"We're floating in reverse again my love

You're making a mess of things like you always do

We're running round in circles saying

hurtful words that we know aren't true"

CULLEN - 'Traipse'

.                                       .                                     .

Cali didn't recognise the woman plastered to Oliver's side straight away.

She was pretty, with her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and her lips painted a lovely, soft pink. There was something familiar about her, maybe something in the way she walked, the set of her shoulders, the way she didn't look entirely at ease as Tommy led her and Oliver into the dining room.

Cali hadn't been aware that he'd been dating anyone, actually. Not since Helena. So when the woman met her eyes with a warm and welcoming expression on her face, Cali narrowed her eyes. Her returning smile showed a little too much teeth to be casual.

"Ollie," Laurel greeted brightly, reaching out for a hug. "Hi!"

Oliver's smile was small, but genuine. "Hi." His eyes flickered over to Cali, and he nodded. "Cali, hi. I hope you and Tommy have patched things up?"

Tommy nudged her slightly and beamed. "Just in time for her to give me the best birthday present ever!" He motioned to the cabinet to Oliver's left, where a worn copy of The Great Gatsby sat innocuously. Book tabs poked out the sides, and the cover was faded, but it was a sight that was so intrinsically familiar that Cali's breath still got stuck in her throat, even now.

"That was our mom's," she explained to Oliver's date, who was looking a little lost. "Malcolm sent it away after she died, so I tracked it down and bought it back. Tommy's always loved The Great Gatsby."

The woman nodded once, something kind settling over her features, and then Oliver cleared his throat and said awkwardly, "Sorry, uh, I didn't introduce us. Cali, Laurel, this is McKenna Hall."

Laurel stepped forward. "We know each other from the courthouse," she said.

"How are you, Counsellor?" McKenna asked nicely, with a pleasant smile.

"I'm well, Detective."

There was something underlying there, Cali mused as Tommy made for the kitchen with his new bottle of alcohol, some kind of tension that might be from the courthouse but might also be related to Oliver. Because everything in this damn city revolved around Oliver, apparently.

McKenna immediately broke off to go look at some of the framed pictures, and Laurel went with her, leaving Cali with Oliver, who was looking decidedly distracted. "You alright?" Cali checked, moving closer to him so she didn't have to raise her voice and alert the other two. "Felicity and John are okay, right?"

Oliver blinked rapidly as he tried to shake off whatever strange tension was coiled around his muscles. "Yeah," he replied lightly, looping an arm around her shoulder and drawing her into a strange, one-armed side hug. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just...thinking."

"You? Thinking?" Cali gave a mock gasp. "It must be the end times."

Oliver's laugh was more of a snort, really, which was horribly endearing and made Cali's heart go all wobbly. "Yeah, yeah, you're a natural comedian."

"I should have my own show."

Oliver's face melted into something warm and unbearably fond as he squeezed her with most of his careful strength. "I'd be right there in the front row, every night, so you could heckle me for jokes," he promised.

And-

See, this Oliver wasn't good for Cali's health. This Oliver, who was bashful, who got shy and had a sweet tooth, who showed his soft underbelly and was just a boy. This Oliver, who the Hood couldn't touch and the shadows couldn't taint.

This Oliver, who was Cali's, and Cali's alone.

She grinned at him, beamed as brightly as she could, and completely forgot about the fact that he'd brought another woman to dinner here, completely forgot that he's apparently dating McKenna and has been for a while and he never said a word about it. Because he was still hers, in every way that mattered.

"Alcohol!" Tommy cheered loudly as he sashayed back into the room, carrying five glasses on, of all things, a bright yellow plastic cutting board. Cali quirked an eyebrow. "I don't have a tray," he said defensively. "I had to improvise."

