He's sitting in an armchair, mind blank and stomach knotted with frustration – nothing new lately – when he hears the subtle vibration of his Smartphone abandoned on the crystal coffee table at his right. There's something in his head screaming, so relived, that it's Felicity, that she changed her mind, that she wants to give him a chance to make it right. And there's a little voice in his head, half scared, murmuring that it's Felicity, that she changed her mind, that she wants to give him a chance to fall back into their well-established pattern in which he's the villain that breaks her heart and could never deserve her even if he lived a million years.

The screen flashes another name, though, and it comes out of his lips with a sort of gentle reverence, "Laurel," because she appears just when he needs her, even when he doesn't know he does.

"Ollie, I need your help, right now. Please." The urgency in her voice is so clear that he's out of his armchair and free from his cocoon of gloom in a matter of seconds. The address she tells him to drive to is not familiar and he abandons the car into the first parking spot he can find to walk rushed to the entrance of the building.

Laurel has her arms crossed under her breast, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stand wearing her gym clothes. There's a strand of hair falling in the air as she keeps her head slightly tilted. She's wearing them in a high bun, which instantly brings back the image of her at fifteen, when the most exotic thing in the world for him were her lips covered in a strawberry-scented lip gloss with the faintest color of pink and he was left silently wondering what it tasted like.

Her head shoots up and she smiles at him, but the recognition of the fact that she's nervously waiting for him in a shelter for abused women stops him from smiling back. All he can do is ignore the distrustful look he gets from a woman attaching a flier to the bulletin board and reach out his hand to cup Laurel's cheek, incapable of comprehending what could drive such a strong woman to a place like this and yet already planning a fitting revenge.

"Laurel, what—"

All his worry is met with the same urgency she showed on the phone, and instead of giving him any explanation she ignores his hand and takes him by the wrist to drag him along the hallway to a modestly large room that smells like linoleum and sweat.

Oliver finds himself in front of a group of about fifteen women, and behind the aggressiveness or the blankness he can see the eyes of a puppy that's been kicked one too many times. They are all of different ages, race and social extraction but all of them, one way or another, have been badly hurt, he knows.

Laurel walks behind him murmuring a 'thanks' before stopping right at his side.

Oliver steals a look around, noticing the naked walls only decorated by a few fliers stating the days when it's possible to take part in self-defense lessons, an old bench pushed at the side and a little window with glasses that won't let outsiders see inside the room. It takes him a moment more to realize the red-haired girl sitting in the far corner of the room is not settled in a chair but a wheelchair. The way she looks at him seems to weight him down, calculate his value and the liability that comes with him. It's a look he's gotten used to, especially lately. It's almost a déjà-vu and it's uncomfortable. All of it is.

He's seen vulnerability before but not this close, not while being just Oliver Queen, not when he cannot repair himself behind the suit and the mask, and it all feels overwhelming for a moment, and unsettling.

He should have known this wasn't about her. Very little in Laurel's life is about her.

She is full of quiet energy, the elegance with which she stands in front of those whom – turns out – are her disciples gives away years spent practicing gymnastic and classical ballet though the long muscles in her arms don't speak of fine arts but of resistance.

"I'm sorry for the delay," Laurel says, pressing her hands together, like in a prayer. "Our usual volunteer has been held elsewhere but my friend Oliver offered to take his place," she explains making him turn to give her a quizzical look. "He's a good guy but he can benefit from having his ass kicked every now and then," she adds with a smile, taking a peek at his face, "so don't feel too guilty about it."

The joke seems to have a positive effect on the tense atmosphere, which relaxes.

It is strange to be the good guy, and not the liar, the killer, the one forever trapped on an island doing his best to survive though it might mean not letting another do the same. It's even stranger because it's Laurel to say so, the one person that has every reason in the world to resent him, the one he's tried – more or less unconsciously - to cut out so many times he lost count; because it was easier, because if you don't have to look at the one precious thing you could never protect from yourself then you can like yourself a bit better and hope you can have what everyone else does. Instead, Laurel is right next to him, never far even when oceans are between them, all compassionate strength and smelling like what he learned years ago is magnolia.

