minute or two to himself. Today has been a lot. He knew it was going to be heavy when he saw her again, but this was so far beyond what he ever could have expected. He could use a second to put himself back together before he has to put on his Happy Daddy face for Mary.

''I can give it another couple minutes,'' he says anyway. ''At least until Jennifer comes back.'' He takes a seat next to her on the tailgate and tries to figure out what to do with his hands. Any other time, he would know. He'd put a hand on her knee, maybe drape an arm around her - mindful of her injury - and pull her in close. It's second nature to him. Touching her. It's home. She's been home since that first weekend in Seattle. He likes to touch her, to know she's there, she's real, and she's always patient enough to let him.

Things are different now.

He's not sure how comfortable she would be with it. How patient. Frankly, he's not sure how comfortable he would be with it either. It's not about the past two weeks. It's not about the distance. It's about all of it. If you strip it all down to the bones, the truth is that they are not the same people they used to be. As much as they've tried to ignore it, they haven't been the same since April.

And then, with what happened in Seabeck...

He isn't sure what she needs anymore. What they can give each other right now. So he doesn't touch her. He looks at her, mostly out of the corner of his eye. He studies her profile.

''Maybe you're right,'' she says finally. ''Maybe part of it was about punishing myself. Maybe I wanted to...'' She can't say it, but he knows what she's thinking. Maybe I wanted to hurt myself the way I hurt you. He is not unfamiliar with that line of thinking. ''But that wasn't all of it,'' she goes on. ''I - I just thought... Edie is my problem. She's my family. She's my blood. This is about me. I wanted to limit the number of casualties. I thought it was my responsibility.''

He wants to get it and maybe on some level he does, but on every other level it just stings. ''And I thought we were a team,'' he says quietly, not harsh but still blunt enough to make her cringe apologetically. He is trying to be softer now, less bitter, less unkind, because he knows she feels like shit and he knows there's nothing more that he can say. But the thoughts still come to him, drift into his head unbidden, frustrated and aching.

Maybe it was stupid to think that. That they were a team. A ridiculous thing to assume. They have never been a team when it comes to this. They could get a lot done together, the two of them, Dean Winchester and Black Canary, but it'll never happen. She keeps that to herself. Tends to save that part of herself for Oliver Queen.

''Maybe I was wrong,'' Laurel says, looking over at him, dry eyed but shaky. ''But I did it. It happened. I can't take it back. So what's next?'' She looks terrified to be asking that question. ''Where do we go from here?''

He has no idea how to answer that. If she wants to come home, the door's open. It's everything else that's up in the air. ''I don't know,'' he tells her. ''I can't get to you. Where you're going. Where you are.''

She just smiles sadly. ''I know.''

''Do you really think you can hold the weight of this city, everyone in it, and a psychotic witch on your shoulders all by yourself?''

''I can try.''

It's such a Laurel answer. That's the thing. It's so her that he almost smiles. Her seemingly endless capacity for love and optimism and altruism was one of the reasons he fell in love with her in the first place. She is so fundamentally good and kind. How could anyone not fall in love with that? She's magic. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that goodness, that love for humanity and need to help would lead them here. He fell in love with an idealistic young lawyer. She was going to save the world cleanly, in a way he never could, a safer way. He never thought they would end up here, roles reversed - him, a civilian, left waiting at home, her, an action hero riding off into battle, away from him, away from their kid, off to fight monsters.

There is hypocrisy, he realizes, in his anger and hurt. However, there is also a level of understanding that others can't touch. He knows what it's like to be in a fight you feel you can't get out of. A fight you know, deep down, that you don't have a chance of winning. He knows what it's like to bear the responsibility of saving people, hunting things, the family curse. He understands the triumphs and the failures of that. He understands the weight of it. The pain. The loss. The guilt. The trauma. This isn't something he ever wanted for her.

A life of saving the world is not something he would encourage for anyone. It's too much. He knows there are people in his life who think that opinion is too cynical, too dark, too selfish, but's not. This is the reality of fighting the good fight.

Nobody wins.

''You'll fail, you know,'' he says. ''It's a fool's mission.''

She laughs. Looks at him with a tired smile. ''Look who's talking.''

''Yeah,'' his own smile is dim. ''Maybe we're too similar.'' That's the problem. ''Then again, maybe not. You alphabetize things for fun.''

''It relaxes me,'' she says, deadpan and unapologetic.

''Christ, you're a nerd.''

''Oh,'' she snorts, a mocking but lighthearted sneer twisting onto her face. ''Says the Trekkie.''

''That's not - You like Star Trek too. If I'm a Trekkie, you're a Trekkie,'' he accuses, only to receive a flat look in response. ''Aren't you?''

''Oh, sweetie.'' She rubs his arm. ''No.''

''But you said you liked watching it!''

''I said I liked watching it with you,'' she disputes. ''Which I do. You get so excited about it. It's really cute.''

He stares at her, mouth agape, flabbergasted and more than a little betrayed. ''So you...don't like Star Trek?''

''Well, if we're being honest...''

He gasps in offense. ''Betrayal,'' he declares, drawing away from her to point a finger at her. ''Betrayal of the worst kind. You bamboozled me!''

''I like some things,'' she yelps. ''I like Spock.''

''Everybody likes Spock.''

''Some of the spin offs are okay. I mean, Patrick Stewart is always a solid choice. And that - that Seventy Nine character.''

''Seventy - '' His eyebrows furrow in confusion for a second before he realizes. ''Do you mean Seven of Nine?''

''Yes!'' She hits him in the arm. ''That's the one! Jeri Ryan. Love her. And Carrie Fisher.''

That's when his brain short circuits. ''Carrie...Fisher...''

''And that little green guy that sounds like a muppet reciting a book of inspirational quotes.''

Dean cannot, for the life of him, tell if she's joking or not. ''Yoda,'' he supplies. ''From Star Wars.'' He stares at her for a long time. She stares right back, earnest as can be. ''Laurel,'' he finally says, gravely serious. ''Do you know the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars?''

She waves that off with a dismissive scoff. ''Obviously I know the difference,'' she says. ''But they're still related, right? Like, they take place in the same universe?''

...Can you believe they almost went seven years without this glaring issue popping up?

He sputters uselessly for a second, trying to find the right words to express his complete and utter betrayal. ''No, they - Why would they take place in the same universe?!''

''They're both in space!''

''So was Battlestar Galactica but it's still an entirely different franchise!''

She scrunches her nose up. ''What the hell is Battlestar Galactica?''

''I'm filing for divorce.''

She laughs, a real relaxed laugh, and some of the tension visibly drains out of her, the harshness of her sad, guilty eyes softening, becoming something more familiar, something more her. He's so relieved to see it, see her, that he can't help but smile back, despite his growing incredulity. ''I'm sorry,'' she says, touching his knee. ''I just don't love space stuff. Remember when I had a panic attack during Gravity?''

''I thought you were just reacting to how bad it was.''

''Wasn't that movie, like, critically acclaimed? I think Sandra Bullock was nominated for an Oscar.''

''Spoiler alert: critically acclaimed movies are bad. Even when they have Sandy Bullock. The Blind Side was fucking awful. And hey - Did you know they played Citizen Kane on a loop in Hell?''

''They did?''

''No, I put a note in the suggestion box, but no one ever took it seriously.''

''There was a suggest - '' She stops. ''Oh, you were being sarcastic.''

''Hard to tell sometimes, isn't it?''

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, looking away, but can't hide the fond smile on her face. She still hasn't moved her hand from his knee. ''Hey, which - '' She squints, like she's trying to remember something. ''Which space movie had Rick Moranis in it? Was that one of the Star Wars movies?''

''No, babe, that was Spaceballs. It was a parody.''

''There was a solid chunk of time when we were sixteen where that was Tommy's favorite movie. He'd quote it all the time. It was so annoying.''

''Yep, that tracks. Actually, that explains a lot.'' He watches her out of the corner of his eye, a little more herself now, but still weary, still tortured, wounded. She plays with the pendant around her neck. He nudges her shoulder with his own. ''So what you're saying is no space?''

''I'll still watch Star Trek with you,'' she says, giving him a soft smile. ''Anytime.''

''Nah, it's not the same.''

''Well, we still have trashy reality television.''

''And the Food Network.''

''Love the Food Network.''

''Weirdly soothing, isn't it?''

''Uh, you don't necessarily seem soothed when you're watching Chopped.''

''I just don't understand why everyone acts like their bread pudding is some brand new culinary revelation that's going to push them to the finish line,'' he rants. ''No, it doesn't matter if it's your grandmother's recipe and her secret ingredient is cardamom. It's still just bread pudding. You pour eggs, milk, and sugar over stale bread and put it in the oven. Congrats on making french toast into a mushy casserole. How groundbreaking. I'll alert Ripley's.''

Laurel rubs his arm comfortingly. ''And that's why it's best for you to limit your viewings of Chopped.''

He laughs and when she starts to move her hand, he catches it, threading his fingers through hers. He can hear her inhale and then exhale shakily.

Her smile is brittle. ''I'm sorry, Dean,'' she says after a moment. ''For everything.''

That, at least, has never been in question. He's not sure what to do with it and he knows an apology doesn't cut it anymore, but - yeah. He gets that she's sorry. She's always sorry. ''I know.'' He doesn't say anything else for a moment and neither does she. There's nothing left to say. He doesn't want to leave her here, half naked and injured, but... It's about that time.

''You have to go.''

He looks up at her, bewildered by her apparent mind reading abilities. ''I should change before I pick up Mary from school,'' he says. ''And maybe shower.''

''Oh.'' She pulls her hand away, eyes widening slightly. ''Yeah. Yes.'' She gives him a quick onceover, lingering on his bloody knuckles. ''Yes, that's a good call. You need to get going then.''

He does, but he still hesitates. ''You sure?''

''I'll be fine,'' she assures him. ''It's just stitches. I got this.''

''And you'll wait for the antibiotics?''

''I will wait for the antibiotics,'' she confirms. ''Oh.'' She starts to move, rising to her feet, starting to take his jacket off. ''You'll probably want - ''

''Don't worry about it,'' he says, standing. ''Keep it. I don't want you getting any more blood on your new jacket. It looks expensive.'' He pauses before he makes the next move, unsure if it's the right thing to do. He does it anyway, leaning in to kiss her cheek. ''I'll talk to you later?''

''Um. Probably.''

''Listen...'' He draws back. ''If you plan to stay in town - hell, even if you don't - I think it would be a good idea to get in touch with your dad. At least think about it. He's...worried.''

''He's always worried.''

''All right, well, he's also driving me insane.''

''I'll...think about it,'' she allows. ''I don't want to...'' She looks away, sucks in a sharp breath. A look passes through her eyes that he recognizes all too well. ''I'll think about it,'' she repeats.

''Good.'' He starts to smile, a terse goodbye, giving her one last sweep, eyes lingering on the bruises on her face, the finger marks around her throat.

It's been a long day and he needs to get to Mary. He needs to get this blood off him. Maybe take an Advil. Plus, there's this stupid fucking Rick Flag situation he's going to need to deal with. And Laurel's mysterious unknown caller – who he's thinking is not all that mysterious. His day has gotten ridiculously complicated. There's a lot to do. But he misses his wife. He misses her because she left two weeks ago and he misses her because she died last April and he misses her because there are shadows in between them that are hard to extinguish when there is a lack of light in their world. It's hard to walk away. Dean opens his mouth to say goodbye. Tell her take care of herself. Be safe. Get some rest.

That's not what comes out.

''You're one of my favorite people,'' he says. ''Do you know that?''

It is not what she had been expecting him to say.

Laurel stares at him for a second, surprised, and then lets out a weak, nervous sounding laugh. Like she thinks that's a joke. Something that couldn't possibly be true.

''I'm serious,'' he tells her, taking a step back over to her. ''If we were stranded on a deserted island, just you and me, I'd never get bored.'' He takes another step into her space, taking her hand, pulling it close to his chest, over his heart. ''There are a lot of things I like about what we've got going on here,'' he says, gesturing between them with his free hand. ''I could write lists. I could write a book. But the one thing...'' He's not entirely sure how to put this into words. This isn't what he does. He's usually a show not tell kind of person.

She's not. She loves words. She writes love letters every year on the inside of his Father's Day card, his birthday card, tucked into his stocking on Christmas morning.

''I have never been so happy to just sit in the kitchen and talk with someone,'' he says. ''That's - You and I... We've got a pretty good thing here, you know?''

Her lips wobble, but she doesn't cry, nodding her head slightly. ''We do.''

''You knock me off balance, pretty bird,'' he says to her. ''Always have. Know how many people can say that? No idea what's going on with your freakishly low standards,'' he jokes. ''But me?'' He lets go of her hands and cups her cheeks. ''I won the fucking jackpot.''

She lets out a choked laugh, her hands sliding up to his wrists. ''You sell yourself short,'' she says with a watery grin. ''I got pretty lucky myself.''

''Eh.'' His hands linger on her skin before he pulls away. ''You did okay.'' He looks in the direction of everyone else, searching for Jennifer the medic, still talking with Chen. Then he looks back to Laurel. He feels like an idiot teenager standing here, feeling nervous and unsure in front of the girl he likes. It's not necessarily the first time he's felt like this in front of her, in fact she seems to bring it out in him, but it's the first time it's felt so...crushing. He doesn't kiss her, but he does pull his jacket tighter around her to make sure she's warm enough. ''I love you,'' he says, sure. It's the one thing he's sure of. ''I'm pissed off and I don't agree with your choices and I don't like where we are, but I love you.'' Impulsively, he slips a hand around her waist and tugs her closer, leaning in to whisper in her ear. ''The best part of my life has been loving you.''

He means it too.

Laurel Lance was not something he ever expected. Not something he ever saw coming. How could he have? She was not supposed to happen; this amazing, infuriating, terrifying, drop dead gorgeous woman who gave him a home and a baby girl and the kind of safety that people like him usually never get the chance to know. He was supposed to die young. That was it. That was all there was. There was violence, and then there was an end. You learn not to expect anything more out of life.

He had been speeding towards a bloody end since he was four years old. It would have taken a cataclysmic event to throw him off that inevitable trajectory. And it did.

Her.

His very own hurricane. He has been grateful for that hurricane every day since, even on the hard days, even during all that grief. Look at all he has now. Look at everything she's given him. It's a miracle. She's a miracle.

The problem is that it is hard to love a hurricane. They swirl away into nothing and leave you behind with the flood. He's getting real tired of cleaning up the muck. He's too old for it, too weary. His bones ache when it rains now and his hands are too busy to clean the mess. Someone needs to be here. Someone needs to be still. To raise that little girl they chose to bring into this life. They can't keep going on like this.

He grasps at the sleeve of the jacket draped around her shoulders, his jacket, blood splattered and warm, his other hand still resting on her hip. ''I mean that,'' he tells her. ''I do. I love you,'' he says, voice low. ''But I can't do this for the rest of my life.''

There it is.

It's out.

The thing he has tried so hard not to say for... Well. Let's just say longer than two weeks. He draws back, away from her, instantly met with the sight of her hurt and regret. ''Things shouldn't be this hard,'' he says gently, trying not to dig the knife in deeper. ''Marriage should not hurt this much this often.''

She doesn't say anything, doesn't look like she knows what she could even say to that, but he can see the guilt burning in her eyes.

''If we can't get it together and find a way to make all the pieces of our lives fit together again, we're not going to make it,'' he says. ''And I want to make it. I want all the things you said you wanted. I want our family and our life. I don't want to keep growing in two different directions like we've been doing.''

''I don't want that either,'' she rasps. ''I don't want to go in another direction. I don't want to - to grow away from you. I want to go with you.''

''Okay.'' He nods. ''Okay, good. I want to go with you too. Because we're good, you and me. You know? We are so good together. But I need you to be all in. You can't come and go as you please. You can't keep giving away all of you to exes and parents and this whole city and leave nothing in the tank for Mary, okay? She needs you. We need you.''

''I know.'' She shifts uncomfortably on her feet, looking guilt ridden. ''I'm sorry.''