Oliver dropped the side-hug so he could snag two of the glasses, handing one to Cali almost absently. McKenna, who'd come to stand at his other side, pursed her lips and looked between the two of them for a moment, but said nothing as Tommy offered her a glass of her own. Guilt simmered low in Cali's stomach as she purposefully forced herself one step closer to Laurel and Tommy, so as not to appear like she was encroaching on Oliver's and McKenna's relationship.

Because she was possessive, yes, but she'd seen what stealing someone's love could do. She wouldn't dare wish that on the innocent woman she barely knew.

"A toast," Tommy proposed, lifting his glass in the air, genuine happiness seeping from every pore. "To the first birthday that I have enjoyed in a long time." His eyes settled on Oliver and Cali's breath caught in her throat as pure and unconditional love flooded his expression. "I got my best friend back." Oliver held the gaze for a moment before dipping his chin and breaking eye contact, and Tommy turned to Cali. "I have finally seen my baby sister be the happiest she's ever been." Cali shook her head fondly, leaving Tommy free to turn his attention to Laurel. "And....I have figured out why poets have been in business for the last few thousand years."

Laurel pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Happy birthday, baby," she said quietly, and there was a heartfelt adoration in her voice. It was undeniable - Cali could feel the truth of it in the tongues of fire that danced over her ribcage - and something anxious inside her eased. Whatever complicated thing Laurel and Oliver had going on, Laurel did actually love Tommy.

After a round of cheers, Cali took a long drink and tried to pretend she wasn't blistering inside.

A knock at the door interrupted the mellow celebrations, and Laurel set her glass down with a breathy, "I think that's the food."

Oliver waited until she was out of earshot before muttering, "Oh thank God, she didn't cook."

"Amen," Tommy hummed into his drink.

How long, Cali wondered, until this was taken from her? This bubble of love and warmth and family, it was too precious, too...dangerous. A weakness that she couldn't afford. Because it would be so easy to lose herself to this, to forget that Malcolm was planning something terrible, so easy to forget that everything was so close to falling apart. So easy to forget the feeling of a gun in her hands, the smeared makeup, the bottom drawer in the kitchen.

How long until Cali sabotaged this too?

Laurel appeared in the entryway, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Cali's attention flickered to the figure looming over her friend's shoulder and something cracked in her left shoulder as her father nodded at Oliver and McKenna.

"Oliver," Malcolm greeted coolly.

A muscle in Oliver's jaw ticked. "Mr Merlyn," he returned with the same icy tone.

When Malcolm's eyes finally found hers, he managed a polite, "It's good to see you, Calissa."

Cali couldn't manage to force her ragged vocal chords to produce more than a strangled, "Go away," in response, and so she simply let his focus wash over to Tommy while sickness, hot and acidic, sat heavy at the base of her throat.

"I've been trying to get in touch with you," Malcolm said accusingly to Tommy, whose face had gone dangerously pale and whose anger was a simmering snake of liquid mercury slithering up Cali's inner arm.

Tommy's voice was low and dangerous when he asked, "What are you doing here, Dad?"

A strange smile and a small blue box, offered on a steady hand. "Happy birthday, Tommy." Somehow, Malcolm managed to make it sound like a warning.

Cali twitched forward, to move in between her father and brother and prevent the inevitable collapse of their feathering relationship, but Oliver's hand caught her bicep and he held her close to his side with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Tommy, in tandem with her movement, murmured a low, "Just give a second," and set his glass down on the side table, right beside The Great Gatsby before trailing Malcolm.

Oliver just barely caught the present the Malcolm tossed carelessly at him before both Merlyn men had disappeared out the door, leaving them in a terrible ringing silence.

Cali felt as though she was falling.

It was a well-known, predetermined, and objective fact that Malcolm liked Tommy the least out of his two children. Whether it was the serum bonding them together or something else entirely, Malcolm had always openly preferred Cali. He'd treated her...almost gently, before he'd abandoned them. In between the yelling, in between his fits of rage that left Tommy with welts and sad eyes, there'd been some kindness too.

