Chapter Text
She was so stupid, was all Laurel could think as she got back in her car, tires spinning on gravel for a moment before she was finally watching Queen Manor grow smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirror. Oliver’s bedroom was probably the last place on Earth the two of them could have a sane, rational discussion. And yet she’d let herself be led up there anyway, just as she’d let him back into her life and let herself kiss him.
For one single, blissful moment she’d closed her eyes and pretended not for the first time that the last five years had been nothing but a nightmare she was finally waking from. Shut out the anger and loss and heartbreak that had been a weight on her for so long she never thought she’d learn how to live without it. Not until Oliver had returned.
He had cheated on her, but he still wanted her. And Laurel…looking past that thin playboy veneer he seemed determined to project to the world and gazing at what those years away did to him, the scars they left on his body and the Hell it must have put him through just to come home to them…she knew she still wanted him, too. She always had.
But could they risk the delicate balance of their beyond-strained status quo? So much had happened in the intervening years, and not even a month ago she would’ve laughed at the idea. Anyone else would tell her she still should. Maybe she was just letting her emotions cloud her better judgment as she often did when it came to Oliver.
Laurel let herself into her apartment, trudging over to the couch and dropping onto it with a groan. Why couldn’t she just hate him? Even Oliver said she should!
And yet he hadn’t wanted her to leave; in that moment he’d felt so raw and vulnerable to her, chest bared to show years of a tortuous struggle. How could she hate him knowing even a fraction of the pain he must have suffered, and knowing she was something that pulled him through? She didn’t have it in her to turn her back on him that way. Oliver was and always had been her friend above all else. They’d been through too much for it to be any other way.
She hoped he knew that, just as she hoped he knew he had his family and Tommy to support him now that he was home and away from that horrible place. The fishermen who rescued him had made no mention of others on the island, and she had to wonder what became of the people Oliver said tortured him. It made her sick to her stomach to know even that much, and yet Laurel couldn’t deny a growing concern and curiosity.
Who were those people? Why did they torture him, and where were they when he’d been found? How had Oliver been able to survive to stand before her, bruised and scarred and marked in so many places, but strong in the face of it all?
It hadn’t just been wounds that littered his torso, she recalled. Her eyes admittedly had been initially drawn to the dark symbols inked into his skin which had certainly not been there before the Queen’s Gambit. So they had to have some sort of connection to his time on that island.
Laurel tried to picture them in her mind’s eye as best she could. There’d been symbols—some kind of characters, possibly Chinese—and she knew she wouldn’t be able to tell those apart from any other set from the brief glance she’d gotten. But the other tattoo she’d had a better look at. Some sort of star…
Laurel leaned over the couch to rummage through her purse, retrieving a spare legal pad and pen. She placed the end to her lips for a moment as she thought back. It had a lot of points. Six? No, that didn’t look right. Eight. And the lines had sort of criss-crossed over each other, though she didn’t remember the exact pattern to it. And hadn’t there been dots? Around the outside.
After several attempts punctuated by many scribbles, she thought she had a rough sketch. Laurel was no artist, but it was the best she had short of getting a picture, which was completely out of the realm of possibility.
Instead, she lunged again to grab her laptop off the coffee table. She wasn’t sure how much Google might be able to help her, but there had to be some page explaining tattoo meanings, right? Yet scarcely had she opened her browser before being instantly derailed; a knock at the door had her setting both laptop and legal pad back on the table before pushing off the couch and answering it.
“Dad, what are you doing here so late?” She’d been certain he’d be out with the task force, looking for any sign of the Hood while Oliver was under house arrest.
He grimaced, but waited until she moved aside to let him in before speaking. “Listen, this isn’t easy for me to say, but…your ‘client’ was attacked at his party tonight. From the looks of it, by a hired gun.”
How? When ? It must have been right after she’d left, and Laurel was seized with terror at the thought that the last thing she might’ve done to Oliver was run from him. “Is Oliver—?”
“Queen’s fine, I got the guy,” he answered brusquely to her immense relief. “And I’ve had the lecture from his mother already, thanks.” Laurel could only imagine Moira’s fury, and she felt a certain amount of sympathy for her father even if he had brought the situation on himself.
“So it was somebody after the Hood,” she confirmed.
“That’s our best guess. You’ll be happy to know all charges against your client are being dropped.”