''I don't want you to be sorry,'' he tells her. ''I don't want you to beat yourself up. I don't want you to be in pain. I just need you to understand that this isn't... We can't keep going around in circles. Things have to change.''

She nods jerkily, eyes watering. ''They do. You're right.''

Dean looks at her for a long time, his cataclysmic event, his hurricane, and then he lets out a sigh. He turns his head to check for Jennifer and when he spots her heading back over, he realizes it's time to cut this short. He looks back to Laurel. She looks small standing there, hunched over, curled into herself, injured and fragile and full of regret. She doesn't look like a hurricane.

He steps back into her space one last time, taking her hand and lifting it up, pressing his lips to her cold skin in a quick kiss. ''I'll keep the porch light on for you,'' he promises. ''Mary and I will be waiting. We'll be here whenever you're ready. But this is it. This is the last shot. At some point, we either have to fix things or we have to cut our losses.'' He lets go of her hand, but lingers in her space for a minute, his hand brushing against the exposed skin of her stomach. ''Come home when you can. We'll figure out the rest from there.''

.

.

.

March 2016

''Laurel.''

Unenthusiastically, still attempting to cling stubbornly to her much needed sleep, Laurel drifts back into consciousness. She can feel Dean's hand on her arm and she can hear his voice, but he sounds far away, underwater.

''Hey, Laur.'' He rubs her arm softly and then his hand creeps up to her cheek, moving a piece of hair out of the way. ''Wake up, pretty bird.''

His voice is right in her ear and she can feel his lips brushing against her cheek. The scent of his shampoo and the body wash he uses is oddly strong today, almost nauseatingly so, but then again, today has been...quite an eventful day nausea wise.

She forces her eyes open, glancing at the little body next to hers before rolling onto her back, blinking up at him. ''Hi.'' She smiles tiredly. ''Did you enjoy your aimless Target wandering?''

''It wasn't aimless,'' he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand automatically finding her leg. ''I had a list. And I was only gone for like an hour.''

She slides her gaze to the alarm clock on the bedside table. ''Hour and a half,'' she corrects, pushing herself, somewhat gingerly, into a sitting position.

''I got you some ginger ale and Pepto,'' he says.

She maneuvers a pillow behind her back. ''Okay.''

''And a white chocolate mocha from Starbucks if you're up for it.''

''Oh my god, bless you,'' she blurts out, immediately perking up. ''Light of my life.''

He laughs, eyes crinkling. ''I take it you're feeling better?''

''Much better,'' she nods. ''I feel fine.'' Not a lie necessarily, but not quite the honest truth. ''Told you it was nothing.''

''Yeah?'' He brings his hand to her forehead - for about the millionth time that day - and then down to her cheek. ''You're not warm.''

''Because I'm not sick. As I have repeatedly said. It was just food poisoning.'' She waves a hand dismissively. ''I'm fine.''

He does not look 100% convinced. She's not going to advertise this or anything, but she can't blame him. Today was puzzling. The last couple of weeks have been puzzling. It's unusual for her to have to leave work before noon because she's not feeling well. She doesn't get sick often - not physically anyway. A migraine here or there, a head cold Mary passes through the house, but nothing major. Nothing like today.

She is awfully busy, though. Brutally so. On occasion, that can lead to her making some dietary choices that are not advisable. It's not out of the realm of possibility that she would eventually be struck down by food poisoning. But she's been feeling off for a lot longer than just today. Tired, achey, nauseated, a little bloated, turned off by all her usual favorites. She is overworked, with too much on her plate and more coming at her from every possible direction so she feels reasonably confident that it's just stress, but she knows she's not going to be able to keep up with this breakneck pace for much longer. She is in dire need of a break.

She is not going to tell Dean any of that. She doesn't want him to worry. She understands why he would, but he doesn't need another thing to deal with either. They're both busy enough. ''I'm fine,'' she say again, adding some emphasis.

''Have you stopped puking?''

''I think so.''

''Good.'' He seems reluctantly satisfied. ''Glad to hear it. Hey, quick question.'' Quite abruptly, his tone changes. ''What's going on beside you right now?''

She looks beside her at Mary, conked out on Daddy's side of the bed, spread out like a starfish. ''Oh. That.'' She looks back at Dean, a little guiltily. ''Yeah, admittedly, we're kind of a mess today.''

''I see.''

''Vertigo attack.''

''Oh.'' The look on his face - not super jazzed to see their three year old napping this late in the day - shifts instantly. ''Shit.''

''I have no idea what happened. I put on Paw Patrol for her. She was happy and content to sit there and watch her show while I was in the bathroom. Then I come out and she's stumbling around like me circa New Year's Eve 2011 and crying because she can't see straight. And then her body very forcefully decided it was time for her to join me in my nausea. Violently. Like, it was projectile.''

''Also like you circa New Year's Eve 2011.''

''Shut up.'' She swats at him, a blush creeping up her neck. ''Seriously, I think I'm traumatized. It just shot out of her. I've never seen anything like that outside of a horror movie.''

''You don't even watch horror movies.''

''I've seen GIFs of that scene from The Exorcist.''

''Oh my god, I hate the way you say GIFs.''

''I say it the way it's supposed to be said,'' she says, indignant.

''You do it to annoy me.''

''Oh, you mean like you with the word pecan?'

''I say that the right way.''

She rolls her eyes.

He laughs at her.

She's already feeling better than she has all day. She needs to take more time off work. Spend more time with her family. She misses them. She lives in the same house as them, sleeps in the same bed as Dean, always remembers to give Mary a hug and a kiss and tell her how much she loves her at least once a day, but she misses them. Maybe they should take a trip when all this Darhk stuff is over. Go somewhere warm.

''She was probably spinning,'' Dean says, pulling her out of her thoughts and back to him.

''Spinning?''

''It's a new thing,'' he says. ''She caught some of The Sound of Music with Thea the other day and now all she wants to do is spin. All the time. Ends terribly like half the time, but it's hard to stop her. A three year old should be allowed to spin her little heart out. It's just - ''

''I know,'' she cuts in. ''Vertigo. Ruins the party, doesn't it?''

He looks at Mary, sleeping peacefully, and then back to Laurel. He looks apologetic. ''I should have just taken her with me. You weren't feeling well.''

''I'm capable of watching my daughter alone for an hour. I am her mom, you know.''

''I know that. I'm not saying - ''

''Dean, you're allowed to have a few minutes to yourself every now and then.''

He doesn't seem super into that idea. ''I guess.''

Mary stirs beside Laurel, just enough to roll over, but does not wake. Laurel reaches over, an automatic reflex, stroking her soft hair. ''It took a lot out of her,'' she says, keeping her voice low. ''Poor thing was just sobbing while I cleaned her up.''

''Yeah, that's typically how it goes.''

''It was awful. I felt so bad for her. She was so embarrassed and upset. Then she just wanted to be held so we came in here and - ''

''And now our three year old - who is a notoriously bad sleeper and who has just gotten over the hump of dropping naps - is napping. At four in the afternoon.''

''Well, when you put it that way...'' She grimaces. ''I can see how this might be a problem, yes.''

''Should've gotten a stronger coffee.''

''I'm sorry.''

''No, it's fine. I probably would've done the same thing. She's miserable after a vertigo attack.''

''If it helps, you're not going to have to handle bedtime alone tonight.''

''No?''

''Nope. I'm taking the night off.''

''Like, totally off?''

''Totally off.''

''No paperwork? No Canary?''

''Nothing.''

''Wow.''

''You seem surprised.''

''Not surprised,'' he deflects. ''Just...'' Then he stops. ''Well, yeah, maybe a little surprised. You've been going pretty hard lately, babe. ADA Lance and Black Canary have both been working overtime.''

''I know.'' Carefully, doing her best not to disturb Mary - or worse, set off another round of nausea - she crawls out from under the covers and sits next to him on the edge of the bed. ''I'm sorry about that,'' she says, taking his hand, threading her fingers through his. ''It's just - With Darhk - ''

''Hey, I get it,'' he interrupts. ''He's this year's guy. You have responsibilities. I'm not knocking you for that.'' The smile he throws her is, despite what he has just said, a little tight, rough around the edges. ''Is what it is what right now.''

She looks down at their intertwined hands. ''Right.''

''I'm not trying to make you feel guilty.''

''No, I know.'' Even her own smile is tight. ''Like you said, it is what it is right now. It'll get better. The trial will end, Darhk will - hopefully - be put away for good, and things will settle.'' She pauses. ''For the most part anyway. Black Canary might still be...'' Oh, how to put this. ''She's still finding her footing with the group. Things are...harder, in some ways, now that Oliver's back. I have to put in more of an effort.''

Dean doesn't respond to that for a long time, but she can feel him tense beside her. She takes his silence as him making an effort to control his annoyance. If it is, he fails at it. ''Why?'' He looks at her, a sharp edge to the calm he's trying to present. ''To prove yourself to him?''

''No,'' she responds. ''I just...''

She would, in all honesty, like the little digs about her abilities to stop. She knows Ollie and she knows he doesn't truly mean anything by it, she knows it's just arrogance and maybe a bit of worry, but it's irksome. And it's not like he's going to stop if she asks him to. That would be seen as weak. Also, in all likelihood, he probably genuinely doesn't even realize he's doing it. If she tells him to stop irritating the shit out of her, he'll inevitably turn it around on her and mope around for at least a week doing his broody I'm so awful and miserable, how can anyone stand to be around me, I shouldn't have dragged any of you into this, everything is my fault routine and - really, they just do not have the time for that right now.

Listen, she is fluent in Oliver Queen. Island or no island. Things have to be done a certain way. It's better to be subtle. Steer him in the right direction without letting him know.

''I'd like him to stop questioning my relevance on the team,'' she says. ''He means well, I know he does, but it's a tired routine. If I can grow my skills as Black Canary - ''

''So it is about proving yourself to him,'' Dean interrupts.

Suppose she can't deny that. ''I guess it's - Maybe a little.''

There is an unreasonably blank look on his face as he looks at her. ''You were the one who chose to bring him back here.'' He doesn't say it rudely, not unkind in any way, but for some reason it still makes her want to flinch. The thinly veiled exasperation is palpable.

''Because we needed his help with the Ghosts,'' she responds, calm - at least outwardly.

''Did you?'' He still has that purposefully blank look on his face. That is his 'trying not to be aggravated' look. ''There was no one else you could have asked for help? No one maybe a little closer you could have pulled out of retirement?''

She's going to ignore that one. ''He was the best option for all parties involved,'' she says, crisp, lawyer-like. ''I don't regret asking him for help. I just wish he could have a bit more tact, that's all.''

''Guy's a prick, Laurel,'' he snaps, blunt and unapologetic. ''He's always been a prick.''

She bristles at that, although she's not sure why. She pulls her hand out of his. ''You don't even know him.''

''I know enough,'' he states coldly, standing and pointedly moving away from her. ''He's never going to be the man you want him to be. I don't know why you keep having to come to that realization over and over. What isn't sticking?''

''Dean - ''

''This guy has way too much power over your self-esteem,'' he spits out, ''and you know it. You let him have it. I don't get it. Why do you keep letting him get in your head like this?''

''I'm not letting him - '' She bites down hard on her tongue. She crosses her arms. She looks behind her at Mary, still passed out, drooling on Dean's pillow.

I mean, yeah, all right, fine.

Maybe she can get a kind of passive when it comes to Ollie. And then petulant when someone points that out. Perhaps even childish and regressive. It's a character flaw. She understands that. But it has never really been about Oliver, to be blunt. He is who he is. As selfish as it sounds, this is about her. If this is as good as it gets, if this is the extent of his personal growth, that means she's a fucking idiot. It means she's always been a fucking idiot.

She wants him to be better because she wants him to be better. She knows he has it in him. He is arrogant and kind of a dumbass and he can say the meanest shit without even realizing it because he has a startling lack of self-awareness and emotional intelligence, but at his core, he is a good man. She wants him to reach his full potential for himself - not to mention everyone around him. She wants him to be happy and comfortable and at peace with himself.

However, she also wants him to be better so she can finally start to let go of the humiliation, hurt, and anger she has been living with since she was - what? How old was she? When was the first time? The first indiscretion? When was the first time she took him back after he cheated?

They were children then. They had no business being together, not the way they were, so serious so fast, acting like they were going to be together forever when in reality they were just two kids who didn't know any better. It was a high school relationship that went on for longer than it should have, went deeper than it needed to, and the shame and embarrassment from the multiple public humiliations that followed have stayed with her for her entire life.

She is thirty years old, almost thirty-one, she has a career and a marriage and a child and at times it still feels like Oliver Queen was her one defining moment. There are people in this city who still recognize her as Queen's ''brainless bimbo'' from the early to mid 2000s, the fool who stood by that man's side through every scandal, the sad doe eyed airhead from the tabloids after he died screwing her sister on his father's yacht.

Isn't that ridiculous?

She is an ADA, for Christ's sake. She works hard. She is a superstar. She was running her own legal aid clinic by the time she was twenty-seven years old. That is fucking unheard of. She is responsible for some of this city's worst criminals being put away. She is currently the lead prosecutor working on the highly publicized Damien Darhk trial.

And all this city knows her as is Ollie Queen's ditz.

They still pity her for that.

But if Oliver can grow, if he can fully 100% turn it around and be the man she knows he can be, then maybe that will stop. People will see her and think maybe she was right all along. Maybe she wasn't a fool. Maybe it's time to move past pitying the poor girl he fucked over. Maybe it means people look at her and don't think of her as a complete idiot.

''I don't like waste,'' she says eventually, peering up at Dean with a steady, steely gaze. ''That's all.''

She's not sure if he believes her, but he doesn't push back, which is going to have to be good enough. ''All right.'' His gaze is even steadier than hers is. It's piercing. Like he's looking right through her.

She holds his gaze for a minute, and then she looks away. ''Why are we even talking about this?''

He sighs, leaning against his dresser. ''I don't know.'' He looks over at Mary. His gaze softens. ''So you're - '' He stands straight, looking back to Laurel. He's trying to smooth away the exasperation and let it go. ''You're really here? You're not going back to the office to play catch up? Not even going to help out the Power Rangers from their dreary lair?''

''They can survive without me for one night.'' She rises to her feet, lips tugging up into a mischievous grin. ''It's just you and me, cowboy,'' she murmurs, stepping into his personal space, winding her arms around his neck. ''All night long.''

''Hm.'' His hands travel down to her waist and he leans in, inches away from her lips. ''And a three year old keeping us up.''

''I guess there's that.''

''And you're sick.''

''For the last time, I am not sick,'' she insists. ''I had a bout of food poisoning. It happens to the best of us. I'm fine now.'' She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes and leans in to kiss him, just a soft kiss, a reassurance. ''Don't eat grocery store sushi for breakfast.''

He makes a face. ''You ate grocery store sushi for breakfast?''

''I have incredibly low standards.''

''Yes, your entire dating history gave that one away, sweetheart.''

She gasps in mock offense. ''Now, now,'' she admonishes. ''Don't be rude to Joanna. You know we dated briefly before we were friends.''

''The one good decision you made and you couldn't even keep her.''

She laughs lightly, pinching his cheek. ''Don't be self-deprecating, love. It doesn't suit you.''

He looks like he wants to laugh but he manages to hold it in, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. ''Come drink your disgusting coffee before it gets cold. We'll give baby girl five more minutes.''

He ducks out of the room, but she doesn't follow right away, looking over at Mary. She pads back over to the bed, her socked feet soundless on the hardwood floor. ''Honeybee.'' She leans down, smoothing hair out Mary's face. ''Mary,'' she says, quiet but loud enough for Mary to stir. ''Time to wake up.''

Mary furrows her brows and whines, trying to roll away.

Laurel decides not to push the issue, rubbing her back lightly. ''Mommy and Daddy are in the kitchen when you're ready, honey.'' She presses a kiss to her baby's soft cheek and then slips out of the room.

She makes a quick stop in the living room to grab her thick knit oversized cardigan from where it's draped over the back of the couch, throwing it over the old nightgown she pulled on earlier and then heads into the kitchen.