And Cali had grown accustomed to that, which sounded downright awful - and this had been the contention point for a lot of her early-years arguments with her brother - but Tommy had grown used to it. That was just the way it was: Cali would always garner more of their father's positive attention, and Tommy was always the second thought.

(Coming second, even in this part of his life too. Never more important, never the one. If there really was a god, then He was a cruel and hateful being who Cali would happily drag into the pits of His own darkest creation if it meant her brother was happy and safe.)

So this should've been a safe space.

After the cemetery, after inviting him to her son's grave and hearing him talk about her being a mother to her dead child, she'd come tonight thinking it would be safe. Thinking that, for once, Tommy could have something that was his, that was happy, that might mend some of the things that she'd allowed to break.

Thinking, wishing, begging for one night where they could just be siblings who were having dinner with their friends, and nothing was wrong with the world.

Oliver's voice was quiet and soft around the edges as he murmured, "You alright?" His fingers, which a moment ago had been clasped tightly around her arm, had fallen loosely to the pulse point at her wrist. "Hey, guppy, talk to me."

"I'm fine," she said, and the words were...bubbly. Blurred. Like she was underwater. "No, it's-is Tommy-"

"Tommy's gonna be fine." Laurel, this time, with her unhappy expression schooled into a careful smile even as she stared out after her boyfriend. "I mean, Malcolm wouldn't do anything now, not when he knows we're all here and waiting."

Cali shook her head slowly, and Oliver's grip tightened a fraction, the touch burning into her skin. "You have no idea the things that Malcolm will do."

"Cali," McKenna said, and her tone of voice was all SCPD-bred authority. "If you think that he's going to hurt Tommy-"

Cali shook her head again, stronger this time, brows creasing. "No, no, but I just don't understand why."

"Because he's crazy?" Oliver offered, and a thread of golden feeling brushed Cali's ring finger before vanishing under her skin again.

She rewarded him with a small smile, even as her thoughts sped up again. "Why now?" She wondered. "Tommy has made it clear so many times that he wants nothing to do with our father. Malcolm has never been interested in our birthdays before, so why is he showing up like this now?"

A helpless glance at the people around her revealed that nobody else knew the answer either.

.                                        .                                      .

Tommy didn't know what the fuck he was feeling right now, but whatever it was scorched his insides so fiercely that he almost wished Cali would wave her hand and take it all away.

"We're about to eat," he hissed as he followed Malcolm out into the hallway, face flushed, heart rate launched directly skyward.

"I can't stay."

"Well that works out because you weren't invited."

Malcolm's expression was frozen into that foreign little half-smirk that he always seemed to wear, unruffled as he reached into the inner pocket of his blazer. "I'm being honoured by the Starling City Municipal Group. They're bestowing me with their annual Humanitarian Award."

Tommy scoffed, bitter and sad all at once. How could he have expected anything else? How could he have fooled himself into thinking that maybe, for once, his father was here for his son, and not for himself. Maybe he was here because it was Tommy's birthday, maybe he was here because Cali was here, maybe he was here because for some screwed up reason, he was lonely.

No. He was here because he was getting an award and he wanted to gloat.

"What," Tommy said meanly, "they ran out of actual humans to give it to?"

Blackened amusement settled somewhere in the abyss of Malcolm's eyes, humour that was entirely dead and rotting. "So like your sister you are," he mused thoughtfully, head tilting to one side as he studied Tommy intently. "She said something similar."

"So I'm your second choice? Thanks, Dad, that makes me feel so much better about you crashing my birthday dinner."

"I would like you to be there." Malcolm paused meaningfully, and then added almost as an afterthought, "If you could."

As if Tommy really had a choice. Malcolm expected him there, it was written in every crevice of his body. He thought Tommy was going to break, to crumble - he was so sure that Tommy didn't hate him for what he'd done to his children.

He swallowed down the pain, though, and settled on, "I am 100% certain that I'll be busy."