"You're not here to become a master in martial arts, you're here to bring out your survival mindset," she starts, the smiles gone, replaced by an intensity in her eyes that he can easily recognize. "Your attacker will know that he can't fuck with you. You'll learn to turn your fear into the desire to disrupt your attacker by any means necessary, which means gouging eyes, clawing, yelling, and biting. Or simply taking a handy object like a sharp pencil and driving it through a vital area, like the throat." Her voice hardens when she clarifies, "This is not about fighting pretty or fair," and unexpectedly she takes a few steps , standing between her scholars to look directly into the eyes of the paralyzed girl, "An attacker will pick you because he will think you weaker. He will select you among others due to his perception that you won't be able to fight back and your job is to convince him that he is dead wrong."

She's so good at what she does, so confident in what she's saying that Oliver wonders how long she's been doing this. How long he was in the dark of all the things she does to keep the city safe, the people safe. After awhile the city has downgraded until it's just a word he seems to use to explain why he does whatever he does, but Laurel is still rooted in it, so completely.

He fights the criminals, kills the bad guys, but what about the good ones? Who thinks about the good people wrecked by them, damaged and scared and forgotten?

"I am here to show you that you can do it," Laurel says, turning on her feet to look each one of them in the eyes, "that they better be scared of you, because they are the ones that are going to go down." And he can see his answer right in front of his eyes, as clear as day.

"Oliver and I are going to show you a few moves that will prove useful if needed." She moves and he mimics her, stopping right in front of her. "We'll start with the easiest cases." It's been two months since they started training together but it already comes natural to know what she expects from him, so when she reaches out her arm he wrap his fingers around her wrist.

"In case someone tries to grab you, wrap your own hand around his wrist so that you're controlling them and turn to their side making sure to keep your forearm lined with theirs," as she does so, Oliver's arm is pulled until it's straight and then forced to bend in the opposite direction, making him let go of his hold on her.

They repeat the move at different speeds before letting them try to mirror her action against Oliver with Laurel right next to them, correcting their positions on occasion. Sometimes Oliver let slip a "You're doing fine" and "Good" to soothe their nerves.

"Once you're there," she says, sliding back into the move, "You're gonna drive your elbow up to his face." Her movement is so fast he sees her elbow even before he can feel the air hitting his skin but her movement is calculated and they are so well attuned to each other that the doubt she's going to actually hit him doesn't touch him. "Aim for the chin, that will make him step back and you'll have a chance to hit him on the nose or slap his ear."

"It always works like this, when people are in pain they lose their capability to focus on anyone else."

And Oliver feels the slight of shame at hearing that. Lately, he can't think about anything but getting back with Felicity so that they'll have a new opportunity to break up once again in a week. He missed all the tiny seeds Laurel planted, and pretended not to know the thread Thea is constantly walking on, because all that mattered to him was Felicity, Felicity that says that she loves him with all she's got, but can only do so if he rises to her expectations, if he puts the decision about the future of the son he was never there for into her hands, if he erases the five years that made him who he is so that he can be someone he never was. Because he was never transparent, nor brave enough to face his messes, and if those five years are suddenly eradicated from his mind he'd be what he was, someone no woman could love and stick by through all the shit he put them through, let alone Felicity. No woman, but Laurel. Because she saw more than he did, because she thought him more than he was; and though he is conscious now of how undeserving he was of her love, she never let him doubt his worth.

He's so distracted by his train of thought he doesn't move fast enough and ends up being hit on the face by a middle age woman who covers her mouth with both hands, mortified when she sees a trace of blood.