“I’d be happier if you made that news public knowledge with a statement.” Her father scowled, but Laurel pressed, “As long as people still think there’s a possibility, it puts Oliver and his family in danger. He shouldn’t have to be afraid for his life, Dad, not anymore.”
“Alright,” he conceded with a nod. His look turned scrutinizing as he seemed to struggle with whether or not to say what followed. “Listen, Laurel—what he said about that island, it’s none of our business. And I’m not saying you have to hate the guy—” that he’d prefer it hung unspoken in the air between them “but don’t put yourself in a position where he’s gonna hurt you again.”
Laurel took a half step back, shaking her head. “Oliver and I aren’t—” close? together? in light of what had just happened at the Manor, could she even answer? “I’m just advocating for my client,” she decided, crossing her arms over her chest. “His polygraph results are ready, right?”
Her father accepted the change of subject without comment, instead handing her the papers tucked under his arm. “Here we go. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No,” she agreed as her eyes scanned the page. No clear lies, only a slight waver…when he’d been asked if he’d ever been to Iron Heights. But Oliver had been to Iron Heights, with her, years and years ago. She’d assumed he’d forgotten, but then why the waver on the polygraph? If he remembered the trip there’d be no reason to answer the way he had, and yet he’d still said he’d never been to the prison. The machine had picked up a slight waver, perhaps a barely-passing lie; a lie to cover up the fact he had been there, and far more recently than a school field trip—
“Something the matter?” Her father’s voice snapped her out of what felt a revelation rapidly unfolding, and her eyes darted up to meet his.
Laurel drew in a breath and then answered in as calm a tone as she could manage, “No, all fine. Thanks, Dad, I’ll make sure Oliver gets these.” Any dread she might have been feeling over seeing Oliver after the kiss had now been replaced with a single-minded determination to get an answer to the question everyone but her had had on their minds until tonight: was he the man that saved her life in Iron Heights, and more importantly, was he the Hood?
She crossed the room to place the polygraph results with some of her other files.
“What’s this?” When she turned back, her father had scooped up the legal pad with her rough sketches. “You take up doodling?”
“No. Actually a client of mine was showing that image to me, a tattoo.” She didn’t like to lie to him, but it would be equally wrong to discuss something private about Oliver. Not until she’d gotten a chance to speak to him herself.
Her father didn’t seem to mind the evasion. “Good to know you’re not wasting all your time on Queen anymore.” She said nothing, and after a moment he looked back down at the pad. “I might hang on to this.”
“What are you going to do with it?” She asked, an eyebrow raised as he ripped one of the pages she’d littered with sketches free and tucked it into his pocket.
“Might hang it at my desk,” he answered flippantly, then was heading for the door. “Get some rest before you head over to that manor, Laurel. The Queens’ security isn’t letting anybody else in the rest of the night.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Dad.” When he’d left she dropped back onto the couch and picked the legal pad back up, gazing at the symbol she’d attempted to recreate. Then she set it aside. She had a far more conclusive lead in the polygraph now to try and figure out the truth about Oliver.
And what if her suspicion was right? What then? What did she do? It was those questions that plagued her once she finally crawled into bed, and morning came quicker than she expected what with all her tossing and turning. It was now or never.
“Good morning, Miss Lance.” It was Oliver’s bodyguard who let her into the manor, and she offered a smile in return.
“Good morning. Is Oliver in?”
“He’s in his room. I can show you up there.”
“Thank you, but I- uh, I know the way,” she replied, casual as she could make it.
Mr. Diggle nodded once. “Right.” He left her to continue up the steps on her own.
Oliver was silhouetted by the window when she entered the room, tall and broad with his back facing her. She didn’t know if it was her own conviction influencing her or merely that pose that had him bearing such a resemblance to the Hood it was suddenly striking. Laurel drew in a breath before remarking in a purposefully light tone, “Rough party.” He turned to look at her then, and she elaborated, “My dad told me. Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he confirmed and even though she’d already known the answer Laurel couldn’t help some relief. Everything about Oliver and her feelings where he was concerned were so tangled and complicated, and until she got the truth from him she didn’t think she could begin to decipher them.
So it was time to take the plunge. She stepped forward, holding out the papers her father had dropped off the previous night. “These are your polygraph results. My father asked you if you'd ever been to Iron Heights. It's the prison where the vigilante saved me last week.” He didn’t react in any particular way other than a nod of acknowledgement, like it was something he’d heard about but hadn’t experienced. So Laurel pressed. “It's also where you and I went on our eighth grade field trip.” And now, she thought, she could just see the slightest bit of tension in his jaw, the widening of his eyes by just a fraction. “When you said that you had never been there, I thought maybe you were just nervous, or that you'd forgotten. But then I looked at your results, and there is a slight flutter in your answer to that question. And if you lied on one, you could have lied on others.”