If he went to this event, if he had to watch his psychopath father be awarded for being a humanitarian while Tommy still wore the pretty scars from heavy fists, then he might just take that award and smash it over Malcolm's head.

Tommy wasn't a violent man, and he was steadfastly against murder, but he was his father's son, and if Malcolm was monstrous enough to unload his pain onto the shoulders of his eight year old son, then Tommy was monstrous enough to bounce some of that back.

Without waiting any longer, he moved back towards the open apartment door, moved back towards Laurel and Oliver and Cali who were waiting there. Who loved him. Who wouldn't hurt him like this.

A firm hand on his arm caught him mid-step and snapped him back to Malcolm's side, and Tommy's breath hitched as the sound of young Cali's crying echoed in his ears, the phantom ripples of stinging pain emanating from his back as he remembered a belt hitting his skin again and again and again and all he could think about, at eight years old, was that his mommy would never let him hurt like this if she wasn't dead.

"You might not believe this," Malcolm said in a low, desperate, and dangerous voice, oblivious to the panic and pain that was saturating Tommy's mind, "but all I ever wanted for you was happiness." A backhanded slap, a wedding ring splitting his lip, Cali refusing to let go of him until they reached Oliver's place and Moira was gathering them both up and cooing over the blood- "If it will allay this tension between us, I'll turn the switch back on."

As if Tommy needed the money, as if he needed the incentive, the bribe, to come crawling back to this man he called his father.

"Save your money, Dad," he said softly, strong in a way his younger self could have only dreamed about. "I don't need it anymore."

But Malcolm, never the one to surrender what he wanted, pressed the invitation into his hand. "I'd still like you to come to the event." Without thinking, Tommy's hand closed around the card. "It would mean a lot to me."

And then he turned and started walking away.

Tommy stared at the invitation, caught somewhere between eighteen years ago and this very second, and felt something in his ribs crack under the pressure.

"You know what, Dad?" he said, and relished in his power as Malcolm stopped and turned around. Tommy closed the distance between them, made sure his voice was velvety smooth as he turned on that Merlyn charm. "Sometimes the people that you want there the most, aren't. You taught me that." He pressed the card into Malcolm's shoulder. "Multiple times."

And finally, finally, Tommy was the one to leave first, the invitation fluttering to the ground uselessly and Malcolm left stone-still and alone.

Walking back into the apartment and shutting the door firmly behind him, Tommy took a deep breath and tried to cram the wriggling memories of his childhood back into their little box. Now wasn't the time for reminiscing, not even with the tainted memories of a younger, softer, sweeter Oliver keeping him company through the nights and offering up his own parents if it would make his friend stop hurting.

That Oliver, as much as Tommy would like to believe otherwise, had died on that boat, and what they were handling now was an imitation, so close but not quite. This Oliver, whose hands were rougher, whose smile was just as pretty but whose eyes were far too cold.

Tommy still loved him, but this Oliver couldn't soothe the pain away like he used to.

"Hey," Laurel greeted as he made his way back into the dining room. She wrapped him up into a tight hug, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder as he let her presence chase away the last of his demons. "Are you okay? What did he want?"

Words were too hard, though, and Tommy could only pull back and rub a thumb along her cheek before seeking out Cali. She was tucked tight against Oliver, eyes wide and pained, mouth pinched. Oliver's fingers were circling her wrist in a loose hold, and Tommy met his best friend's eyes and nodded once. Oliver let go.

Cali leapt for him immediately, and Tommy caught her around the waist as she threw her arms over his shoulder and drew him down into a hug that was tight enough to rival Laurel's. "I know you're not okay," she whispered. "But he has no power over you. I'm here, and I love you, and if you give me the word, I'll go and kick his ass."

Tommy's laugh might have been a choked off sob, but Cali covered the sound with her gentle shushing as she hid him from the others and gave him the time to piece himself back together.