"I'm so sorry," she says, almost trembling, "I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry," and in her voice he can recognize the hint of fear, and he can see the years of abuse slouching her shoulders though she's trying to shake them off, so he offers a smile and reassures her that "You were really good, I think you'll learn in no time," in the softest tone he can manage.

In his stomach there's the burning need to beat the shit out of whoever hurt these women, but there's another need, one he could only feel this strongly towards those close to him. Thea, and Felicity, and his mom. And Laurel—Laurel, back in the days when he knew what he could be or could not be for her, when he didn't know where her strength and will could reach.

Maybe this was one of the reasons why he pulled himself away, because this woman that could bring herself back from the deepest blackness, that could save herself from addiction and rancor, didn't need him to save her, not the way Felicity did. Felicity who was bubbly and luminous and looked up at him like he could command the sun. Felicity that looked at him like he was her hero. Felicity that can't bear to see the man he is, the flaws he has, the humanity and the weakness and the open wounds always threatening to bleed him dry, that need caring and understanding that makes space in his bed for the ghosts that follow him in the shadows. Laurel could name them all, those ghosts, one by one. And Laurel does not mind them, does not ignore them. She does not let him ignore them.

They go ahead with the lesson, he smiles much more than he did in the last weeks, if only to make Laurel's disciples feel at ease. And when they leave he feels like they're taking something good with them, something he gave and cannot lose. He looks over his shoulder at Laurel. She's holding a girl by the shoulder and smiling reassuringly. It seems to push a button and something sparks alive inside the girl's eyes.

Laurel looks beautiful and delicate like a ballerina, but she's a pillar that will hold back the sky from falling down.

"I can never get rid of you, can I?" someone asks, in an annoyed tone, making him turn. The girl in the wheelchair is frowning behind her glasses looking at the entrance of the room. There's a man standing on the threshold in a three-piece suit and a semi-bored look on his face. It takes a moment for Oliver to attach the face to the name.

"In your defense, that's not for lack of trying," he concedes, looking around the room and meeting Laurel's eyes. She's already in front of him, quietly assessing the man and smiling in the way she does when she has an accused at the dock and she's about to tear him apart.

"May I help you, Mister…?"

Oliver doesn't doubt that Laurel knows who he is but she's subtly questioning his need for power rather than his identity.

"Wayne," he says, all good manners and courtesy, "Bruce Wayne. Forgive my intrusion, I was in the neighborhood and I wondered if Barbara would accept a ride home."

"No, he was not in the neighborhood. He's playing the part of the devoted guardian and sometimes I let him just so he'll be quiet for awhile," the girl says, moving her wheelchair forward. The muscles of her arms stretch and Oliver realizes that her upper body is in great shape. "This is Miss Lance," she adds, looking up at Laurel, "Miss Lance, this is what I inherited from my father. Bruce Wayne. I wish dad had left me something less disturbing, like a genetic defect, but no such luck," she sighs, looking unfazed. It's clear she doesn't fear him, and Laurel's eyes become soft again, "And this is Oliver Queen."

She didn't give any indication of knowing him up until now, and Oliver realizes he had misunderstood. She's not there because she's scared. It's like she has everything assessed and Bruce Wayne is merely slowing her down by hovering over her.

"Mr. Queen, I believe we've already met during a fundraising," he says, shortly, shaking his hand in a very business-like manner.

"Yes, we have."

"But I've never had the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Lance. Laurel, isn't it?" This time around his hold is longer, and his expression focused. "I think I saw you on the news. I admire those who fight for justice like you do. You're from another league entirely."

Oliver tries to press his lips into a smile, though he can barely keep a neutral expression. Bruce Wayne has a reputation, and two eyes, and the pleasantries are getting too long.

When minutes later Wayne and Barbara leave the place, he stares openly at Laurel. She places a hand at the base of her neck, tries to loosen the muscles with the pressing of her fingertips. He can see the fabric of her white shirt sticking to the curve of her back.

