Far From Paradise

Nothing to Lose

. . .

Summary: The bombing of The Glades changed everything. No one could stay the same after the world they knew shattered before their eyes. Post S1.

Note: The concept that this story originated came from a short character arc of the Oliver Queen character in season 9 of Smallville, the idea of the downfall of a hero post-tragedy and the recovery. I've been outlining this story pretty meticulously since the finale and after outlining it all summer, I've got the start ready to share. It'll come in 4 installments, with, the second up by the end of this week with any luck at all.

. . .

"There is greater darkness than the one we fight, it is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way. The war we fight is not against powers and principalities; it is against chaos, and despair. Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril we can never surrender. The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us, we know only that it is always born in pain."

-William Faulkner

The steps of the courthouse weren't an unfamiliar place for Oliver. Still, he walked away, fighting his way through a crowd of flashing camera lights and reporters pressing in close. He stumbled, and felt Digg's eyes burning into his back, as he offered a hand to help.

He didn't need Digg to tell him, or to judge him for coming to the sentencing still drunk from the night before. Oliver knew it.

Oliver knew he was damning himself with the decisions he was making.

"C'mon Oliver," Digg said, seeing the car pull up in front of the street. "Go home, sleep it off."

"And what? It'll all be better in the morning?" Oliver retorted sarcastically.

It wasn't going to bring Tommy back, it wasn't going to change that his mother had been a participant in the Glades Genocide…it wasn't going to change the fact that his father asked him for one thing, made one request of him before he killed himself—to fix his mistakes; and all he did was pile onto the mistakes himself.

All he'd done was make it worse.

The air was dense with humidity and the bellow of a hundred voices at once calling his name, and he felt a desperation for the solitude of the island. It was an overwhelming ache of failure that was consuming him every single day.

"Oliver, Oliver!"

He brushed against microphones and bodies, and flashing cameras as Digg propelled them through the crowd, pausing for a second when he caught a glimpse of a face he knew. James Slater, he was the one who broke the story six years ago when he and Tommy were busted with cocaine. James Slater, who also ousted him to the gossip rags each of the three times he cheated on Laurel.

It felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn't seen or spoken to Laurel since Tommy's funeral, where she told him that she was leaving to spend some time with her mother. It was probably for the best, being around him wasn't good for anyone.

"With Merlyn out of the picture, it's coming up all aces for you Queen." Slater shoved his camera in Oliver's face. "What's next for you?"

It was like all the frustration and anger that had boiling inside of him for a week erupted to the surface. Slater stepped in his path, and before Digg could intervene-protecting him from his temper again-Oliver hit him and sent the reporter sprawling in the sidewalk. The masses descended on them, and Digg let loose with a string of obscenities.

It was with a moment of slackened astonishment that Oliver watched for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut in horror and realizing he might have crossed the line—again. His temper had gone unchecked and he'd lost himself in his rage. Any guilt that he might have felt though was replaced by an overwhelming feeling of...relief.

It had felt good.

"Damn you, Oliver!" He pushed Oliver toward the car, shaking off the throng of people as he yanked the door open and shoved him in. "Go home. Stay there!"

Digg slammed the door shut, and banged on the hood to tell the driver to get out of there.

. . .

In her oversized polka-dotted armchair, Felicity Smoak curled her legs underneath her, and wrapped her hands around her coffee, trying to shirk her glance away from the TV and not being entirely able to do so.

She didn't think that she would ever feel as badly as she had when the ceiling of Verdant trembled over her head, or that she would feel as heart achingly sick as when she realized that for all their effort they had miscalculated Malcolm Merlyn with his second bomb in the subway; but then she started turning on the news the first night, unable to crawl into her bed and sleep knowing that a third of the city was homeless—or worse.

It looked like they were profiling a war zone.

For the first few days, she found herself crying at the images of the battered, the beaten, and the hopeless. She'd watched as they pulled bodies from the rubble, a man running from a collapsing building with a bloodied child in his hands desperately crying for the help that had yet to come.

So she watched, and she wondered, and she tried to figure out where they had gone so wrong. All morning she'd been afraid to turn on her TV. She knew that it was the first day of proceedings in the state's case against Moira Queen.

Felicity glanced at her coffee table and the subpoena to testify that she hadn't opened glared back at her. It had been haunting at her for three days now, and she knew that there would be no out from that—not even Oliver could rescue her from it, and she would have to answer.