"Later," he croaked. "I'll tell you later."

Cali leaned back just enough to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You don't owe me anything," she said. "You don't owe anyone anything."

Looking at her, with her fear masked by fierceness, some of Tommy's raging ocean of emotions drained away. The knot in his mind was untangled, threads eased gently into the blackness of nothing.

Oliver shuffled closer and gave him a gentle nudge. His face was soft, for once, and caring. "Happy birthday, Tommy," he said. "We're all here for you."

Tommy didn't know how to respond to that, and so he said nothing and simply prayed that Oliver would understand what the look in his eyes was saying.

.                                        .                                      .

The funeral was quiet.

For some reason, in Tommy's very young mind, he'd built up this situation where the sounds of crying overlapped and swelled until it was this grotesque symphony of grief and anguish. In the movies, there was always that background music, the drone of someone at the lectern, the soft pattering of rain on umbrellas as the first handful of dirt was thrown onto the coffin.

Instead, there was a ringing, echoing, empty silence. Cali's hand was small in his, a scrunched up piece of paper clasped tightly between their palms. A speech that they'd written, that they'd intended to read before their mother was put to rest in the ground.

Malcolm's palm had reddened Tommy's cheek, he knew it. The slap had been the only noise since they'd moved outside. It'd seemed louder and harder and meaner amongst the remnants of the dead, and when Cali had cried out, it was like other voices cried out with her. Malcolm hadn't struck her, though, had only scrunched up the paper and shoved it into her hands with a growl.

Tommy thought it rather unfair that Cali was never the one to end up in pain.

"Tommy?" A hesitant Oliver stood off to the side, wide and fearful eyes watching the direction that Malcolm had disappeared. Two flowers were held tightly in little hands, and when Tommy only stared at him, Oliver took small steps until he was close enough to give the blue flower to Tommy and the white flower to Cali. "I'm sorry you lost your mom, and I'm sorry your dad is always mean to you now. My mommy says that he's just grieving and he doesn't mean it, so I think you'll be okay soon."

Tommy only knew an abstract concept of grief, knew that it made people lash out sometimes, but he didn't think he'd ever understand grief in a way that meant a slap to the face. So maybe it wasn't grief that earned him this pain, maybe he'd been bad, or maybe his momma had died angry with him and now his dad was punishing him.

He didn't know, could never know for sure. He didn't know why he kept getting hit, didn't know why Cali wasn't, didn't know why that made him so angry.

But Oliver had given him a blue flower, and so Tommy sat it gently behind his ear and watched as Oliver smiled. Were you allowed to smile at a quiet funeral?

"It matches your eyes," Oliver joked, and Tommy didn't feel quite so bad, and neither of them noticed that Cali had gone ashen as rage and loss that was far too big for her small body crashed through her in a tidal wave.

The funeral was quiet, and it wasn't supposed to be, but it was the only funeral that Tommy had been to so how was he to know?

.                                        .                                      .

Of all the places to pick for lunch, Oliver could see by the look on his best friend's face that the Jade Dragon had not been on the list. Tommy's incredulous expression when the fish was set on their table was priceless, and Oliver couldn't help the way his shoulders shook as his suppressed laughter fell out into the air. Tommy matched him with frantic giggles, a normal situation turned far too funny by the looks they were getting from other patrons.

"That is-that is one big fried fish," Tommy managed, and Oliver bit down on another wave of mirth.

"I was told this was the most authentic Sichuan in town," he said, and Tommy stared at the fish intently. Oliver shrugged slightly. "Whatever. I wanted to make sure that your birthday celebration got it's due...well, celebration. It was a little bit, um, tense last night."

A vast understatement. Tommy had been subdued all evening, and though his efforts to keep conversation light were valiant, ultimately, the vibes were thrown off. Cali, too, had been morose, hiding herself away in one of the spare rooms almost immediately. Oliver and McKenna had disappeared quickly, losing each other to the sheets of the bed and the burning need to do anything but think about how torn apart Tommy had looked.