"Thanks," she smiles, turning around and sliding down against the grey wall of the room, sitting down next to her abandoned bag to take a bottle of water and hand it towards him.

Oliver's fingers close around it and he sits next to her.

"So, this is what you do?" he asks, taking a sip of water.

"This is what we do. Help people," she says, offering a brilliant smile. There's her heart in the grey room where they're sitting, in this ramshackle place smelling like dust and sweat. Laurel puts her heart in the strangest places. She once put it in his hands.

"I'm not helping much, lately," he admits, "I forgot they even existed." He says, staring into her eyes like into a mirror.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, bewildered, "You are a hero. You keep this city safe."

"I punch people, but you're the one that helps them. I catch the bad guys, and then I go home and forget about the good ones. You don't… Look at you," he says, looking at every inch of her, "There's not a part of you that you won't put on the line for them."

"You are on that line, too. Next to me, every day." She says, adamant.

"It's not the same thing. Helping them, knowing their names, it's too hard. I can't do that."

"Because if you let them get close they'll see things you don't want them to?" she asks, with the inflection of someone that already knows the answer to their question, "Because you think those battered parts are too ugly to love?" she asks again. "There are people out there that feel safe because the Green Arrow has their back. He's their hero… I do what I do because I know you're there with me, Ollie. You have my back. I jump from buildings knowing that you'll catch me. I know the man you are and I know you'll catch me."

"Of course, I'll catch you," he says in a murmur, "Always." The words are heavy to tell but he must, because if there's something true about him that's it. If something's true about him, it's how much she's a part of him as his own blood. They share the same roots and the same memory of a better time. They share the same heart, the risks and purposes and blood type and longest nights.

"I know," she says, "It makes me feel safe," she adds, leaning against the wall and shifting her eyes in front of her. He misses her eyes so acutely it feels harder to breathe. Because this woman that could bring herself back from the deepest blackness, that could save herself from addiction and rancor, feels safe because of him. Because of him, a man covered in open wounds, haunted by his ghosts, occasionally lost but never to her.

#

When Laurel dies the pain is not blinding as he thought it would be. Because his mind shifts back to wondering if he died too.

Sometimes he catches himself absently pressing his fingertips on a vein, trying to catch his own heartbeat. Only then, only in that short moment the truth resurfaces, that she's gone and he's stuck here, alive and without her.

He's stuck on the island again, and he can't find a way out.

The phone call comes eight days after her funeral. He's sitting in an armchair, numb like someone has emptied out his heart using a teaspoon. He looks at the screen, feels the seconds pass slowly and presses the phone to his ear with the only purpose of getting away from his own mind.

"Mr. Queen," the woman says, "I'm Ada Lopez, the director of the Star City Abused Women Centre. I was hoping we could talk about the schedule of your engagement with us."

"What?" her words do not make sense, but nothing does since Laurel's gone.

"I beg your pardon. I thought you knew. Miss Lance left your name as replacement in case she was… unable to complete her self-defense class…"

He does not want to do it, he can't do what she did and yet her heart is still in that grey room that smells like dust and sweat and he drags himself there to find a spark of her in the eyes of her disciples.

At the end of the lesson he slides down and sits where he sat with her the last time, opens a bottle of water and drinks a sip, and turns his head to remember her sitting next to him with a smile on her pretty face.

"This is what we do. Help people," she told him that day, and she made sure that she'd remind him even when she wasn't around to do so.

It's her way of telling him that he can do this, he can keep fighting. He can know their names and not die because of it.

He swallows the knot in his throat, ignores the tears falling on his face, and takes another gulp of water just to have something to occupy his mouth with so that he won't have to growl with the pain of her hands patching up the wound on his open chest.

#

They shoot him in the middle of the day as he leaves a hash house he stopped by to grab a bite. It's stupid, a stray bullet from friendly fire, and the first thing that crosses him mind – and the last before everything goes black – is that he found his way out of the island. He can go back to Laurel now.