Dean is just closing the doors to the pantry and grabbing a couple reusable bags from the floor. ''How does the lost Backstreet Boy feel about you taking a night off?''

She side steps the question. ''Does it matter?''

He slips the bags into the cupboard beside the dishwasher. ''He's pissed, huh?''

A little peeved, yeah, but that's his drama. Again, she dances around it. ''Not my problem tonight.''

He shuts the cupboard and turns to her, taking a few steps in her direction. ''Shouldn't be your problem any night.'' There is no real heat to his voice when he says this, in fact he seems to be going for a joking tone, but there is an edge to his eyes, a hardness that betrays how he's feeling.

Laurel gets it. She understands his dislike of Oliver, why he's protective, sometimes overly so, but she doesn't want to deal with it tonight. It's her night off. ''Dean, my love, do we have to do this every night?''

He holds his hands up, surrendering. ''I'm not doing anything,'' he says innocently. ''I'm here, I'm enjoying your presence.'' He takes the final step into her space, close enough to take her face in his hands, looking down at her with that familiar smirk, that twinkle in his eye that she knows all too well, that she still remembers as the thing that hooked her in Seattle. ''I'm quiet.'' Then he kisses her.

It's a hell of a lot more than the kiss in the bedroom. It's one of those toe-curling-weak-in-the-knees kisses. Also something she vividly remembers from Seattle. She kisses back eagerly, with fire, hands tugging at his shirt. The urgency of it is not lost on her. She's not sure if it's pent up possessiveness because of the tense conversation about her ex or if it's just been too long since they had a chance to have a moment of kid free spontaneity, but he kisses her like he's never going to see her again.

It's a lot for a Wednesday.

She pulls away first, just to catch her breath, feeling woozy with the intensity of it. ''Oh.'' She feels a giggle catch in her throat. ''So that's why you wanted to give her five minutes.''

His hands fall down to her waist and he starts moving her back until she feels her back hit the counter. ''You think it's worth it to give her a little longer? We'll be paying for it later.''

She eyes the kitchen door momentarily, listening for the sound of little feet. ''Everything comes with a price.'' The second she turns back to him, lips pulled back into a grin, he's surging forward, catching her lips in another searing kiss. She laughs against his lips and winds her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer to him. His hands move down, rucking up the ratty old nightie she's wearing until his fingers brush against her bare skin.

''I...'' Her voice sounds hoarse when he pulls away, trailing kisses down her neck. ''I'm not opposed,'' she gets out. ''But she's in our bed.''

He does not seem concerned about that. ''So?'' With ease, in one quick movement, a noise between a gasp and a laugh caught in her throat, he lifts her up onto the counter. ''Bathroom,'' he proposes. ''Laundry room.'' He parts her legs and his hands move up her inner thighs. ''The breakfast nook right over there. The shed in the backyard.''

''I am not having sex in the shed,'' she protests, but then his mouth finds that spot on her collarbone that drives her crazy and she's like - well, maybe. It's almost April. They have blankets. It'd probably be fine. Wouldn't be the weirdest place they've had sex. There was that one thing they did in the elevator in the Arrowcave last month. At least the shed in the backyard is on their property. And it has a lock.

''My car's right there in the garage,'' he suggests. ''Steps away.'' He doesn't make any move to get her to the garage, focused solely on pushing her nightie up, fumbling in his attempts to either slip his fingers into her underwear or pull them off entirely. Which is apparently not easy because - ''Fuck, Laurel.'' He pulls away from her, leaving her dazed. ''What - '' He's still pushing her nightie up. ''What is happening here? The fuck are you wearing?''

''I'm - '' She blinks a few times, distracted by the heat pooling in her belly. Takes her a second to remember. ''Oh, they're my comfy underwear.'' Some people, she has been told, refer to them as Granny Panties.

''They're fuckin' harder to get into than Fort Knox.''

She snorts and then bursts into laughter. ''Oh, I'm sorry,'' she giggles, grasping his shirt in her fist. ''Do you need some help with that?''

''I do.'' He allows her to yank him back over to her, bracing one hand on the counter. ''I could use a hand.''

''And here I thought you knew what you were doing,'' she hums against his lips. ''Don't worry. I'll steer you around the curves.''

''Steer me around the - All right, that's it, we're going to the garage and I'm taking those things off. With my teeth.''

''Show off.''

''Hi.''

Both parents jerk apart at the sound of the glum voice.

''Mary!'' Laurel is not sure if it's her slightly hysterical shriek or the shove she gives him that sends Dean stumbling away, but she's too preoccupied to care, bright red blush creeping up her neck and splashing across her cheeks. ''Um.'' She lets out a nervous laugh, pushing her nightie back down and fixing her sweater.

Mood officially killed.

''Hi, honeybee.'' She hops off the counter and plasters on her most maternal smile, absently smoothing her hair down. ''Did you - '' She licks her swollen lips, hoping she doesn't look too disheveled. ''Did you have a good nap?''

Mary clutches her stuffed shark and pouts. ''No.''

''No?'' Laurel slides her gaze to Dean. He's quiet, calmly taking one of Mary's sippy cups out of the cupboard, but she can see his shoulders shaking with laughter. ''Okay.'' She fights off her own giggle and hurries over to Mary, lifting her into her arms. ''Come here, little bird.'' She settles the toddler on her hip, brushing some of the disheveled hair out of Mary's pouty face. ''We had a rough afternoon, didn't we?''

Mary whines tiredly, nodding and shoving her fingers into her mouth before she rests her head on Laurel's shoulder. ''Daddy,'' she mumbles after a minute, without bothering to lift her head or take her fingers out of her mouth. ''I got dizzy and throwed up on Mommy.''

''I heard,'' he says, taking the water jug out of the fridge and pouring some into her cup. He puts the jug back in the fridge and turns to her. ''How do you feel now?'' He gently tugs her fingers out of her mouth. ''No more dizziness?''

She doesn't answer the question. She lifts her head, glares at him, seemingly irritated with his bold act of stopping her from sucking on her fingers. She puts her fingers back in her mouth. She looks between her parents with a somewhat suspicious eye. ''What - '' She takes her fingers out of her mouth just long enough to ask, ''What were you doing?''

''We were - oh.'' Laurel lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. Even the tips of her ears feel hot and red. ''Well, we were - ''

''It's none of your business what we were doing,'' Dean cuts in, voice soft and gentle, but uncompromising. He takes Mary's fingers out of her mouth for the second time and then steals her from her mother's arms. ''You don't have to know everything.'' He plops her down in the breakfast nook. ''Some stuff is just for grown ups,'' he adds, shooting her a wink.

She seems to take the rebuff well. No huffing and puffing. Not even a pout. Kind of feels like this might not be the first time Daddy's had to tell her to mind her own beeswax about something.

''Now.'' He swipes her sippy cup from the counter, making sure the lid is on tight. ''How about some nice cold water,'' he suggests, placing the cup in front of her. ''I put some ice in it. Sound good?''

She nods, rubbing at her eye with one hand, grabbing for the cup with the other. She still looks exhausted and rather pitiful, but she gradually starts to perk up as she sips at her water. ''Can Sharkie have some ice?'' She puts her stuffed shark on the table, peering up at Dean. ''He needs water. He is a shark,'' she says, matter-of-fact, with a firm nod.

''Sure, sweetie.'' He ruffles her hair with a wink. ''We can't forget about Sharkie.'' He turns back to the fridge, but side steps, grabbing Laurel's hand and pulling her over to him, sliding a hand around her waist. ''This is not over,'' he whispers in her ear.

''I hope not,'' she says. ''You better finish what you started, Winchester.''

''Always,'' he promises, and leans in to kiss her. There is zero chance for it to turn into anything other than a quick peck because -

''Why are you kissing?'' Mary whines from the table, scrunching her face up in disgust. ''Don't be kissing!''

Dean laughs, pulling away. ''Excuse me, young lady,'' he says, attempting his best Dad Look. ''We're married. We can kiss anytime we want.''

Mary protests loudly, whining about kissing being yucky, and Laurel drifts away, leaving the two to bicker in favor of seeking out her coffee before it gets too cold. Despite the food poisoning and the stress of the Darhk trial and the usual minor irritant that is, you know, Oliver and all the baggage surrounding him, today wasn't horrible. A little too much vomit to be considered a good day, but not half bad. Anything that gets her more time with Mary is fine by her.

And if she can get Dean to do that one thing he does with his tongue, it might just level up to be a good day.

She picks up the lukewarm Starbucks cup from the counter, takes a sip, and just like that, her day goes downhill. One sip and her nausea flares up like a bad habit, sending her diving over to the sink to spit out the mouthful of what she can only describe as rancid coffee.

''Daddy!'' Mary's squeaky voice yelps out. ''Mommy's throwing up!''

Laurel is not, for the record, throwing up. Although she does come close. There may or may not be some dry heaving.

''Jesus.'' She feels Dean's hand on her back. ''Are you okay?''

She blindly thrusts her coffee cup at him. ''Take this,'' she orders. ''Get this away from me.'' She turns the faucet on and grabs a glass from the cupboard, taking a quick gulp of water and swishing it around to get the revolting taste out of her mouth. ''That is horrid.''

''Well, yeah.''

''No, I'm serious.'' She throws him a look but remains, for a moment, hovering over the sink out of an abundance of caution. She sips at her water. ''There's something wrong with that drink,'' she insists. ''The milk they used must have been rotten or - or maybe the syrup was moldy. Something is off.'' Once she's certain that it's safe to move, she puts her glass of water down and turns to look at Dean. ''Taste it.''

''What?'' He screws his face up in disgust. ''No. Ew. Why would I want to - ''

''Just one sip,'' she urges. ''Come on. I need you to validate me.''

He lets out a long suffering sigh, but, as the dutiful husband that he is, he grudgingly takes a sip. His reaction is far less dramatic. He doesn't look like he enjoys what he's tasting, but mostly he just looks confused. ''I mean, yeah, that tastes like hot garbage water,'' he confirms.

''EXACTLY!''

''But that's what a white chocolate mocha tastes like.''

''That is not - '' She snatches the cup back but stops short of taking another sip. Best not to risk it. ''Someone made it wrong,'' she says, opting to dump the coffee in the sink. She spies what must be his coffee out of the corner of her eye, swiping it off the counter before he can get to it. ''What did you get? Americano, right?''

''Laurel, if you dump my coffee out - ''

''I'm not going to dump it out,'' she says, popping the lid off. ''I'm just going to taste it to see if it's right.''

''You don't even like Americanos,'' he pouts, while she takes a whiff.

''Because it's a ridiculous way to make coffee. It's just watered down espresso. Who came up with that?''

''I think the story is American soldiers in Italy in World War II.''

''And - what? They couldn't handle a normal espresso?''

''Says the woman whose body literally cannot handle espresso.''

''I could handle it just fine before I got pregnant. It's not my fault HG permanently gave me a weak stomach.'' She takes a small, cautious sip of his coffee and immediately recoils. It's less of a violent reaction this time, but she's just as repulsed. There is something funky about this Starbucks. ''There is definitely something wrong with that Starbucks,'' she says, handing him back the drink. ''Which Target did you go to? Someone majorly burnt the coffee.''

''Every Starbucks burns their coffee,'' he gripes. ''That's their whole thing.'' He puts the lid back on the cup, takes a sip, pauses like he's waiting for something, and then shrugs. ''Tastes normal to me.'' He takes another drink, looking perfectly satisfied, and then puts the coffee back on the counter. ''Something's up with your taste buds, babe,'' he says, before going back to what he was doing.

She huffs, crossing her arms, feeling childishly stubborn about this thing that does not matter at all. He's wrong, is the thing. He is incorrect. There is no way he can think that coffee tastes right. She knows he likes gasoline-like coffee, but that stuff was rank. It was way too bitter, too burnt, even for a Starbucks, an instant heartburn risk, and just tasted...wrong. And she knows coffee. She may prefer tea, but she has developed, over the years, a need for coffee. She has at least two or three cups a day. The only time she couldn't stand the taste of it was back when she was -

Oh.

Hey, wait a minute.

Laurel freezes, her entire body going numb, stiffening up right there in the middle of the kitchen. The only time she couldn't stand the taste of coffee, the only time she found the bitterness of it too much to take, bordering on sour was when she was pregnant. During the misery that was the first trimester, she would take one sip of coffee, even sweetened with her usual creamer, and it would be like drinking battery acid.

She also coincidentally got her first positive pregnancy test the day she had to leave CNRI early due to what she mistakenly believed was food poisoning, stubbornly clinging to that belief even as something in the back of her mind told her to grab a pregnancy test when she was in the Rite Aid stocking up on Pepto Bismol and peppermints, her grandfather's cure all.

She leans back against the counter, sliding her gaze over to Dean, busy preparing a small dish of ice for Mary's stuffed shark. She happily accepts the dish when he presents it to her, fussing over the shark like a tiny mother hen.

Laurel chews on her bottom lip anxiously. It would explain a lot of oddities that have been happening lately. And, if she's being truthful, it's not the first time the thought has crossed her mind. But it was only a fleeting thought before. Just something that popped into her head the other night when she couldn't sleep because she felt strangely hot and sweaty despite the chill still in the air.

It's not like it would be all that surprising. They haven't been actively trying, but they haven't been preventing either. They've been lax in that area since Christmas. They've even discussed it. It's just that it wouldn't be the best timing. There's so much going on right now. She's in the middle of a huge trial. Black Canary has just managed to claw her way up the ladder.

Maybe it's nothing. It's probably nothing. Chances are it's just food poisoning. She watches Dean expertly entice a smile out of the still tired Mary. She thinks about the mountains of work she has to do, the dire importance of making sure Damien Darhk is locked up where he belongs. She thinks of her responsibilities as Black Canary. Oliver's persistent annoyance that she's ''not as committed as she needs to be if she wants to be a member of the team.''

Maybe she should just...press pause on this for now. It's probably food poisoning anyway. Or a random bug. As soon as the trial is over, if she's still feeling off, she'll revisit the issue. Pick up a test. Even though it's probably not that. Just not right now. Right now, they are a happy family of three - four if you count Thea - and she is a Star City ADA and the lead prosecutor on a heavily publicized trial. Given everything that's going on, maybe it really is just the stress. That makes sense. It's probably that. Definitely not pregnant. Definitely not.

She pushes off the counter and rejoins her family, taking a seat at the breakfast nook, across from Mary.

Mary, not quite back to her usual self but close, smiles. ''Hi, Mommy.'' She holds out her purple sippy cup. ''Do you want some water? It's good for you. It's yummy.''

Laurel smiles softly. ''No, thank you, honey.''

''Here.'' Dean, appearing as if from nowhere, puts a glass of ginger ale in front of her. ''And - '' He puts something else on the table. Two immediately recognizable brightly colored bottles.

She groans as soon as she sees them. ''Oh, not the Gatorade.''

''You're sick,'' he says. ''Gatorade is for when you're sick.''

''I'm not sick.''

''Clearly something's up.''

''Yes. Food - ''

''Yeah, yeah, food poisoning. Grocery store sushi. I get it. You're a human garbage disposal and it finally caught up to you.''

''Bold coming from you.''

''Whatever it is, you're dehydrated. That's probably why your taste buds are off. Gatorade helps with that.'' He picks up the bottles of, one extremely blue, the other extremely green. ''Pick a color.''

''Fine.'' She accepts the bottle of slightly radioactive looking blue liquid. Probably would have chosen green normally but that feels. Like. A little too on the nose right now? She feels like she would have gotten at least one of those eyebrow things he does if she had picked the green. Like a good patient, she twists the cap off and takes a few gulps in front of him so he can see. It's disgusting, but still better than that coffee.

''I like Gatorade,'' Mary chirps, crawling over to Laurel. ''It's my favorite!''

It is not her favorite.