And yeah, Oliver did also need to find out who was about to be murdered in the city, and this was a strategic way of getting him into the restaurant without causing suspicion, but he could've invited anyone here. He did genuinely just want some one-on-one time with his friend after the disaster last night.

Tommy picked at the fish and very pointedly didn't meet his eyes. "Well, trust my dad to run all the smiles out of the room."

"Yeah, well, Malcolm Merlyn being all dad-like could ruin anyone's night."

Tommy snorted and shoved a large piece of fish in his mouth, chewing aggressively. "'Dad-like'," he said around the mouthful. "That sums up my father perfectly."

See, if Oliver didn't know about Cali's freak serum-induced mutation, if he hadn't spent all of his life patching up and soothing a battered best friend, he might've sat here and tried to ease Tommy into forgiving his father. Into building something better. But he was basing those feelings on his own regret from the Gambit and everything that had happened after. And there was no excusing the things that Malcolm did over the course of Tommy's lifetime.

So instead of saying something dumb about how hard it must've been after Rebecca died, he said, "You reckon we could put him on a hit list or something? Maybe the Hood takes requests."

Tommy's lips twitched, the threat of a smile evident in the creases of his face, but his eyes were still bleak and sad. The damage that Malcolm had done last night wouldn't be fixed quickly or easily. "I don't want him dead, Ollie. I just want him to leave us alone."

And that right there was the only reason Oliver hadn't put an arrow through Malcolm Merlyn's chest.

He'd been tempted more than once, and even John had gotten that dark edge to him whenever Oliver had entertained the idea out loud, but both of them knew that killing Malcolm wouldn't solve much. It wouldn't undo all the hurt, and it wouldn't make Cali's powers go away, and it wouldn't make Tommy happy. It'd just hurt people.

"I really wish you could've had a dad, Tommy," he admitted quietly, staring at his serving of fish. It didn't look very appetising, and for some reason, reminded him far too much of Lian Yu. "I really, really wish you could've just...not been so abandoned and lonely. I hated watching what he was doing to you."

It haunted him. Every time young Tommy was announced at the front door, young Oliver would feel sick, would be so afraid that this time Tommy was going to show up half-dead instead of just bruised. He can still remember the way that Tommy would cry at night, when everyone else was asleep except him and Oliver.

Thomas Merlyn deserved so much more.

Tommy pushed around some loose herbs, taking carefully measured breaths. "He left right after Mom's funeral," he said. "Two years, he was gone. We had some staff to take care of us, of course, but it was your mom and dad that stopped me and Cali from being put in the system. And when he finally came back, he was so fucking cold. We barely spoke, and when we did, it always devolved into arguments."

"You're allowed to hate him, Tommy."

"From the outside, it always looked like I had a father. He paid my bills, he lived in the house, he bailed me out. He covered the medical costs when Cali got appendicitis. But your dad took me to my first hockey game. Your dad taught me how to fly fish. Your dad took us to our first R-rated movie. I mean, it was your dad who watched TV with us when Cali and I would crash at your place and be too scared to sleep."

And there was so much that Oliver wanted to say to that.

Because yes, Robert had done all that. He'd never been lacking as a father, except maybe his tendency to enable Oliver's bad behaviours later in life. He'd taken Tommy and Cali in without hesitation, and yes, he and Moira had fought long and hard to keep both Merlyn siblings out of the system until Malcolm had decided to come back.

But he'd also killed a man and then himself on the lifeboat. He'd unloaded so much weight onto Oliver's shoulders, had tainted him long before Fyers or Slade Wilson or Shado or anyone else. It had been his father, aiming that gun at himself, that had shattered Oliver so badly that he'd never pieced himself together properly.