He goes under surgery and survives it because his body does what his will won't. Anesthesia knocks him out for hours. Every now and then he comes out of it for brief moments. They are all there when he does, his sister, John, Felicity. Even Captain Lance.

During the night, when visitors are not allowed, he sees her, too. Laurel, prettier and more luminous than ever. He can't say a word for fear his voice will break the illusion, just blinks away the tears that threaten to spill so that the image of her will not be blurred, but he dozes off no matter how hard he tries not to.

When they discharge him, two days later, the doctor has a list of recommendations, tells him to come back to have a check-up in a week so they'll make sure the wound is closing properly and there's no infection. Tells him he's a lucky man, because they did not have the blood he needed for the transfusion, since A-negative is such a rare type, but a private association sent a blood bag just on time.

#

He tries looking into the private association the doctor talked about, but he comes out of it empty handed. It a little centre in Gotham City that usually provides food for the homeless, shelter for teens escaped from abusive homes, support for elderly people in hospitals. The man running the place looks at him without a hint of recognition.

The companies that fund them are small business, like restaurants and such. Some of them are anonymous and he has no way to trace the source. Maybe it's his inability to fully trust someone, unless they fight with him, but he thinks it's suspicious that someone would choose to donate money without the benefit of a tax deduction.

He sits in a café, cup of coffee hot and steaming in front of him as he stares through the glass on the other side of the street, uselessly trying to catch a glimpse of someone he knows, someone that would care if he lives. Trying is completely fruitless but when he stands to go away, he turns around to see the image of a familiar face on the TV screen.

Bruce Wayne is standing in a pristine black tuxedo, looking prouder and mightier than his 6-feet. Two drinks are in his hands, on top of the ice cubes of one of them sits a maraschino cherry. On the bottom of the screen there's a blue strip and it says Wayne Charity Dinner Gala. He can see the lips of the man moving but the TV is muted. Oliver walks to the counter to ask the waitress to raise the volume.

"Who's the lucky lady at your arm, tonight," the journalist asks, because there's always a different lucky lady at his arm and it's never the same, which is why they don't bother much to show her face, unless the relationship passes the second date.

"I'm the lucky man. I had to work a lot to have her company. One might say there was blood to spill," he says with a chuckle.

"Oh, so she's a hard catch?"

Oliver can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, must strain to hear his words over the chattering and the fear he's imagining things because it would make life more bearable.

"She's another league entirely."

#

"Mr. Wayne is out of town," they say. "Mr. Wayne is in a meeting, I'll tell him to call you as soon as possible," they assure him. "Mr Wayne had an urgent matter to attend to," they inform him.

Three months later, Oliver secures himself a place to his table during a fundraising dinner The man smiles pleasantly at him from the opposite side.

"Mr. Queen, what a coincidence," he says, pouring himself some white wine, "I was just about to call you."

"I'm sure you were," Oliver smiles back.

Brue Wayne slips easily into the empty chattering around him, but curiosity is unavoidable especially in such formal affairs and a middle aged man rolling an untouched cigar between his fingers.

"I don't see the lovely young lady you brought with you the last time," he grins, "Fling's already over?"

Wayne answers the question with a cryptic smile, but he does not indulge the man's curiosity, instead he asks "Is that a Cohiba Behike? I heard they only manufactured 100 pieces in…2005?"

"2006," the man corrects him, launching himself into a heated discussion of the quality of cigars. To Oliver it's clear that Wayne said the wrong year only to have a hook to latch him on the subject of his choosing.

The dinner proceeds with the usual chattering that comes with this kind of event. When their tablemates are engaged in talks or dancing on the floor to the live music, Oliver stares openly and for a long time at the man in front of him. Bruce does not avoid his eyes at all, like he's letting him assert his value, almost challenging him to find a fault in him. He's offered plenty in his life, and yet Oliver can smell the stink of loss on him. Under the sartorial tuxedo, he suspects, there's a man whose flash is been torn and chewed.