Even Laurel, the non default, bottom tier parent knows that. The last time she was sick and refusing her Pedialyte, Dean gave her Gatorade and she took one sip and spit it back in his face like he'd poisoned her. Still, Laurel lets Mary crawl into her lap and helps her take a greedy guzzle of the drink. It spills, electric blue splashing onto the table, and Mary makes a face and a little noise that can only be described as Kitten Tastes Something Unpleasant, but it's still the best part of Laurel's day.

She has worked hard for her career as a lawyer, has worked even harder for Black Canary, but the most important thing she has ever done is this. Being a mom. Being Mary's mom. She is not always good at it, not a natural at parenting the way Dean is, but if she could condense her world down to one thing, it would be her. It would be Mary. It wouldn't be the worst thing to expand that world. Enough to let another little one in.

Mary, still tired and possibly still upset from her earlier vertigo episode, pushes the Gatorade away - with a vehement declaration of ''yucky blue stuff'' - and curls up in Laurel's lap. She presses her hearing ear to her mother's chest, right above her heart, and sucks contentedly on her fingers.

Another kid. Another Mary. Another piece of her heart living outside her body. Another set of little hands, bright eyes, a squeaky voice, an inexplicable stickiness. It sounds nice. It's what she wants. It's what they both want. They've talked about it. It's for sure what he wants. She knows Dean would thrive in a completely chaotic house full of children. She also knows she can't give him that. But she could give him one more at least. Even though she is totally not pregnant at all and is just going to pretend that thought didn't pop into her head.

She looks up when Dean sits down across from them with his coffee, catching his eye. She doesn't know what he's thinking about, surely not the same thing she is, but he sends her a smile, something softer than the mischievous leer from earlier, and she feels this sudden rush of... It's hard to explain.

There is a stillness here, in this moment, sitting in her kitchen with her family, her wise beyond her years daughter, her lovely, supportive husband. She wishes she could have this more often. Just this. Just them, together in the stillness. There is so little quiet in this world. She wishes she had more time to seek it out with them.

''Hey, pumpkin,'' Dean catches Mary's eye. ''Guess what? Mom's not going to work tonight.''

Mary pulls away, lifting her head to look up at Laurel with big eyes. ''No work?''

Laurel shakes her head. ''Nope.''

''No Canary?''

''Not tonight.''

Mary stares at her for a second, eyes wide, and then swivels back to Dean. ''Daddy! Maybe - Maybe Mommy can read stories with us.''

''I bet she can.''

Mary looks back to Laurel, closer, now, to being back to her smiley self. ''I like when you read stories with me.''

''I like that too, baby girl,'' Laurel says, stroking her hair. ''I miss you when I'm not here.''

''You should be here for - for more times,'' Mary states, innocent but blunt.

It stings a little, the guilt that follows, creeping up her insides, but it is hardly an incorrect thing to say. ''I should,'' Laurel agrees. ''You're right.''

''But she's doing important things out there,'' Dean jumps in, catching Mary's eye. ''Right? Mom's a superhero.''

''Yeah!'' Mary lets out one of those full body giggles of hers that could light any darkness. ''A superhero!''

''I don't know if I'm a - ''

''Mommy's in a coloring book,'' Mary yelps out.

''She is,'' Dean enthuses, sending Laurel a sly grin. ''She's so cool.''

''Yeah,'' Mary giggles. ''So cool.'' But then, because Mom's coolness is limited, she adds, ''The Flash is cool too!''

In an effort to remain the Cool Mom, Laurel pulls out all the stops. ''He is,'' she says. ''You know, I know him.''

Mary, who has heard it all before, refrains from a big show of enthusiasm. She does, however, lean forward, elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm thoughtfully. Her thoughtfulness soon turns to skepticism as she looks back to Laurel. ''Truth?''

''Truth.''

''You really know him, Mommy?''

''I really do. He's a friend.''

''Can you tell him to come to my birthday party?''

Dean, coffee cup tilted to his lips, chokes on his stupid watered down espresso, his coughs becoming wheezing laughs.

''Hmm.'' Laurel gives Mary's nose a gentle boop. ''I'll see what I can do.''

At that, Mary cracks a smile, pumping a fist in victory.

''All right, you two.'' Dean puts his coffee down, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. ''It's about that time again,'' he says, tapping his watch. ''How does everyone feel about breakfast for dinner?''

''I feel pretty good about it,'' Laurel says, bypassing the Gatorade - which is probably full of toddler backwash now anyway - and opting to go for the ginger ale.

''Me too,'' Mary declares.

Out of the corner of her eye, Laurel notices Mary watching her intently, lifting her sippy cup of water to her mouth at the same moment Laurel sips from her ginger ale. She giggles when she catches her mom looking at her. When Laurel throws her a wink, she makes an attempt at one of her own.

''Are we thinking pancakes or waffles?'' Dean asks, standing and heading over to the fridge to take a cursory look inside.

''Well, you know me,'' says Laurel. ''I'm a pancake kind of girl.''

''Me too,'' Mary says. ''I'm a pancake girl! They're my favorite!''

They are not. Waffles are her favorite.

''They are, are they?'' Dean sends her a sidelong glance. ''With blueberries?''

''Yeah!''

''And maybe some strawberries on top? Mom loves strawberries.''

''Mom does love strawberries,'' Laurel confirms.

''I love strawberries too,'' Mary says. ''And whipped cream!''

Dean shuts the fridge. ''And maybe some scrambled eggs and bacon?''

''Yes!''

''Sounds like a good plan,'' he says. ''I'll get started on that. In the meantime, you, Miss Mary,'' he points a finger at her, ''need to go clean up that mess you made in the living room.''

Immediately, all her excitement over the blueberry pancakes and the bacon and eggs drains and she visibly deflates. ''Aw.'' Not one to give up - and for sure not one to accept a chore - she turns her best puppy dog eyes on Laurel, hoping Fun Mom will save her.

''We do have to clean up,'' Laurel says, much to Mary's chagrin. ''But how about we go clean up real quick and then play some Chutes & Ladders while Daddy makes dinner?''

Mary lights up again. ''Okay!''

''Okay!'' Laurel stands and helps Mary to crawl out of the nook. ''You go get started and I'll be right out.''

''You gotta hurry.''

''I'll hurry, I promise. Here.'' She hands over the stuffed shark. ''Take Sharkie with you. He can play with us. Because he's a good boy and doesn't try to hustle people at board games. Unlike,'' she throws Dean a look over her shoulder. ''Someone else I know.''

In the middle of noisily sifting through the pots and pans, he pauses to smirk at her over his shoulder, smug, entirely unapologetic.

Laurel waits until Mary has scampered out of the kitchen, off to go make an even bigger mess with Chutes & Ladders, and then she looks at Dean.

He has momentarily pressed pause on his noisy dinner prep, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a slow smile forming.

''Dean Winchester,'' she drawls out. ''We have unfinished business.''

''You're damn right we do.'' He reaches out, before she sees it coming, and tugs her over to him by her sweater, pulling her into a kiss.

''We have, like, one minute,'' she murmurs against his lips. ''Maybe less.''

''I know,'' he replies, but it doesn't do much to stop him.

She curls her fist around his shirt. When she pulls back, it's only to press her forehead against his. ''You and me,'' she says. ''Later.''

''I'll meet you in the backseat,'' he says.

''I'll bring the blankets.''

He chuckles quietly, kissing her forehead as he pulls away, all set to go back to his dinner prep. ''It's good to have you home, pretty bird,'' he says. ''You should play hooky more often.''

''As soon as the Darhk trial is over,'' she says. ''We'll have all the time in the world. I promise.''

.

.

.

February 2017

Laurel accept the antibiotics that ARGUS gives her because it is the polite thing to do. She accepts them, even swallowing one with a bottle of water in the parking lot just to prove her commitment, because Dean practically begged her to - and maybe a bit because there was simply no way to turn them down without sounding like a deranged lunatic - but she doesn't believe they'll do anything.

She will remain wounded as long as Edie and the Mommy Corpse in the bathtub want her to be wounded. It will bleed and ooze and throb until they take it away. She's sure of it.

Nevertheless, she takes the antibiotics.

Swallows one down and thanks Jennifer as kindly as she can. She does turn down both John and Agent Chen's offers of a ride back to where she's staying, though. It's true that she's sore and it's true that she's tired, but she is not keen on anyone at ARGUS knowing her location, even if one of those people is one of her closest friends. It's just easier this way.

Besides, it's not a long walk. She could use the few moments of quiet to think things over. Today has been a monumentally shitty day and it's only like half over. She wants to go curl up in bed and sleep through the rest of this godawful Wednesday.

Realistically, she needs to refocus her energy on Paige Crawford. She needs to add her name to the list of the missing. She needs to do some sleuthing. She needs to hit the pavement and start asking around about the missing. She knows it's going to require patience. The people of the Glades are understandably prickly when it comes to newcomers, especially ones who ask a lot of questions. She's going to need to spend some time here chipping away at the ice and earning their trust if she hopes to get anywhere. She needs to get to work.

She's just not sure she has the mental energy for that right now. She feels jittery, wrung out and on edge, liable to burst into tears at any given moment. She knew it was going to be bad. She knew it was going to be hard to see Dean for the first time, but she wasn't expecting that.

In all the years of their marriage, their relationship, she doesn't think things have ever been that bad.

She had no idea he had this kind of fear and resentment bubbling under the surface. It's stupid, when she thinks about it, to be surprised. Of course he's scared, of course he has resentment. Look at all they've been through. Everything she has put him through.

Laurel trudges back to the motel wearing Dean's warm jacket, speckled with blood that isn't hers - and probably isn't his either - with her brand new leather jacket and a five day course of antibiotics clutched in her hand. She must look like a mess. She sure feels like one.

Truth be told, she barely feels any of her injuries.

Her sore muscles burn and ache, her throat feels raw and it hurts to swallow, and her shoulder throbs, a dull but constant reminder of what has been done to her, what her life has become. None of that even pings her radar right now. It all fades to the background.

She is thinking only of her husband and her daughter and what she has done to them, the things she can't take back, all the scars and trauma they're going to have to live with now. She has messed up their lives so badly. It's not just the choice she made to walk away two weeks ago. It's all of it. It's the choices she's been making for years and the ones she didn't, the things she missed, the space she takes up in their lives whether she is physically there or not, a dark cloud of misery and dread and trouble that brings them down. Everything she does only seems to hurt them more in the end, even the choices made with the best intentions.

She never meant for any of this to happen. She wanted to be a mother. She wanted to be a wife. She wanted a family, people who would finally love her the way she loved them. She wanted to be good at this. She thought she could be.

But here we are.

Left with nothing but a mess.

Her husband doesn't trust her to keep herself alive. He may not ever - and she can't blame him. Regardless of what she says, the work she puts into her recovery, some part of him will always see her as frail and dying, a sickly thing instead of a wife, an equal, a partner. And he's not wrong for that. That's the worst part. She doesn't want that to be what he sees when he looks at her, but how can he not after everything? How can she expect him to see anything else?

She does not want him to be her caregiver, but there is no way to be 100% sure, given her family history, that she will never need him to be that. It seems so unfair to put that on him after the life he's lived. It seems so unfair that he traded ''look after your brother'' for ''look after your baby and your cursed wife'' with no break in between, no chance to be the one looked after, no chance to just be.

She has made her daughter lonely. Mary loves her completely, with the innocent devotion of a child. She marvels at everything she believes Mom to be. But she does it from afar, spotting her often absent mother on the television, in newspapers and local tabloids at the supermarket checkout, the toy aisle at Target, in street murals and sidewalk chalk art, and, for a brief moment in time, that ugly statue on the pier. Most of the time, those are the only places she can glimpse her beloved yet intangible mother. Four years and all she knows of Mommy is how to miss her. Four years and all she has learned from the dark cloud that is her mother is how to be homesick in your own home.

What a cruel thing to do to a child.

Maybe it was inevitable.

Laurel wonders about this sometimes, on the nights she would lie awake, unsettled by her own inability to be with her family, to be good at the one part of life she had wanted so much, and on days like this, feeling aimless and lost, with no real place in the world and a trail of wreckage in her wake. Maybe she just wasn't cut out for things like marriage and motherhood.

What does she know about being a mother?

A mother, to her, is a wound.

One that festers and burns and never stops bleeding.

Love is not always enough. It doesn't always mean you get what you want. It was foolish and unbearably selfish of her to pull Dean and Mary into this, to get married, to have a child when she has no idea how to be good at it, when her insides are made up of such mangled chaos. Not that she ever could have anticipated this back when she invited that weary, handsome stranger into her life, back when those two lines appeared on the pregnancy test. No one could have anticipated this.

She spent thirty years of her life thinking she was normal. Mentally ill, yes, full of insufferably bad luck, definitely, but normal.

Ordinary.

That was what Dean wanted her to be, was it not? That was what he needed from her. It was why he fell in love with her. She was ordinary. She was supposed to be his one safe place.

Then she died and came back as...this.

Whatever she is now.

Laurel keeps it together for the duration of the trek back to the motel. She clenches the leather jacket tightly and thinks mostly of Paige and the length of time that has passed since she went missing and all the people she is going to need to talk to. It feels safer to think about that, all the work she needs to do, rather than anything else right now, but even making to do lists in her head can only protect her from the deluge for so long.

She can feel herself beginning to crumble as she approaches the motel, the relative safety of her numbness and compartmentalization fading rapidly as she crosses the parking lot, replaced by a ferocious headache and an excruciating sorrow. She is so focused on getting herself hidden away in the hush of her dark room that she doesn't notice anything about her surroundings until a voice calls out to her.

''Mrs. Campbell!''

Laurel stops, the key to her room halfway in the lock. She closes her eyes. She had forgotten about her current alias. Mrs. Beatrice Campbell. It had seemed practical at the time of check in. It made sense to her to use a fake name, but a fake name that Dean would be able to spot. Just in case. It was a pragmatic decision, not an emotional one. If she winds up dead at any point, someone is going to need to collect her things.

Maybe the Mrs. part of her alias was sentiment.

A little bit.

Obviously, she hadn't seen today coming. Before, only hours ago, being called Mrs. Campbell would have induced a certain kind of fondness in her, even pride. Now it just makes her stomach hurt.

The voice belongs to Shirley, the motel manager's sister and the motel's lone, halfhearted housekeeper. She is a kind woman, warm, incredibly generous, but she is a talker.

On a good day, Laurel wouldn't mind that. She'd even welcome it. She's missed good old human interaction over the past two weeks. It's good for her to get out. Talk to people. It gets her out of her head. However, today is not a good day. Today is a very, very, very not good day. Despite her trepidation, her urge to flee, she takes a deep breath, opens her eyes, steps away from her door, and by the time she has turned around, she's even managed to muster up a small smile. ''Hi, Shirley.''

Shirley, standing over by the squeaky maid's cart, fussing with something, is distracted by what she's doing, but not too distracted to make small talk. ''How's your day going, doll?''

''Oh, it's...going.'' Laurel hesitates, unsure if she should approach, unsure if she wants to. ''You?''

''Can't complain.'' Shirley finally looks up, all of her attention now on Laurel, and her entire demeanor shifts immediately. It's not an obvious thing - she is quite adept at hiding it behind a mask of friendly nonchalance - but Laurel was a lawyer. A good one, if she does say so herself. She spent years learning how to read a jury. She notices the subtle shift in Shirley's body language, the shadows in her expression, the tensing, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes, the way her smile, for barely half a second, falters.

Laurel is tired as soon as she sees it. She does not have the strength to deal with someone else's pity right now.

Shirley pushes on, straightening something that doesn't need to be straightened in her cart. ''Saw the Do Not Disturb sign on your door,'' she brings up, casual as can be. ''You sure you don't want any clean towels or anything? There's nothing you need?''

Wow, Laurel thinks. I must really look like shit.

''No.'' She tries to smile, tries to make it as real as possible. ''That's okay. I'm good. Thank you.''

Shirley frowns. Drops the casual act. She pushes the cart closer. ''You feeling all right? You look awful.''

''I'm fine,'' Laurel says, a nearly reflexive lie at this point. She is so used to saying it that she's not sure how else to answer that question. ''Just didn't sleep well is all.''