What was she thinking anyways? Oliver certainly wasn't…he was barely taking care of himself these days, not that she could blame him. In one fell swoop, he'd lost his mother and his best friend.

Lately, it even seemed like he'd lost his purpose.

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, she picked up her remote and turned on the news.

Outside of the Starling City Courthouse this morning, we were treated to another example of the Queens' arrogance. Following his mother's hearing, Oliver Queen was departing the court house when he assaulted a questioning reporter…

"Oh Oliver," Felicity whispered, shaking her head as she watched the reporter hit the concrete hard and lay there without moving.

It wasn't good.

She picked the remote back up and muted the volume, watching as he stood there after the altercation, Digg shoving him into the black sedan.

Oliver had been falling apart, and at first she had blamed it on his grief. Regardless of anything and everything that had progressed between him and Tommy Merlyn, she knew—losing Tommy had torn Oliver apart. But it had become so much more than that.

He was drinking for the record, shut down the club, and as far as she could tell he closed himself up inside of Verdant with the intention of drinking himself to death, punishing himself thoroughly because apparently he'd decided that every last unfolding here had been his fault, some error of judgment on his part.

A moment passed and —in that moment the station had replayed the altercation three times—she heard a knock on her door.

She sighed, getting up slowly and unlocking her door. As she opened it, she realized that again she had forgotten to look through the peephole. The news was warning people to use all due caution, but her head was still in a cloud.

Felicity decided that she would get dressed and brave the streets to go to the mansion. Someone needed to talk to Oliver, it couldn't go on like this. It just couldn't.

"Oliver!"

She was stunned when she pulled open her door and found him standing there. As he stood there, she grabbed his hand and pulled him in the door, slamming it shut behind him.

"Oliver, you were just on the news."

"I know." Oliver said, pulling off the sunglasses and folding them his eyes red and bloodshot, with dark circles below his eyes.

He ran his hand through his hair.

"You're not looking so hot," Felicity said, "You know, for you that's…"

Her voice trailed off, losing it somewhere in the middle. Oliver looked like a shell. It scared her to see him like this. This was not her hero.

"I've got coffee." She said, "Are you hungry? Have you consumed anything that's less than twenty percent alcohol the last few days? Because…because you should."

He shook his head, not even remarking upon the rebuke in her tone.

"I won't be here long."

Felicity felt her face fall as he said it, and forced herself to smile approvingly even though she thought she'd like to cry.

"Good. I'm sure Thea needs you back at home, this must be hard for her."

"That's why I'm here." Oliver said, "I know that you worry."

"You have no idea." Felicity said, relieved that he actually saw it. That he wasn't on his own, that she cared about him—that she would be whatever he needed, she was in his corner.

"Don't." Oliver said simply. "You're a very intelligent, capable woman, Felicity and I'm sorry that I got you entangled in my web. I can't apologize enough for that."

"I don't want an apology, Oliver." Felicity said, anxiously turning her hands over, finally crossing her arms just to try and hide her anxiety. "I want—I want you to be okay again, you're not—this person you're being right now isn't the Oliver I know."

"No." Oliver put his sunglasses back on, "Your naïveté is startling sometimes."

He smiled slowly, "The Oliver you think you know—I'm not that guy. It's over."

"So what are you going to do?" Felicity asked, feeling tears burn behind her eyes at his stinging words. "What about your sister?"

"She'll be fine." Oliver said, "Walter will return from London, he'll look after her. She knows him better than me anyways."

"I'm not a very reliable guy." Oliver lingered at the door, seeming to realize that she wasn't done. He seemed to recognize that she wasn't going to let this end so easily.

"You're not being yourself Oliver!" Felicity tried to plead with him as he turned his back on her. "I know you, you're a hero! You're better than this."

"I'm a damaged billionaire with a bow and arrow and too much time on my hands." Oliver said with his hand on the doorknob, a tone of self-derision evident in his voice.

"Goodbye Felicity."

. . .

Digg let go of an exasperated breath of air when he watched Detective Quentin Lance walk his way. Of all the detectives in the Metro division of this city, how was it that this man was dispatched every time Oliver did something incredibly stupid.

He was sure that there were other cops that would love to collar Oliver.

Getting Oliver out of this situation wasn't going to be an easy task. The part of it that was eating away at him though, he wasn't even sure that Oliver cared anymore. Some days, it felt like Oliver was just itching to throw away this life he had, that there was nothing worth fighting for anymore.