Oliver was frowning now, face almost entirely closed off under the onslaught of her suspicion. But he didn’t provide a defense. No, it was her own words he threw back at her. “What happened to me being too selfish to be a masked crusader?”
“Oliver!” She wasn’t sure what stung more, the cold tone he used with her or the realization that she truly had hurt him. “I saw your scars .”
“Do you want to know why I don't talk about what happened to me there? Because if people knew—if you knew...you'd see me differently. And not as some vigilante guy. As damaged,” he stated, voice quiet and hoarse. It was like a transformation had taken place before her eyes, leaving Ollie looking smaller, more broken. “I don't sleep. I barely eat. I can barely sign my name, let alone aim a bow and arrow.”
His eyes seemed to plead with her to understand. And Laurel wanted to reach out to him, offer him comfort. But she didn’t know, after what had happened in this room only the night before, if she could trust herself to be strong for him. Not like the way he’d held strong for her the night the Triad had come to her apartment; his careful, sure movements; the calm before they’d broken through the windows, and the steadiness of his embrace. All things he was telling her right now he shouldn’t be capable of.
What, then, was she supposed to think?
Instead she began slowly, “After last night...clearly we're still attracted to one another.” He waited, seemingly on a held breath to hear her verdict. “Oliver. Nothing can ever happen between us.”
“I know.”
And what else could she really say? It was what had to be said, what she should say, and how could she say anything else? With Oliver claiming to be a wreck of a man and Laurel a confused wreck of a woman these last five years, how could they expect to give things another try, another chance, and have them work? It was a fool’s hope, any and all attraction and feelings be damned.
She still couldn’t help the feeling of regret as she again left Oliver standing there alone. But she stood by her words; nothing could ever happen between them as long as Oliver wasn’t ready. If he was telling the truth he was in no state for a relationship, and if he was lying Laurel could not do that to herself, not again.
Just before she reached her car, her phone started buzzing and she paused on the Queen’s drive to check the caller ID.
“Dad, what’s up?”
“Laurel, listen. I- I had some of the guys look at that paper of yours, the tattoo—”
“Dad, that was for a client ,” she groaned, casting a guilty look at the manor behind her and thanking her good sense for at least keeping things anonymous. If she’d been thinking clearly she wouldn’t have let her father take the drawing at all but she’d been so distracted by the polygraph.
“Honey you can be mad at me all you want, but this is important, alright? The boys in Organized Crime are telling me it’s a symbol for the Bratva. The Russian mob.”
“The mob?” She didn’t recognize her own voice for how faint it sounded. Laurel placed a hand on the hood of her car to steady herself.
“Yes. So I’m begging you, Laurel, begging —don’t take this case. Whatever your client saw, whatever they’re involved in, you need to get yourself as far away from it as possible, you understand me? Laurel?”
“I- I can’t believe this, I…” She was staring out at the expansive grounds but wasn’t seeing any of it, instead lost in the image her father’s words had created: Oliver, connected to the mob. How could that be? Of all the secrets she’d thought he might have been hiding, this was nowhere on the list. It couldn’t be true.
“I’m coming down to the station.” She needed to see it, with her own eyes. Then she’d have to decide…something. “Talk to you soon.”
But though she got in her car, she didn’t immediately leave. Laurel gripped the key tightly in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. She was at once anxious and terrified to get to the precinct. If Oliver’s tattoo matched the symbol the police showed her, what did it mean for him, and what did she do about it?
There was a light rapping on her window and Laurel jolted in her seat with a gasp. But it was only Mr. Diggle standing by her door, and when she turned the car on and rolled down the window he asked, “Everything alright, Miss Lance? No car trouble?”
“No. Uh, no, I just had to take a call. Thank you for checking.” She did her best to plaster a pleasant smile on her face.
“Just doing my job,” he replied, taking a step back to allow her the space. Laurel began the drive away from Queen Manor yet again, though her eyes continually darted to the rearview mirror, watching the house and John Diggle watching her until they disappeared around a bend.
She should hate Oliver Queen, she should run and stay away from him; everything seemed to be telling her. But had Laurel found the real reason Oliver had tried so hard to push her away?