All at once, Shirley's concern gives way to annoyance. ''It's that mattress, isn't it?'' She props her hands up on her hips and shakes her head. ''I told Martin he should've gotten rid of those stinky ass things years ago. He's such a stingy old bastard.'' She looks around the empty parking lot, even craning her neck to look up at the second floor balcony of the rundown motel, searching for her brother. ''I keep telling him you gotta spend money to make money,'' she insists, swinging her attention back to Laurel. ''But he doesn't want to hear it. I know we're no Four Seasons, but he could at least pretend to give a damn. You know he hasn't had those carpets cleaned in twenty years?''

To be honest, yeah, that was kinda obvious.

''But I don't know what I'm talking about,'' Shirley gripes, sarcasm dripping from her every word. ''How could I? I only raised that little shit. And ran a business with my husband for twenty seven years.'' She shakes her head, this time clicking her tongue in disapproval. ''Little brothers,'' she mutters. ''They have a real knack for raising your blood pressure.''

''Really, Shirley,'' Laurel smiles politely. ''The mattress is fine. Great, even. Everything in the room is great.''

Shirley arches a single disbelieving eyebrow.

''I've, um...'' Laurel struggles to get a small, nervous laugh out. ''I've had a rough couple weeks. I'm just happy to have a bed at all.''

Shirley frowns at her again, worry lines etched onto her face. She is quiet for a moment, contemplative, and then determination crosses her face. She abandons the cart with the clean towels and the little bottles of shampoo and tucks her arm through Laurel's. ''Come sit down with me for a minute,'' she says, leading her away. ''Watch the birds.''

''I - I don't know if I - '' Laurel is not sure how to finish that sentence. She doesn't really have a say in the matter anyway. She has no choice but to allow Shirley to pull her across the lot and over to the front office where the two lawn chairs that Marty and Shirley hold court from sit waiting. ''I really should be - ''

''Sit.'' Shirley pushes her down into one of the chairs and points a finger at her, stern. ''Stay.'' She gives her a look, then turns, and hurries into the front office.

Laurel doesn't dare move.

She could, even injured she can move pretty fast, but there is no way in hell she's risking having to face Mama Bear Shirley's wrath. It does feel somewhat peculiar to be sitting in this chair, though. This is the spot where Marty and Shirley sit and smoke - cigarettes for her, cigars for him - and berate anyone who dares to litter near the Sleep Easy. It's not a place for anyone else. The other day, Shirley caught some teenager trying to steal one of the chairs and she threw an ashtray at him.

Laurel drapes her leather jacket over the armrest, making sure the bottle of antibiotics and her brand new batons are tucked away in the pockets. In the stillness, she is really beginning to feel the physical effects of today. Her throat is raw, her headache is beginning to edge over into the ''splitting'' category, and her entire body feels like one giant bruise. Yet, still, the emotional ramifications are much, much worse.

She does deserve it. The pang of guilt, the sting of loneliness, the splintering apart. It's something she has earned. Still, she thinks she would much rather be sore than heartbroken.

Shirley returns, setting a glass of water down on the table between the two chairs.

''Shirley,'' Laurel says, and, for the first time, realizes how hoarse and utterly exhausted her voice sounds. ''You don't have to - ''

''Hush,'' says Shirley, a sharp order, not to be disobeyed. ''You just sit here and relax. I'll be right back.'' She points to the water as she starts to hurry away again. ''I want to see you drink that entire thing.''

In her absence, Laurel brings a hand up to her throat. It throbs a little, the damage left behind by the meaty hands of one of Edie's Dolls, but she's had worse. It will heal. All of these wounds will heal. The shoulder wound she's iffy on, if only because it wasn't human caused, but the rest is nothing. It's all nothing. It will heal or it won't, leave a scar or two, the echo of an ache when she swallows, but they're just pencil marks really. Easily erased. In time, these things fade.

The things she and Dean said to each other will take longer to heal. She picks up the glass of water, taking a sip. As expected, it hurts going down. She grimaces, but takes another few sips.

Shirley doesn't take long, scuttling back over as quick as she can, with an ice bucket full of ice from the ice machine and a clean, starchy, slightly damp washcloth. She sits down in the other chair and, without a word, starts wrapping a couple handfuls of ice in the cloth.

''Shirley,'' Laurel tries. ''You don't have to do this. It's not a big deal. Trust me, it looks much worse than it is. You should see the other guy.''

Shirley, sharp eyed and determined to mother the sad battered woman on her doorstep, is having none of it. ''Oh, stop it,'' she says, and that's that. She leans in and, with a tenderness that Laurel isn't sure she deserves, the kind that she used to crave from her mother, presses the makeshift ice pack to Laurel's bruised face. ''Drink your water,'' she advises. ''Dehydration sets in real quick, you know.''

Laurel tries to blink away the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes and does as she's told, taking a few more gulps of the water before putting the glass back down. She takes over, holding the ice to her own face, but she almost doesn't want to, tempted to allow Shirley to continue mothering her.

Shirley leans back for a moment, eyeing the pitiful sight in front of her and then produces a pack of cigarettes. ''Here.'' She holds the pack out. ''I'll take the edge off.''

Laurel, a little afraid to decline, takes one.

Satisfied, Shirley sits back in her chair, keeping one eye on her patient.

Laurel twirls the cigarette with one hand, the other keeping the ice pack in place. ''You're not going to ask me what happened?''

Shirley scoffs, fishing out a cigarette and tossing the pack on the table. ''Do you know where you are?'' She pulls a lighter out of her pocket. ''We don't do that down here.''

Laurel takes that in. The ice does feel nice on her bruised face. ''Thank you.''

Shirley gives a brusque nod, but not much else. She lights up her own cigarette, takes a drag, and then promptly turns and sends a withering glare at a passerby. ''I know you didn't just throw a whole ass Starbucks cup on the ground in front of my fine establishment when there is a trashcan right there!''

The young man visibly startles, eyes widening at the call out. He freezes in place. He looks like he might be regretting walking this way. He's definitely regretting tossing his empty cup on the ground. ''I - ''

''Did you or did you not throw that Starbucks cup?''

He flushes a deep crimson. ''Well, the - the garbage is full...''

''Oh, so you thought you'd just litter?''

''I - No. No, ma'am.'' He hurriedly rushes to grab the discarded cup, stuffing it in the overflowing trashcan to the best of his abilities. ''Sorry, ma'am.''

''That's right, you better pick it up,'' Shirley mutters, watching him intently. She points a slightly crooked finger at him. ''Don't ever litter again.''

''Yes, Mrs. Howard,'' he says, nodding politely as he backs away. ''Won't happen again,'' he adds, before he turns tail and all but sprints away.

''Starbucks doesn't unionize, you know,'' she calls after him.

Laurel's lips twitch and she tries to hide it behind the homemade ice pack.

Shirley watches the boy run away from her and then shakes her head, mumbling to herself about Starbucks. She half rises in her seat to send a look at the garbage can that Marty puts out front every morning. She clicks her tongue, shaking her head in disapproval at what she sees, sits back down, and then, at a volume that could rival the Canary Cry, hollers out, ''MARTIN!''

Marty, who is nowhere to be found and has been nowhere in sight this entire time, yells back, apparently from the abyss, ''WHAT?''

''Garbage is full!''

''...WHAT?''

''THE GARBAGE IS FULL!''

''So empty it!''

She says nothing in response. Just leans back in her chair, relaxed, takes a long drag of her cigarette, blowing smoke rings in the air, and waits.

Predictably, there is a long pause and then Marty calls back down, ''I'll be there in a minute!''

She looks quite pleased with herself. She squashes the grin and turns back to Laurel, holding out her lighter.

In the chaos, Laurel had all but forgotten about the unlit cigarette she has been holding. ''Oh.'' She moves the ice pack, looking down at it. ''That's okay.''

Shirley retracts her hand. ''Not a smoker?''

''Not really,'' Laurel divulges. ''I used to, when I was younger, but it just makes me nauseated now. I don't have a strong stomach.''

Shirley nods understandingly and takes the cigarette back, but it doesn't end there. She tucks the cigarette back in the pack, puts the pack back in her pocket, looks around, searching for prying eyes, and produces something else. Something far more dangerous. ''Try this.'' She holds out a flask ''It's Tito's. Cheap shit, but good cheap shit. Just don't tell Marty about it. He'll have my hide.''

Laurel puts the ice pack down on the table and she shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't, but she takes the flask. She doesn't know why. She takes it to be polite because Shirley is being kind to her and she doesn't want to offend her or seem ungrateful, though even she knows that's a half assed excuse. Shirley is kind and well meaning. She wasn't offended when Laurel didn't smoke the cigarette. It's unlikely she would be offended if the flask was declined. But Laurel takes the flask. She takes the flask because she wants to be polite. She twists the cap off because she wants Shirley to know that her generosity is welcome. She takes a drink because -

Because she is an alcoholic.

She takes another because she is sad and self-loathing and there is no one here to stop her and no reason she can see not to. She takes another because it's there, it's in her hand, it's vodka, and she's missed it.

And that's it.

That is the end of something.

All the work she's done in the space between February 2014 and wherever she is now, all that grueling, hard work, those long hours she spent remembering how to be alive in this world without this one thing her addicted brain never stops telling her she needs, all those meetings and apologies and plastic chips, all of it - Gone. Just like that. Nullified. Sobriety over. With no one to blame but herself.

Though it's hardly surprising, isn't it?

She is a broken person now technically. Just another dead girl haunting the Glades. Being sober requires you to be whole. It requires all of you, too much of you. There is not enough of her here to be sober. She doesn't take another swig from the flask. She considers it, wants it even, enjoys the burn at the back of her throat, the way her shoulders suddenly feel relaxed, the feeling of relief. She hovers there, in that moment of uncertainty, wanting so badly to drink the rest of this cheap vodka, and then she slowly puts the cap back on the flask. She will not have more. She will not take another sip.

But would it matter if she did?

She presses a shaky finger to her lips for a second and then forces a smile. She hand the flask back, but Shirley just shakes her head, waving her off. ''You keep it.''

''I - '' Laurel's grip on the flask tightens. ''I shouldn't. I mean, it's - it's Tito's. That's the good stuff.''

''Oh, please, honey, I've got more where that came from,'' Shirley laughs it off. ''Besides, you look like you need it more than I do.''

Laurel puts the flask down on the table between the chairs, near the ashtray, but has a hard time looking away from it. ''Am I that transparent?''

Shirley tilts her head slightly. Takes a couple puffs of her cigarette. ''What brings you to my motel, Mrs. Campbell?''

There is something about the way she says Mrs. Campbell that raises Laurel's hackles, makes her wonder, but she is not in the right headspace to tug on that thread right now, so she ignores it. ''Oh.'' She tries to smile and look casual, but she thinks she probably just looks tired. ''You know, it's...'' She rests her cold hands between her thighs, trying to warm up, pretend the slight tremble is just because she's chilly. ''I'm going through a transitional period in my life,'' she says eventually, which, in fairness, is not a lie. ''I don't have a place of my own right now.'' Also not technically a lie. ''I haven't been - I just got back into town, so I'm kind of in between...'' She smiles tightly. ''Just in between.''

''So you came here?''

Laurel shrugs, feeling inexplicably flustered by the incredulous tone. ''What's wrong with here?''

''People like you don't come down here unless they're running from something,'' Shirley says bluntly.

''People like me?''

Shirley gives her another raised eyebrow. She says nothing else.

''I'm not running,'' says Laurel. It doesn't even sound convincing to her. ''I like it here.'' That part, at least, is true. ''I understand it here. Things...make sense.''

''Hmm.'' Shirley eyes her for a long, uncomfortable moment, cigarette burning away in her fingers. ''You sure? I hear a real nice Ramada just opened up by the airport. Got a waterslide and everything.''

''Not really a waterslide kind of person.''

Another ''hmm'' noise. Shirley takes one last puff and then stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray.

''I'm actually from around here,'' Laurel says. ''The Glades, I mean. I was born here. In one of the apartments over in No Man's Land.''

''Is that so?'' Shirley leans back. ''Well then.'' She gives her somewhat of a cautious smile. ''Welcome home.'' She has an exceptionally penetrative look. Her eyes burn. She looks at you like she can see your soul. One look, and she knows all your secrets. ''You been alone a while?''

Laurel tugs the sleeves of Dean's jacket over her hands. ''Not long. Feels like it's been longer.'' She feels miniscule in Shirley's presence. The two of them sit there for a few minutes, in a mostly companionable silence, and she is acutely aware of the curious way Shirley is studying her top to bottom.

After a few minutes, Marty comes stalking down the stairs and ducks into the front office, grumbling to himself the whole time as he putters around.

She listens to the sibling duo bicker to each other as he pulls the full garbage bag out and replaces it with a fresh one. It's an oddly comforting sound. It reminds her of home. Family. Two things she had but couldn't keep. The things she misses the most.

Marty doesn't say much to her, but he does pause as he's about to lug the garbage bag to the dumpster out back. ''My sister bothering you, Mrs. Campbell?''

Shirley rolls her eyes.

''No,'' Laurel answers. ''Not at all. She's a dream.''

He scoffs at that, though his eyes soften, betray his warmth and humor. He hefts the trash bag over his shoulder. ''More like a nightmare,'' he grumbles, and ducks his sister's attempt to smack him upside the head. He leaves, trying to pretend he doesn't want to smile, and Shirley shakes her head, trying to keep up her show of exasperation.

Laurel suddenly wishes she had thought to ask Dean about Sara and Thea. They're grown women - extremely capable ones at that. They don't need her to be their mommy. But she wishes she had asked. She wonders if they're mad at her. Sara should get it. She should understand why Laurel left. She would have done the same thing. She has done the same thing. It's their birth right. It's their bloodline. Ellard women run. But...

Then there's Thea. She has been through a lot in her young life. Too much. Her entire life has changed over these past few years. She has lost so many people. She has learned to cling to the ones who remain. She loves hard, with her whole heart. Two of the people she loves the most are Dean and Mary. Now they're both hurting. As a direct result of something Laurel did. It wouldn't be surprising if Thea were angry.

Laurel swallows hard against the three gulps of vodka now threatening to come back up. She does her best to pretend she's not about to crack. She tries to stop trembling.

Shirley sits back down in her vacant chair and watches her. She takes another cigarette out and reaches for her lighter on the table, but doesn't light up the cigarette. She turns it over a few times and then she asks, ''You've been through something awful, haven't you?''

The question burns.

It shouldn't, but it does. It's not like Laurel truly thought she was doing an amazing job of outwardly appearing fine and dandy, but she must look exceptionally awful. ''What makes you ask that?''

''You got the look,'' Shirley says, with a lazy half shrug. ''No offense. I just know the look. Saw it on my mother's face every day of my life until the day she died.'' She says it all so casually, matter-of-fact, like it's no big deal, like they're old friends who go way back.

Laurel wishes she could offer the same stark openness, but she can't. ''I've...had a rough go of it lately.''

Shirley nods. ''You've seen some shit,'' she states, not a question. ''It's written all over your face.''

''I have,'' she agrees softly.

Another knowing nod. Shirley plucks her lighter from the table and lights up the cigarette in her hand. ''My mama lived a hard life, you know,'' she says, after a moment. ''There was a lot of violence in her childhood. A lot of poverty. Cycles of abuse.'' She is more hesitant to say that, speaking slower, a little more hushed. ''She wasn't right in the head because of it. Never was all there.'' She nods, more to herself than Laurel, taking a puff of her cigarette. ''And she drank. Did a lot of other things too, I'm sure. Most folks did. I know strife, she used to say. Lord, I have seen the mountains.'' She looks at Laurel out of the corner of her eye, mouth tilted downward. ''She had a lot of sadness,'' she continues. ''A lot of anger. I think it was hard for her to be here. To live in this world after everything that had happened to her. A ghost, my mother was.'' She turns her attention, her full attention, to Laurel, the sad, slumped thing next to her, a cavern of dark spaces. ''Are you a ghost, Mrs. Campbell?''