Digg had been sure that Oliver was stronger than that, that he knew the parameters of the mission better. But now, even he was finding himself doubting Oliver. You couldn't make someone believe a mission, and he didn't know how to re-light the fire of self and purpose that Oliver had lost along with the Glades.

James Slater had been shipped off to the Starling City Hospital, writhing in pain. Digg hadn't seen someone suffer so badly since his convoy on his second tour ran over an IED. They had enough problems without Gloria Allred dragging Oliver into court for a civil suit, never mind some sort of assault charges levied by a detective who hated him.

He didn't know what to do with Oliver. God knew, he understood how it felt to lose a friend, to stand there helplessly and watch that light go out of their eyes—it felt a lot like watching Oliver go off the rails now. It was just going to be a far slower death than Tommy's if they couldn't shake Oliver out of it.

"Detective." Digg regarded Detective Lance cautiously, wondering if he'd had Oliver lo-jacked so he'd have the pleasure of arresting him at any given opportunity.

He wouldn't put it past him.

"Mr. Diggle." Detective Lance sighed, and shook his head. "This is a hell of a problem, isn't it?"

It almost sounded akin to sympathy in the detective's voice, and Digg proceeded cautiously.

"Slater shoved the camera in his face, he was just trying to regain his personal space and get to the car." Diggle said, "It was an accident. I know your heart isn't exactly bleeding for him, but it's been a hard time. The paparazzi have been hard to shake."

"Hm…" Lance nodded his head once, scrubbing his hand over his face.

He gestured to his squad car. "Talk with me, will you?"

"I can do that." Digg said.

"I take it Mr. Queen is not here." Lance said, "Would I be correct in that assessment Mr. Diggle?"

"I weighed the consequences of my charge being mobbed in the craze or being safely removed from the equation." Diggle said, "It's what I'm paid for."

"My plate's gotten heavy the last week, Mr. Diggle—I'm sure you watch the news like the rest of us." Lance said, "The city is filled with anger, and they're crying out for blood. They're running out of options though. Moira Queen and Malcolm Merlyn are being tried for their crimes, and regardless of the punishment that our justice system doles out—they are not going to be satisfied. We have the National Guard patrolling the streets, and they still aren't safe enough—people want blood."

"I understand." Diggle said, pulling off his sunglasses and looking down at the Detective. "If you don't mind me asking, why would you of all people choose to put your job on the line to help Mr. Queen."

"He didn't kill anyone." Lance's stance seemed to waver, as if conceding to the fact that all these years of blaming Oliver for his daughter's death had been wrong. "I don't like to say it, but for what it is…he seems like a better man than the one I knew."

"He was." Diggle said darkly, worried that the piece of Oliver that brought him to the man he was today was being chipped away at, barely a presence to be seen.

Dissolving in the pool of liquor, and rage, and self-hate.

"Children shouldn't be paying for the sins of their parents." Lance said with a slight nod of his head.

Diggle turned away from the detective, pulling his ringing cell phone from his pocket. He didn't know why he was surprised to see Felicity phoning. Certainly she had seen the progression of bad to worse on the news, and just as surely she was sitting in her apartment, on the border of hysteria after what was being broadcast.

God, she worried. He wondered as he answered his phone, if Oliver would ever realize that the girl was in love with him.

"Digg!" Felicity's voice gasped into his ear, and for a moment he thought she was in danger.

"Felicity, are you okay?"

"Oliver was just here." She said, sounding like she'd been crying.

He couldn't blame her, Oliver had that effect on most of the people in his life lately.

Laurel had left the city after Tommy's funeral and he'd heard her screaming at him from well into the opposite wing of the house before that, Thea seemed to have given up trying; resorting to burrowing away, licking her own wounds and pain.

Roy Harper was still missing.

She needed the supervision that Walter Steele's return would give her, the security of a parent to protect her. It really was for the best that Oliver asked him to return, because he wasn't in a place to take care of himself, never mind a hurting girl.

Farther from home, closer…

Digg shook it off, not quite able to place the saying. He heard his brother's voice in his ear like a dull buzz, unable to finish the thought.

"He left. He was supposed to go home." Digg said in a grunt of frustration as he looked for a cab to flag down.

"I don't think—" Felicity's voice caught in her throat. "I don't think he's going home again, Digg."