Bruce Wayne is playing the part much better than he did when he came back.

"I think I speak for everyone here when I say we appreciate your interest in Gotham, but you're quite far from Star City, he comments way too casually.

"Yeah, but I think there's something about this place I could… love."

It doesn't escape Bruce, the word choice, and he smiles knowingly, "I suppose love is the only good reason one can have."

The exchange doesn't lack a certain tension, but no one notices because they are alone at the table and theirs passes as one of the many business conversations men usually fall into.

"Gotham is beautiful," the dark billionaire adds.

"Absolutely," Oliver agrees, "If needed, I would do anything—"

"Thanks," Bruce interrupts him, "But we've got Batman, and it seems like he can manage fairly well. And he's got friends. The man is quite the lonely animal, but I trust the bat has found another bird to trust. Or so they say…" he explains. "I don't think there's any reason for you to worry over our city. We take very good care of it." There's a sort of territoriality in the straining of his voice, in his posture, though his manners are as polite as ever.

Oliver tightens the grip on his glass, nodding stiffly as he looks down to the golden liquid he swirls with a fluid movement of his wrist.

I'm flying.

I'm flying high like a bird

but my fluttering wings

can keep you from pulling me down.

"You didn't strike me as such a possessive man. They say it's a sign of insecurity," Oliver comments, trying to cover the bite of jealousy in his own voice. He came here to find out if Laurel is alive, if she's well. He thought he could be happy with just that. It turns out he's as egoist as ever when it comes to her.

"You always did strike me as such," the other says, "What do they say about that?" he asks with a smile.

Oliver's chortle is bitter, "I wouldn't know. I always leave the answering to my lawyer. Would you know a good one I can call?"

The polite smile falls off Bruce's face and he stares at him coldly, "I fear I can't help you with that. The only lawyer I talk to these days I only call for private reasons."

Oliver doesn't want to ask but the words tumble from his tongue before he can stop himself. "How private?" He can taste the blood in his mouth when he bites on his tongue. Idiot.

I promise

I promise myself not to slip back into old habits.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he says, with a bit of emphasis on the kissing part of his answer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd be remiss of my duties if I didn't ask my host for a dance," he says, standing from the table, leaving Oliver to mull over his every word. A nerve under his jaw pulling so hard it almost breaks.

'Cause heartbreak is savage, and love is a bitch.

#

Oliver drags himself inside his apartment. The sun has yet to rise. He peels the improvised bandage off his chest. They need to repair his suit and in the meanwhile he needs to rest. He's got a self-defence class to teach in the afternoon.

He steps in front of the mirror, taking his shirt off with little pain, he looks at his naked chest, at his open wound, at the blood emerging from it and presses his palm on it. It's Laurel's blood and he needs to keep it in, to feel it flow to the heart so that it will pump the life in him.

His sinewy stomach trembles. Every muscle tightens thinking of her, of her body so delicate and slender, cutting the air like a knife with her steely spine. Thinking of her and the way she cherished his scars and her scent of magnolia.

Maybe he imagined it all, maybe she's dead and he's feeding himself a lie so that he can do this, fight the fight she left him with. Maybe that bullet took him out and he's stuck in a limbo, where he's close to the one thing he needs the most and is condemned to never reach her.

Or maybe, he likes to think, maybe she is alive and fighting every night, just like he is, and they are still on that same line, together. And when she's done, and when she's saved every soul she can, she'll come back.

She'll come back, to give him back his own.

(heartbreak is savage, and love is a bitch)

The end.

Note: The song I used in this story is Love is a bitch by Two Feet. It's comics canon that Oliver and Dinah share the same blood type. In my mind Bruce Wayne was played by Tyler Hoechlin. I would have loved for Laurel to join Birds of Prey so I gave her that storyline myself, because Laurel Lance never needed Oliver Queen to be a hero.