It's a funny question, given the circumstances. ''Still working that part out,'' Laurel says shakily, ducking her head down. Sometimes, a lot of the time, she thinks she could be. Wouldn't that make sense? After everything that has happened, wouldn't that sound just about right? ''I'm sorry,'' she says, looking back up. ''About your mother.''

Shirley's response is blunt. ''Why? You didn't have anything to do with it.''

''No, but I...'' Laurel pauses, uncertain. ''It must have been hard. For you as well as her.''

Shirley tenses, just for a second, and Laurel worries that she might have overstepped. Gone too far. Then Shirley relaxes. She looks thoughtful, puffing away on her cigarette. ''It's difficult to love a ghost,'' she decides. ''It was a terrible feeling to miss her when we could see her standing right there in front of us. But it wasn't really her. Not always.''

Laurel thinks of Mary. She thinks of her as a baby, screaming in her crib while her mother overdosed in the next room and her frantic, long suffering father tried to revive her. She thinks of her as a sweet little three year old - a wonderful, caring girl who loved her routine and her parents - being told that her mother wasn't coming home, that she was gone forever. She thinks of her as the bubbly, headstrong four year old she is now going to sleep one night with Mommy home, safe and sound, and then waking up the next morning to yet another loss. How scary that must have been for her.

What terrible things her mother has done to her.

''Were you ever angry with her?'' Laurel asks, although she is not sure she wants to hear the answer. ''For not being there?''

''Of course,'' Shirley answers easily. ''We were children. We didn't understand what was going on. We couldn't.''

''Do you now?''

''I try,'' Shirley says. ''I know Martin does too. The thing is...'' She stops there, looking lost, unsure where to go from there. How to say what she wants to say. ''Some women aren't meant to be mothers,'' she says, and then nods to herself, seemingly satisfied with the conclusion she has come to. ''They don't have it in them,'' she explains further. ''Nothing wrong with that. Just the way it is. It's not for everyone. I can understand that. I think my mother was one of those women. But, for her, it wasn't really a choice, was it? Doesn't matter that she was broken. That she couldn't even take care of herself let alone two kids. What was best, what you wanted - these things didn't matter back then. You got married, you had children. You do what you are supposed to do, so she did. And we all had to live with the consequences of that - her most of all.'' She takes a drag from her cigarette, one last one, and then extinguishes it in the ashtray. ''Mama wanted to be free,'' she says, sitting back in her chair. ''She loved my father dearly. He was a damn fool, but she loved him more than she loved herself, enough to give him all of her, including the pieces she should have kept for herself. And she was happy with him. She was. I saw that. But,'' her eyes darken, grow sad, tired. ''She wanted to be free. That was the one thing she wanted more than anything and the one thing she never got.'' She smiles a somewhat brittle smile, genuine but sad. She looks like she might be contemplating another cigarette. ''All love comes with a price,'' she says. ''She paid a steep one. How can I be angry with her for suffering?''

There is a kind of understanding, of selflessness to that sentence that astounds Laurel. She can't imagine being that...good. That merciful. Her mother was also unmistakably not meant to be a mother. At least not her mother. She resents her for that every day. Resents her bad choices, her callousness, her disinterest, the way she comes and goes, blows in like a ruthless storm and leaves behind a violent flood. She resents her favoritism, the way she loves Sara in a way she never loved Laurel, how brazen she is about showing that, how it even trickles down to Mary.

She wonders what shape Mary's inevitable Mommy Issues will take.

''Do you have children?'' she asks, clasping her hands. She is trying very hard not to look at the flask.

Something in Shirley seems to light up at the question, her reverie broken by a sense of utter joy. ''I do,'' she says, voice laced with immeasurable pride and love. ''I have four. Three boys and a girl.''

''Wow.'' Laurel attempts to hide her astonishment, but probably isn't doing a good job of it. ''Four kids. That's... Wow.''

Shirley just laughs. ''Love 'em to pieces,'' she says. ''I chose every single one of them and I have no regrets. Even the hard times were worth it. They're all grown now. They come back to me when it's needed, holidays and such, and they all know to pick up the phone when their mama calls, but they're following their own paths now. We all have to eventually. They're good kids.''

''With a mom like you, I'm sure they're wonderful.''

''I did my best. Wish I coulda given them more than this,'' she gestures vaguely to the neighborhood. ''But they all found their way in the end. They're happy. Healthy. They have everything they need - and then some. I got two doctors, an architect, and a playwright, you know. And eight grandchildren to spoil.''

''That sounds nice.''

''It all worked out.''

''Was it... Did you ever find it hard?'' Laurel licks her dry lips, faltering slightly. ''To be a mother? Because of what you went through with your own mom?''

''Oh, sure,'' Shirley confirms. ''I didn't always know the right way. How to be what my kids needed. I had no one to teach me these things.''

Laurel can't help but think to herself, Yeah, same.

''But we do what we have to,'' Shirley goes on. ''We learn. We live. It hurts sometimes.'' She says it so casually. ''I had a patient husband - God rest his soul - and even better kids. We figured it out together. We were a good team.''

Laurel has to clear her blurry vision. That sounds like how things should be. She probably should have done that. Dean always saw them as a team. He wanted to learn with her. She did too. For so long, that was what she wanted. It was easy to think, when she was pregnant, when Mary was a baby, that it would be that way. That they would figure it out together. She doesn't know when that went away. When her mother got so in her head and all that fear and anxiety took over. She doesn't remember choosing to pull away from her husband and child. She doesn't remember doing it on purpose.

''My mother wasn't all bad,'' Shirley says. ''At the end of the day, she loved us the best way she knew how. We were grateful for that. And we loved her back. We loved all of her, even the ugly parts. That's what it comes down to. It's about love. It's always the love.'' She sounds firm, resolute. ''If you've got that, you've got enough.''

It's a nice thing to think about, but Laurel's not so sure it's true. Love can't always be everything. It can't always be enough. Love can't spare you from the pain of having a parent who doesn't know how to love without leaving scars.

John Winchester loved his boys. He did. That is a truth evident even in the worst parts of him - his foolishness, his rage, his hopeless need for revenge that tore him to pieces, turned all traces of sweetness into acid. It's in his writing; his journal, the things he wrote, the way he talked about them, every word steeped in love and regret, the list he made - and crossed out - of all the things his wife loved.

(Christmas lights, green tea, Led Zeppelin, mint gum, crossword puzzles, warm crispy bacon, Kurt Vonnegut, the smell of lilacs, Kate Hepburn, the way the light filled the kitchen in Lawrence, you, always you boys, from the first moment, the first second you - )

His love is in the things he pulled from the fire for them; the photographs he tucked into his overstuffed journal and kept with him, close to his heart, Mary's wedding ring, her recipe for pie crust that Dean still uses, the teddy bear that Sam keeps tucked away in his duffel bag but can't bring himself to look at, the toy soldiers still rattling around in the Impala.

John loved those boys with every shredded, burnt piece of him. Loved them so loud that even Laurel, a woman who has never, will never meet him, who only knows echoes, can see and hear that love plain as day.

But he still broke them.

He was still neglectful, abusive, and cruel. He left the boys he loved so much with wounds that, even ten years after his death, have not even begun to heal. He left them with guilt and trauma and anger, a tendency to flinch, the knowledge of a kind of fear that no child should ever know. Dean still, to this day, has nightmares about something that happened in Flagstaff that he can't seem to bring himself to tell anyone about. Sam still feels like he needs to defend his every choice, his every thought or feeling, because he is expecting to be berated for it. Their father made sure they would never know what it's like to live with clean hands.

His boys asked him for softness, for tenderness and devotion, as all children do, and all John could cobble together for them was the cramped backseat of a car, a loaded gun, and bloody hands. He made weapons out of two scared kids and told himself what he was doing was a form of love.

That love wasn't enough.

Laurel loves Mary. Loves her so much it hurts, an ache at the center of her, something she didn't know she could feel. Every now and then she looks at her daughter, that amazing little girl who loves Daddy and every dog she meets and chicken nuggets and stuffed animals, the baby who grew inside of her for nine months, who she knew before anyone else, the only person in the entire world who knows what her heartbeat sounds like from the inside, and she is so overwhelmed with the love she has for her that she doesn't know what to do with it all. Sometimes she feels like she was always supposed to love Mary. Like it's her purpose. The one thing she was put on this earth to do. Like her entire life, she was just waiting for her, that one sweet girl.

Yet she still left.

She still keeps making these choices that, well intentioned or not, only end up hurting people. All these choices that keep them apart. She loves her child, but she is afraid of her, of the love she has for her, blinding and all consuming. She is afraid of doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, just getting it wrong. She is afraid of her hands and her mouth and the damage she could do, all the things that no one thinks will ever happen to them until it does. She is afraid to be that needed, that loved, to be looked at as if she is the whole world. She loves her, but does that negate the hurt that she's caused?

Some people aren't meant to be mothers.

Like her mother, for example. Her disinterested mother, cold and completely unknowable to her eldest daughter, a woman who runs and lies and doesn't think about the consequences her actions may have and who doesn't...who can't...

Well.

The question of love.

Laurel tilts her head back to look up at the sky, watching the seagulls circling overhead. Then she looks back to Shirley. It just comes out. Before she can even think about it. ''I have a daughter.''

Shirley looks at her, meeting her eyes. ''I know,'' she says, unsurprised. She leans back, casual, crossing her legs at the ankle. ''It was in your obituary.''

It's not entirely that shocking, but Laurel still tenses. She is not entirely sure where to go from here. ''...How long have you known?''

''Honey,'' Shirley tosses her an ever so slightly pitying look. ''I knew it from the moment you showed up here. I watch the news. We know your face down here,'' she says. ''It was a big deal, you know. Finding out the woman keeping us safe was some blue blooded hypocrite.''

Laurel grimaces. It's not said with any particular venom, but it is an unmistakable condemnation. One she supposes she has earned. ''I'm sorry to disappoint.''

''Not just any blue blooded hypocrite,'' Shirley continues, ''but a blue blooded hypocrite who worked for the DA's office. Same office that likes to make a big show of cleaning up the Glades every few years when the rich whites like Mayor Queen start complaining about crime. And we all know what cleaning up means to them, don't we, princess?''

Laurel, feeling sufficiently shamed, doesn't answer.

Shirley sits there for a moment, still calm, casual, cool as a cucumber. ''What you were doing as Black Canary,'' she begins. ''Was that a trick?'

''A trick?'' Laurel shakes her head vehemently. ''No. God, no. I would never.''

''You weren't working with the cops? It wasn't some kind of - pretend to care, plant a bag of coke, trump up the charges, clean us out?''

''No!'' Laurel is horrified by the suggestion, but is also perfectly aware that she doesn't have any right to be offended by it. ''No, Shirley. No. Never.''

''Do you want to gentrify the Glades?''

''No.''

Shirley cocks her head to the side. ''You really have no relationship with the boys in blue?''

''I really don't. Pretty sure they hate me actually.''

''What about your father?''

''My...'' Laurel pushes down a sigh. ''Other than my personal relationship with him, if I even still have one, no. The Black Canary is not affiliated with any past or present SCPD officers.''

''What about the DA's office?''

''No. I know I can't be both. I can have one or the other.''

''And you chose this? The other? Not the cushy job with the office in the sky?''

''That part of my life is over,'' Laurel says. ''It should have been over the minute I decided to put that mask on. I chose this. I was always going to choose this.''

Shirley looks at her, eyes narrowed, trying to evaluate her honesty, and then she nods. Just one short nod. ''Then we're cool.''

''You're...not even going to ask me how I'm not dead?''

''Like I said, we don't do that down here,'' she says, right before she abruptly swivels around in her chair to watch a group of teenagers walking past, all of them giggling and slurping noisily from Big Belly Burgers cups, brown grease stained paper bags clutched in their hands.

They notice her staring at them immediately and one of them elbows the ringleader, their easy laughter cutting out, replaced by nervous whispering. ''Oh, hi, Mrs. Howard,'' the leader greets with a polite smile, hurrying her friends along.

Shirley, unsmiling, offers no greeting back. ''Yeah, you better not throw that shit on my sidewalk,'' she grouses, keeping her suspicious eyes on them as they pass.

She has a remarkably strong stance on littering apparently.

The teens pass on by with little incident and she turns back to Laurel, relaxing. ''So,'' she says. ''Tell me something.'' She leans in closer. ''Why are you here with me and not at home with your daughter?''

Laurel picks at her fingernails. ''It's complicated.''

''It always is.''

She looks up at the sky again. She thinks about being a teenager, adrift and unbound, with nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.

She thinks about the seagulls flying overhead, about what it must be like to be a bird, free and wild, with nothing to lose, nothing tying you down, soaring high above the rest of the world. Nothing but blue skies. She thinks about how small humans must look. How restless and bored. What pitiable creatures, the birds must think. To be held captive by the ground. She would have been a better bird.

Her eyes shift, just for second, barely even that, to the flask full of vodka sitting on the table between them. ''It's just best if I stay away for now,'' she says, though the excuse feels thin. ''My life is a mess right now. She doesn't need to see that. Besides, I'm not really...'' She rakes an anxious hand through her hair. ''Maybe it's like you said. Some people aren't meant to be mothers.''

''I see.''

''She has a wonderful father,'' Laurel says hastily. She can't tell if she's saying it to justify it to herself or to Shirley. ''He more than makes up for what I lack. He's the most amazing father.''

''I'm sure he is,'' Shirley says gently.

It takes Laurel a second to work out that the reason for Shirley's overly gentle tone is that the sad lump beside her is crying. She wipes at her eyes and sniffles. She tries for an easy laugh. ''Sorry.'' She tries to brush it off. ''I'm not usually... I've just had...a crappy day.''

''I can see that,'' Shirley says, gesturing to the splotchy bruises dotting Laurel's face and neck. But she doesn't say anything else. Doesn't push. Doesn't even try to comfort.

Laurel's grateful for that.

After a minute, Shirley asks, focus turned outward, back to her neighborhood where everyone, even the local teens, know her. ''That mean you're going to be sticking around down here?''

''If - If that's okay.''

Shirley looks at her, no nonsense, stern, appraising. ''On one condition,'' she decides. ''We don't have no continental breakfast here but we do have food. This is a home, after all. Come in and get something to eat when you can.''

''Oh, I couldn't - ''

''No arguments.'' Shirley holds a hand up. ''You need some meat on those bones. Let me feed you.''

''...When I can,'' Laurel finally agrees, voice soft. ''Thank you.''

With a smile, Shirley pats her hand. ''Anytime, Mrs. Campbell.''

Laurel thinks about that for a moment. Her alias. Her sentimentality. When you think about it, Laurel Lance doesn't necessarily belong in the Glades. Laurel Lance is a dead prosecutor. An uppity mom from Avalon Park with a cop dad and an office in the sky. Mrs. Campbell is a wailing ghost who misses her family and wants her husband to come find her. Neither one of them will be of any particular help to her down here. Neither one of them will gain the trust of the people in the Glades.

Maybe it's time to be someone else.

''Actually,'' she says. ''You can call me Dinah.''

''It's nice to have you back, Dinah.''

''It's nice to be back,'' Laurel replies, honest. She looks at the towel full of ice slowly melting. She looks at the flash. ''I should go,'' she says, slowly rising to her feet, mindful of her weary bones and stinging wounds. ''Let you get back to work. I have a lot of - ''

''Wait!'' Shirley gets to her feet and scurries away, returning shortly with a stack of towels. ''Clean towels,'' she says, handing them over. ''And this.'' She adds the flask to the pile. ''To help you sleep,'' she winks, playful and kind, believing herself to be doing the damaged young woman hiding away in her motel a favor. The flask, the vodka inside of it - it's an offering. An olive branch. A kindness.

It would be rude to turn it down.

Laurel's smile is thin and her heart is thudding guiltily against her ribcage as she takes the pile. She does not tell Shirley to take back the flask. She thanks her again and turns to walk away, feeling as if she is committing some sort of crime. As if any second now, someone is going to jump out and scream at her, tell her she's failed some kind of test.

Nothing happens.

She takes one step and then another and another, and nothing happens. She has just about made it all the way back to her room before Shirley calls out to her.

''You know, Dinah,'' she says. ''You ask anyone around here for help and we'll do whatever we can for you.''

Laurel stops walking. She turns, just long enough to throw what she hopes is an easy smile back. ''That's why I don't ask.''

With that, at last, she is able to escape the world.

She unlocks the door to her motel room, slips inside, and the world goes quiet when she shuts the door. She lets out a breath, slumping back against the door, closing her eyes. It is a stale smelling room, dimly lit and small, with shitty water pressure, a television that only has one channel, and - no, the mattress is not ''great.''

But it's quiet here. It's peaceful. It's a place to hide.

She misses the noise of home, the music they play, the sound of her daughter, her husband's voice, but right now... The quiet will have to be enough.

She puts the towels and the flask down on the table and drapes her new jacket over the back of the chair. She picks up the flask. She puts it down again. She distracts herself by putting her new batons back in their case and slides the case under the bed. She takes Dean's jacket off and drapes it over the back of the other chair.

She takes the antibiotics out of the pocket of her new jacket and puts them in the bathroom so she'll see them and remember to take them. She sets reminders on her phone and makes a note to pick up some food and probiotics to take with them. She knows, in the back of her mind, that it doesn't really matter. The wound on her shoulder will hurt and bleed until whoever gave it to her allows it to heal and not a minute before. She leaves the bathroom, goes back into the main room, and picks up the flask. She puts it back down again.

Maybe it's a little too quiet in this room.

There is too much space here and too much silence. She has too much time to think. To replay everything that happened today.

She doesn't understand why you're doing this to her, Dean said.

Laurel has lost count of how many times she has felt that same way about her own mother. Her mother, who was passionate about literature and social justice and spirited debate and education but could never quite muster up the same level of passion for being a mother. Her mother, who chose her career over her kids every time. Her mother, who missed countless recitals and gymnastics competitions and elementary school open houses and parent/teacher conferences. Her mother, who ran. Her mother -

The woman she fears she is slowly becoming.

She reaches out to grip the table, knuckles white. She focuses on her breathing, on maintaining the steady rhythm, ignoring the roar of static in her ears, the prickling at the base of her neck, the slowly growing disorientation threatening to take over. She muscles her way out of it, fighting off the incoming panic attack through pure spite. Her fingers inch towards the flask on the table, the brief period of respite that vodka would bring.

It would be so much easier.

She is sure of it. She knows. It would be so much easier to do this, to do all of this, if she could just be numb. Feeling too much has always been her biggest problem. She would give just about anything to be able to block that out right now. It would be easy enough to accomplish. There's no one here to talk to. No sponsor, no therapist, no AA meetings, and no Dean. She has no one. No one to hold her back and no one to help her. It would be a cakewalk. It would be easy. She has already broken her sobriety, already taken those first sips, those lonely first steps down.

What's to stop her from going further?

She only has herself now - and that is not enough. She could pick up that flask and drain it dry right now, and no one would know. She could go out and buy herself the cheapest rotgut she can find. She could hide away in some dark local drive bar and stay there, alone, drunk, and out of her mind, until all of this is over. She could do that. There's nothing holding her back.

It would help. She knows this to be true. It would help with the pain, every kind, every bit she can't get rid of, from her burning shoulder to her excruciating guilt. The sickness that does not belong to her. It would help her sleep. It would help her feel more in control. It would help. She would feel so much better.

She lets go of the edge of the table and realizes, as she snaps out of it, that she cannot catch her breath. She wants to pick up that flask more than anything.

Laurel drags herself away from the table - and the flask - and over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it, fists clenching around the sheets on the unmade bed.

It was a mistake.

Accepting the flask from Shirley's well meaning hands. Taking those first few sips. It was a stupid, reckless mistake. She wanted to be polite. She didn't want to have to explain, again, to yet another person, why she doesn't drink and have to deal with the discomfort in the other person's eyes. She wanted to be grateful. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to drink.

So she did.

She doesn't have to continue. She doesn't have to take it any further. But she wants to. She really, really wants to. She buries her head in her hands, pushing down a scream, the bile rising in her throat. She can still taste the vodka in her mouth. At least the memory of it. That bitter, burning taste of escape. The memory of numbness. She's missed that. So much.

The thing is, it wouldn't end with the vodka. That's the problem. If she drains that flask, then gives it back to Shirley, and moves on, that would be one thing. But that's not how it would go. She would want more. She would need it. More. And more and more until it stopped being enough. Then she would want something else. Something stronger, harder, better. The Xanax, the Klonopin, the Percocet. Adderall. Ecstasy. Cocaine from Max Fuller.

All the way back down.

Relapse is a free fall. You don't stop until you hit bottom. Or until you're dead.

She lifts her head, raking one shaking hand through her hair. She covers her mouth with the other. She thinks of that book that Mary likes.

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

A boy gives a mouse a cookie, but that's not enough. The mouse needs a glass of milk. The mouse needs a straw. The mouse needs more and more and more. The mouse never stops wanting.

It's a silly little children's book that makes Mary laugh, but it makes the hair on the back of Laurel's neck stand up. She tries not to pick it for story time unless Mary specifically requests it. It reminds her too much of all the parts of herself she would rather not talk about.

That is addiction. That is what it's like. More and more and more until there's nothing left but bottom.

Laurel looks at the stupid fucking flask on the table. She wants it so badly she feels sick. She can't remember any of the coping mechanisms she's been taught in therapy, in AA, during her long talks with her sponsor. None of it. It's all a blank. She winds her arms around her stomach, feeling winded and shaky and ill, on the verge of throwing up the vodka right here on this carpet that has apparently not been changed in twenty years. The place where what happened earlier - the blood, the nails, the glass, the thing in the bathtub, the worst pain she has ever felt - did not actually happen.

You just need a mother, it murmured in her ear, taunting her with her mother's voice. You just need a mother.

The worst part is that it was right.

She does need a mother. She's desperate for one. She has always been desperate for one. She had her grandmother, she had her aunts, hell, she even had Moira Queen for a time, but she wanted her mother. She wanted her mother to be what she was supposed to be. Mothers are supposed to be warm. They're supposed to love you and wrap you up and protect you. They're supposed to be home. The last safe place. She wanted that. She still wants that, even now, a grown woman in her thirties with a family of her own.

It's all she's ever wanted.

And honestly -

Doesn't that just make her breathtakingly, astonishingly awful? She knows what it's like to need your mom, to reach for her and find only an empty space, and she still made the choice to put her four-year-old baby girl in the same position.

History repeats itself.

Whether we want it to or not.

How cruel. How fucking pathetic.

Laurel rises to her feet, hastily wiping at her wet eyes with the back of her hand. She walks over to the table. She wants to reach for the flask, but she doesn't. She turns on the ancient looking radio instead, the same one that she dreamt about last night, the old thing springing to life all by itself, spilling out a static-filled ghostly version of California Dreamin'. It's not quite as ominous today.

She turns it on and the radio crackles to life, the sound of Jim Morrison's voice a sudden burst of light, something alive in the quiet, cramped space. She stands there for a minute, listening to Love Her Madly, trying not to think about Dean singing along with the radio in his car with all the windows down during a summer road trip to Kansas, or in the shower on a Saturday morning.

She switches the station, flicks through until she finds some guy rambling on about the history of grunge in Seattle and the possible resurgence of the grunge subculture among the ''youths of today.'' He has a dull but inoffensive voice and Laurel, despite growing up in Pacific Northwest, has no real attachment to anything grunge. She leaves it there, on that station, with the dull man and the music she has no emotional connection to.

She does not look at the flask.

She takes a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of her new leather jacket. Paige Crawford's missing poster. The poster is hastily done, put together by her worried family quickly, out of desperation, with a few additional details scrawled on the back in Dean's rushed chicken scratch.

There is nothing to study here.

It's all mostly information she knows. Even the picture is familiar. It's an old picture, at least eight or nine years, and Paige looks exactly the way she remembers her, young and fresh faced, with that signature vibrant smile in place, eyes twinkling mischievously, like she knows something you don't. She's even holding that yappy white dog of hers that she doted on.

Laurel sits back down on the bed, wincing at the pull of her sore muscles, eyes fixated on the picture of her old friend. If she closes her eyes she can still see Paige the way she was back then, under the flashing lights in some nightclub, in her short sparkly dresses, her red lipstick, her wavy blonde hair floating around her face while she danced.

She can remember Paige in...a lot of ways, some of them intensely private, meant for just the two of them, no one else's business. She can so vividly remember the way she moved, confident and self-assured, sly without being snotty, the way she always knew what to do with her hands, how to make the loud, painful world more bearable. She remembers her as someone young and free and wild, so beautiful and so brightly, vibrantly, unapologetically alive.

Laurel wanted to be her almost as much as she wanted to be with her.

She also remembers her as she was in 2014, unhealthy and out of her head and too sick to care who saw her like that.

Music, something harsh and biting, fills the room, cutting through her memories, replacing the easy drone of the radio DJ's voice. Her eyes snap open and she flinches at the sound of the angry song pulsing through the room. She turns her attention to the radio, but doesn't get up to change the station or even turn the volume down. The song playing is loud and frantic and it has that undeniably grunge quality to it, the snarling vocals, the male vocalist growling out caustic, sharp lyrics like, I won't live long and I'm full of rot. It is not her kind of music, not by a long shot, but something about the way the noise of it fills the room helps with the stifling loneliness and the guilt in her bones. Makes her feel too full of the electric energy to think about her pain.

She looks back down at the missing poster.

Paige liked grunge. And Riot Grrrl music. She liked Soundgarden and Bikini Kill and L7 and Pearl Jam. Screaming Trees and Mudhoney and Veruca Salt. Of course Nirvana and Hole. One of her favorite songs to listen to when she was working on her art pieces was Bruise Violet by Babes in Toyland, which is just...awful noise, in Laurel's opinion.

She would probably like this song. She would, at the very least, know what it is.

Inside, under the sparkles and the red lipstick, Paige was different than she looked on the outside. More introspective. Much smarter than she ever let on. Far more hardened by circumstances than anyone ever knew. And angry. She was angry. She tried very hard not to be, but it wasn't something she could ever quite rid herself of. That inner rage. All that noise in her head.

I mean, she was an artist.

She had her demons, her own darkness deep inside. If it wasn't obvious then, it sure is now. Maybe that was why she didn't mind the shadows Laurel came with. They didn't scare her off.

Sometimes Dean reminds her a little bit of Paige. She has never dared to look too closely at that. It's a thread she has never opted to pull on. Absolutely one of the reasons why she never told him about her. It's in his charm, the easy smiles and effortless charisma, his tendency to take care of people, his sense of humor.

His rage.

Laurel clutches the missing poster a little too tightly. It crumples in her hand. She loosens her grip. She stares at the picture, corners of her lips lifting into a tiny smile. His name was Birkin. The little yappy dog. You know, after the luxury handbag. Because that's what rich people do. They buy yappy balls of fluff and name them after luxury items. He actually had his own Birkin bag that Paige carried him around in. It was custom made and gifted to her by Paris Hilton.

That's not a joke. That's a real thing that happened.

See, sometimes Dean reminds her a little bit of Paige. Sometimes. A little bit. A tiny bit. The comparisons are limited.

Laurel puts the missing poster down beside her. Tears her eyes away from the picture of Paige and her dog - who, honestly, must be dead by now. She loved that crotchety dog. She called him Birkie. He was wildly protective. One might even say possessive. Laurel has a small scar on her ankle from where he bit her one night when he jumped up on the bed and clamped down on her, presumably because from the optics of what was happening and the sounds Paige was making, he likely thought Laurel, the unwelcome interloper, was attacking his human.

They had to put him in the bathroom or his crate if she stayed over after that night. According to Paige, despite his fiery temper and overprotective tendency to bark and growl at anyone who got too close, Laurel was the only person he had ever bitten.

She made a joke about it once. They were sitting outside on the balcony of Paige's downtown loft, sharing a joint, and the little chomper was sitting just inside the french doors, behind the glass, glaring. ''Sorry to break it to you,'' she said breezily, ''but I think your dog might be kinda homophobic.''

Turns out little Birkie was just a better judge of character than anyone knew.

She picks the flyer up and turns it over to look at the scribbles on the back. A couple phone numbers, small details Dean got from Madison, the name of Paige's dealer, and all of her social media handles. She fishes her phone out, pulls up Instagram, and searches the name written down. She wonders absently how Dean managed to track this down. If he got some help from Charlie, if someone he talked to down here gave it to him, or if he dug around for it himself. He is smart, she will never debate that, but he is, understandably, not a huge fan of social media and this seems like it would have been a rather deep dive to get here.

The account is under the name Emilia Page, with zero mention of the Crawford name, and it appears to mostly be for art and random poetry quotes or lyrics, but there are a few photos here and there and the woman in the photos is undeniably Paige. The most recent one is from October. It's Paige, standing on an apartment balcony, in front of a host of flowers and potted plants, with a big fluffy tabby cat in her arms. The caption is just a series of emojis: flowers, plants, a cat, and a smiling sun. The shot is artistic - not surprising - and shot from a good angle, with careful lighting and a lot of editing, Paige's arms mostly obscured by the cat and shadows, her face half silhouetted, but it's clear as day that it's her.

She looks different, but she's still her. That is her sly smile, those are her eyes, that is her blonde hair - although it's not long and wavy anymore, no longer floating around her face and instead cut into a jagged looking bob. This is Paige. This is the girl Laurel once loved, just for a moment, a lifetime ago, back when she was lost.

This is also a heroin addict.

A ghost of a girl now, gaunt and hollowed out, all sharp edges, skin and bones. It looks like she has been scraped out of herself. Like all the light in her has been drained out, leaving behind a sickly shell. She looks so much worse than she did even back in 2014.

There's barely any of her left.

Despite how innocuous it would look to anyone else, it is one of the most horrifying things Laurel has ever seen. Her reaction to it is visceral - and immature, she'll own that. She almost throws the phone across the room. She backs out of the Instagram account without looking at anything else, tossing the phone on the bed beside her, wanting nothing more than to get away from the ghost that is Emilia Page.

Do you know what the worst part is?

Paige was an incredibly privileged person. She was street smart when she needed to be and more levelheaded and down to earth than any of her siblings, but she was filthy rich and spoiled, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, without a single financial worry, and it showed.

But she was kind.

Madison wasn't awful, but she was a bit uppity and incredibly high strung. Reid was handsome and energetic and good to his friends, but a haughty prick to anyone he deemed beneath him. Even Brooke, the youngest, had an off putting sense of entitlement about her. They lived in their world and they rarely ventured outside of it.

Paige was different. She was more like her mother. She had a keen sense of self-awareness, something her siblings sorely lacked. She understood the world, the people in it, in ways they never did. She was one of the nicest people Laurel met back when she was hanging out with that crowd, back when she and Sara were plunked down in that private school for their high school years, two naive young fish out of water. It's possibly that Paige was overly kind to Laurel in high school because, as she admitted later, she had a crush on her, but she truly was nice to everyone. She was an extrovert. She had a big welcoming heart. She was good.

And look what happened to her.

Look what this life, this city, all that unchecked wealth and privilege, made of her.

Even in the throes of addiction, she was, at her core, a soft person. She did her best with what was left of her. Every time Laurel would call her back in those cold, dark few months in 2013/2014, every time she went to that studio in Orchid Bay, Paige would fuss over her. Ask if she needed anything else, if she wanted a glass of water, if she was okay.

''I worry about you,'' she said once. ''You're not yourself.''

''I'm not here for a therapy session,'' Laurel had snapped back at her, impatient and uncaring and selfish. ''Will you help me or not?''

Paige said, as always, ''You know I will.'' She smiled. ''I'll take good care of you.'' She'd say the same thing every time, before Laurel left. ''Call me when you need more.''

Laurel, standing there full of nerves, feeling shaky and nauseated from the early staged of withdrawal, would say, ''I won't need more. This is it, Paige.''

''Sure,'' Paige said, placating but disbelieving. ''I know it is. But just in case, I want you to know I'm here for you. Don't forget that.''

Somewhere along the way, between sober and high, Laurel forgot that. She forgot Paige. She put her - everything about her - away like a dirty little secret. She tried not to think about her. She never even told Dean about her, and she tells him everything. She picks up the missing poster once again and stares down at the picture of Paige, as she was, as she may never be again.

She was never ashamed of Paige.

Let's get that out of the way right now.

She was never ashamed of what they had, what they were. She has never been ashamed of anyone she has loved. But she was ashamed of who she was back then, the person she was in her early twenties, after the boat. She was ashamed of the things she did - the drinking, the drugs, the way she used people, the selfishness of her addictions and her grief and her searing anger. She liked Paige, even loved her, who she was and the things she could offer, but she would be lying if she said she treated her well during their relationship, if you can call it that.

She has tried to tell herself, over the years, that she was a stupid kid back then. She was grieving and confused and broken and rarely sober. She's grown up since. She's a better person.

But is she?

Was she in 2014?

The first time she went to her, it was right before Christmas 2013. Her doctor had cut her off in November, refusing to refill her prescriptions once he caught onto her, handing her pamphlets on addiction and a referral to an inpatient treatment program that he thought would be beneficial, both of which were angrily, defensively turned down by her.

Eventually, he dropped her as a patient altogether when she threatened to sue him for medical neglect. She doctor shopped after that, even going so far as to fake a major panic attack so Dean would take her to the ER, but she knew that wasn't sustainable. She knew she needed a backup plan. A better one.

So she did the same thing she used to do when she was desperate.

She went to Paige.

That first night, that first nondescript bottle of pills, she was terrified. She was scared of getting caught, of not having enough money, of her family finding out what she was doing. She must have sat outside that building, that same loft apartment that doubled as Paige's art studio, for at least an hour, sitting in her car, trying to will herself to leave, to just forget about it and go home.

Seeing Paige didn't make her feel any better about the situation. She hadn't seen her since that brief glimpse of her back in 2012 and when that door opened and she first laid eyes on her, she barely even recognized her.

Paige was no longer Paige.

Gone was the sunny girl with her natural beauty and easy charisma. Gone were the thick flowing waves of healthy blonde hair, the perfect white teeth, the flawless glowing skin. She was like a shadow, skin pulled tight against hollowed cheekbones, her eyes dulled and sunken in. She'd made an effort to hide how disheveled she was, her greasy, unkempt hair scraped up into a tight knot, a baggy long sleeved hoodie covering her arms, but there was no hiding how ill she was, how much of her was just...gone.

She looked like a warning sign.

A cautionary tale.

Did any of that stop Laurel?

No, of course not. Of course it didn't. In her own sick mind, she didn't have a choice. She needed what she needed. It didn't matter how wrong it was. It didn't matter how scared she was. She needed. How was she supposed to sleep without her meds? How was she supposed to get through her panic attacks? How was she supposed to get through the day? It's not like getting clean was an option. It didn't even seem possible.

Addicts are liars, at the end of the day. They lie to themselves and to everyone around them to get what they need. She was so good at that part. The lying. The needing.

Over the span of three months, Laurel popped in and out. She lied to her husband, she took money, too much money, out of their savings and bought drugs from a heroin addict who used to finger bang her in the back of nightclubs, and she told him she used it to buy wine or something off the shopping channel in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep. She rationalized it by telling herself that she needed her medication to be healthy, to be whole, and the medical system was failing her so she was doing what she had to do. She had everything under control. Those were the lies she told herself.

She watched Paige deteriorate, watched her get thinner, weaker, sicker. Watched her live in girlfriend - also an addict - take advantage of her, living rent free, using as much Crawford money as she wanted to do whatever she wanted.

The last time she saw Paige was February. That awful, awful February. It was the day after Dean found out she was still using and flushed her stash, hours before the dinner party from hell and everything that followed after. She had to call in a last minute emergency order. She needed to replenish what he had thrown away.

How was she supposed to get by without it?

Paige looked worse than ever that day and clearly wasn't well, with sores around her mouth and a sheen of sweat on her forehead, no longer even bothering to cover up her arms, littered with track marks. It was like any other transaction between them that day.

Until it wasn't.

They made meaningless small talk, Paige told her about a new art project she was starting on, Laurel told her all about a new job she had lined up - both lies - and then they got to it. Laurel handed her the money. Paige handed her the pills. Except there was a part missing from the routine. There was no this is the last time. There was no this is it, I won't be back, I can't keep doing this.

Instead, after she had popped one of the pills under her tongue, she lingered, jittery and numb, in a rapid descent toward her own rock bottom, hours away from trying to die, holding a little paper bag with the murder weapon in it. She watched her friend, her ex fuck buddy, her drug dealer, move around the place, picking up after her girlfriend. She clutched the bag with the Xanax, the Klonopin, the sleeping pills.

Then very quietly, without any dramatics, without a sound at all, without even thinking about it, she gave up. She slipped under the dark water. ''I'll call you in a couple weeks,'' she mumbled tiredly, feeling sick and defeated and, for the first time, unable to lie to herself, to convince herself that she had everything under control.

Paige, who had somehow, despite the hell of her own addiction, managed to hang onto who she was, the openness, the kindness, the empathy, looked up and smiled. ''Sure thing,'' she said. ''I'll see you then.''

Then Laurel left, and she never went back.

She added a suicide attempt to the list of selfish, fucked up things she did that year, spent a week detoxing in the hospital, shaking and sweating and vomiting, hallucinating a whole bunch, certain she was going to die and unable to decide, in the worst moments, if that was what she wanted, and then she spent the next several months relearning how to want to be alive.

She did not check in on Paige, did not even call to tell her she wouldn't be coming around anymore. She was too weak and too scared to be around her, too afraid of relapsing. She figured a clean break was for the best. She figured the smartest thing to do was to just let go. To erase. She begged on her knees for forgiveness from her husband and daughter, she did the grueling work of recovery, of hearing, and she believed that to be enough. She moved on.

To the rest of the world, she was the glowing, healthy picture of a successful recovery by that summer. She went to therapy, dutifully attended every AA meeting and NA meeting she could, got her job back, tried to be a hero, tried even harder to be a mom. She, once again, built herself a new life and, once again, she left Paige behind and didn't look back.

She can tell you how much she regrets that. She can talk about how sorry she is. She can list all the times Black Canary looked for Paige's face in every woman she tried to save on those dark nights down here in the Glades. But what does it matter? She still left her. What a cowardly thing to do.

Then again, she has always been a coward, hasn't she?

For pretty much their entire relationship, Dean has had this bad habit of blaming other people for her pain. Especially during that one long, unbearable year.

It was her parents, it was her sister, it was Oliver. She did not fail, she was failed. She was sick. PTSD and postpartum depression and survivor's guilt mixed with her already existing panic disorder and major depressive disorder. A potentially lethal concoction. It wasn't her fault. It was his fault for not doing enough, it was Tommy's fault for dying, it was this city's fault for being so bleak and violent and depressing. They all should have known. Should have seen it coming. The world should have known better than to pile it all on top of her. The world should have been kinder.

But, the truth is, it was her all along.

She has only ever wanted to be good, to be selfless, to help people, but she still ended up where she ended up, and she only has herself to blame. What happened happened because of her. Her choices. Her fault. She chose to drink. She chose the drugs and the anger. The dreadful self-pity. She stopped trying to choose anything more than that.

She abandoned everyone and everything. She pushed away all the love and support she was given and walled herself off from it because she didn't want that. She did not want to be loved. She did not want to be forgiven. She wanted to burn. She wanted to be numb and high and, the deeper she fell, dead. She wanted to make it stop. She was callous and cruel in her pursuit of those things.

For all the moralizing she did, Laurel ''always trying to save the world'' Lance, the goody two shows from high school, the righteous pest they called Saint Laurel was the one who turned her back on the world.

She has not forgotten that, even if everyone else has.

It is hard to forget that you have that kind of darkness inside of you. That kind of selfishness. You can run from it, you can bury it, hide it away, cover it with light and hope no one sees what's underneath. You can devote your life to helping others, die for their sins, become the resident martyr they build a statue for, but there will be that one failure, that one loose end just waiting to unravel you, that one reminder of who you really are inside.

For her, Paige Crawford is that loose end.

Nobody else knows that. Nobody, it would seem, except for Edie.

On the radio, the music ends after a couple angry, lost grunge songs, switching back over to the dull voiced DJ. Laurel remains where she is, sitting on the bed, her sore body hunched over, grasping at the sheets. She listens to him talk about the music scene of the Pacific Northwest in the 90's, waxing lyrically about grunge culture and the Riot Grrrl movement. She retains none of it, although her stomach does twist painfully when he mentions Aberdeen.

Can't even go five seconds without being reminded of Edie.

After a minute or two, she rises to her feet and heads into the bathroom, stripping off her shirt. She eyes the bloodstain on her shirt and then drapes it over the sink. She pulls her hair out of the way and turns to look at her mangled shoulder in the mirror. She peels back the bandage to peek at the wound. It looks better with the stitches, but it still burns.

She picks up the shirt and holds it in her hands, numb and frozen, staring at her beat up, ghostly reflection in the mirror. Wow, yeah, she does look like shit. All the blood loss, probably. She looks away, turning the hot water on. She holds the bloodstained part of the shirt under the stream of hot water and watches the water run red. She uses the cheap soap to scrub at the stain. She knows it's not going to work, but she tries anyway. She needs something she can clean. Something she can fix. She tries to focus, but she can't. She keeps thinking about Mary, about Paige and Edie.

You did this to her, Dean said. Live with it.

Laurel draws in a shuddering breath.

In the other room, a new song is playing, still grungy, still very Pacific Northwest in the 90's except it's one she recognizes. She's not sure why at first, trying to shake it off, a shiver running down her spine, throat constricting, but then she remembers.

It's a snippet, really. A blurry memory of 1994, summer, in her room at Grandma and Grandpa's, with Edie. It's not some repressed memory that's been dropped into the dark waters of her mind only to return now, floating to the surface, bloated and wide eyed and gray, like a corpse, the evidence of what happened. It's not some dangerous landmine that has been unearthed. It's just a memory, like any other.

It's such a little thing.

She was a child and so was Edie. It was summer. It was August, she thinks. It was bright and sunny, the house full of light and the scent of flowers from Grandma's garden. It was Edie, painting Laurel's nails - black, Edie's nails were always black, occasionally with little flowers - and trying to introduce her to new music - Heavens to Betsy that day - and it was Laurel, pretending to care about the music and the nail polish but mostly stuck on how much she idolized her older cousin, how cool she was, how she wanted to be just like her. It was the two of them together, innocent and unburdened, completely unaware of what was inside of them and where they were going.

They were just children. They knew nothing of who they were and what they would become, together and apart.

Laurel's fingers, still fruitlessly scrubbing at the bloodstain, go still. She stares down at the bloody soapsuds, the ruined shirt. She can't bring herself to look at her reflection. She doesn't want to see the self-pity, the guilt, the grief.

She remembers the way she used to look at Edie, awestruck and adoring, full of wonder. It was, as all things are in the end, a matter of devotion. It wasn't all that different from the way she used to look at her mother. Even Paige.

The way Mary looks at her.

You did this to her. Live with that.

The fallacy of devotion.

A ragged sob tumbles out of her mouth. It practically claws its way out, followed by another, and then another. She is thinking about Mary, sad and abandoned, too young to understand anything but how much she misses her mother. She is thinking about Paige, lost and alone, potentially soulless, a weaponized body, if she is even still alive. And all because of her. Because of her screwed up family. Because of the curse they have to live with.

All this rot.

Her wet, bloody hands come up to her face, covering her mouth.

In the other room, the song continues on uninterrupted, the raw, wounded sound of Corin Tucker's voice slicing through the silence, I'm out of my head, I'm out of my mind, I'm out of my life tonight.

Laurel tries to stifle her cries, though she's not quite sure why, it's not like there's anyone else here. No one is here to see the mess she's made of things. No one is here to help her. She tries to pull it together, but the tears keep coming, the sobs keep clawing their way out of her throat. It's been a long day. A long two weeks. A long winter.

It's been a long life.

She's not sure how much longer she can keep doing this. How much longer she is supposed to keep going if things keep getting this twisted up. If this is just how it is now. If this is all there is to life. She doesn't think she can do this if there's just suffering. She's too tired. She's too broken. She doesn't want to die. She meant what she said when she said that. She just doesn't want to be here anymore. She doesn't want to be lost.

If she could just rest for a minute. She is so exhausted. She has never before been this tired. She didn't even know it was possible to feel this mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted. She knows fatigue, remembers it from the hell that was the first trimester, the incapacitating exhaustion of the depression that consumed her, the sleep deprivation that comes hand in hand with parenthood, but this is an entirely different beast.

She moves a hand to her throat, trying to breathe through the choking cries, trying, in vain, to feel for the scream bubbling up. She puts her hand over her aching, heaving chest, feels the flutter of her elevated heartbeat. She squeezes her eyes shut, tears still running down her cheeks.

She wants to go home. She just wants to go home. More than anything. She wants to be with Dean and Mary, the family they have worked so hard to create. She wants to be in her own bed.

And she could.

She could go home right now. The last thing Dean said to her was, Come home when you can. We'll figure out the rest from there. It wasn't forgiveness, not exactly, that requires work, but it was something, it was an invitation, it was a start. She would be a fool not to take him up on that.

Except how can she go back now?

Edie is not going to sleep until everything Laurel has ever touched is bloody and broken, until Laurel is on her knees, ready to give up, give in. The solution is not to put herself right next to the things she loves the most. The solution is to go for the throat before she can get to anyone else. Like it or not, she will not be able to do that from home.

No, unfortunately, this is it. This is where she is now. Where she needs to be.

One day, hopefully, Laurel Lance will be able to go home. For now, Dinah Lance will have to stay lost.

She opens her eyes, breathing shaky, gulping, even as the sobs slowly recede. She sniffles. She wipes at her cheeks. She gives herself a second to collect herself the best she can, even though she knows it doesn't matter how composed she is in the solitude of her own room, and then she turns the faucet back on and washes her hands. She looks, with some hesitance, in the mirror.

Her battered, red-eyed reflection stares back at her. There is nothing wrong with her reflection. There is nothing in the bathtub. Nothing sitting on the bed. Nothing to distract her from where she is and what she's doing and the pain she is going to have to learn to live with. She is all alone here. If she slipped up just this once, just for today, no one would know. She sniffles again, still staring blankly at the reflection in the mirror that she knows, logically, is hers, but cannot recognize. She wipes at her face with her wet hands.

On the radio, the song is winding down, less angry now, but still lost. Laurel pauses for a moment, listening to the song slow and then come to a halt. She listens to the next one start up, one she vaguely recognizes from radio play over the years but has no connection to, one that evokes no memories. She stands there for a minute, staring at her reflection, listening numbly to Courtney Love's anger and pain that have nothing to do with her. She lies to herself, like the addict she was, will always be, and pretends that the only reason she flinches when she hears the line I made my bed, I'll die in it is because this just isn't her kind of music and it has nothing to do with her or her mother or Edie or Paige.

She tries, despairingly, to come up with a reason, any reason at all, not to do what she's about to do. She finds nothing. She thinks of her grandmother, the love she had for her, and she thinks of what she said at Grandpa's funeral, that thing that has stayed in her head in all the years since, the moment when her love became an act of defiance, a longing.

I will tell you what I know of home. It's you. Always you.

She inhales and looks away from her reflection, unable to meet her own eyes. Then she walks out of the bathroom, over to the table, without a pause, without hesitating, and picks up the flask.

.

.

.

end part twenty

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Additional spoilery warning for this chapter: A character who previously struggled with addiction relapses at the end of the chapter.

Title from Constance Welch (aka the Woman in White) and her signature line from the Pilot episode of Supernatural.