What right did he have to put Oliver in that position? What right did he have to make Oliver his avenger? He was supposed to keep his children safe, and he'd abandoned Oliver to the loneliness and torture of Lian Yu, of ARGUS, of everything that came next. Oliver had needed his father and Robert had chosen to die instead.

"He wasn't perfect," Oliver said with forced lightness. "My dad, I mean. He made mistakes. And, uh-" He took a sharp breath, "-we haven't talked about this but I have a lot of anger towards him."

Tommy's smile was self-deprecating and miserable. "Shit dads for the win, then."

Oliver ate some fish thoughtfully, nose scrunching slightly at the unpleasant taste, and just watched his friend for a while. Tommy had been looking ragged for weeks - something about what Cali had done at the hospital had twisted him up so much more than anyone could guess. And yes, Oliver had convinced him that Cali would rather die than intentionally hurt him, and Tommy should put her out of her misery and just talk to her, but that didn't just magically make it all better.

Tommy's face, usually so clean and pampered, was scruffy - hints of acne edged around his mouth and between his eyebrows, the skin under his eyes was sallow and heavy with exhaustion, and unshaven fuzz was dark against his jaw. Oliver had seen Tommy in every shade of unkempt, but somehow, this one hurt the most.

They were both supposed to be so much more.

Oliver inhaled. "I think you should go to the ceremony."

Tommy narrowly avoided choking on his piece of fish, hand snapping out and grabbing his glass of water as he spluttered incoherent noises. Oliver just sat and waited. "You think I should what?" Tommy squawked. "Ollie, we just had a conversation about how shit my dad is!"

"Then don't go for your dad."

"He's the one getting honoured; if I went, how would it not be for him?"

Oliver leaned forward, clasping his hands together resting both elbows on the table. He pressed a knuckle to his chin. "Tommy, have you seen the reason why they're giving him the award?" He shook his head as Tommy opened his mouth. "Rhetorical question, don't answer that."

Tommy looked distinctly put-out.

"All the projects they're honouring him for are directly linked to your mother," Oliver continued. "Every single one. Whether she's started them and he's finished them, or he's done them in her name, or they're literally named after her - they are all related to Rebecca."

Which was so very cruel, because Tommy loved his mother and now Malcolm was crowding in and stealing that away. It was such a Malcolm thing to do, swoop in and claim an award in the name of someone else. Because Starling City had loved Tommy's mom almost as much as he had, and so of course they'd give her grieving husband an award.

Tommy's cutlery hit his plate with a loud clang. "No. And I can't believe you even suggested it."

"Tommy-"

"No, Oliver. Going for her is even worse, because she's dead!"

"Okay," Oliver soothed, all too aware of the attention they were garnering. He needed to stay under the radar if he was going to pull this off later. "It's okay. It was just a suggestion, Tommy, you don't have to."

And Tommy was...Tommy was shaking.

Guilt churned in Oliver's stomach, sick and twisted, as he watched his best friend fight to choke down whatever mix of ugly emotions he was feeling right now. He hadn't meant to cause this - he'd thought that Tommy might find the memory of his mother endearing rather than distressing.

But of course, Oliver was severely out of touch with the reactions of ordinary people. Empathy and emotional sensitivity weren't his strong suits, as Thea would happily remind him of if he asked her to, and he'd forgotten that Tommy always got so wounded by his mother's name.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, a few minutes later, once Tommy seemed to calm slightly. "I didn't- I don't know what I'm doing here. Forget I ever suggested it."

Tommy shook his head, fingers twitching towards his glass of water. "I'm the one who should be apologising, Ollie. I didn't mean to blow up at you like that."

Whatever Oliver had done to earn this loyalty from Tommy, it was never going to be enough.

With a twitch of his lips, Oliver said, "This fish kinda sucks."

Tommy snorted into his water, and just like that the tense moment shattered into their usual camaraderie. Tommy was right, Oliver had to concede, the fish was rather terrible and their salt shaker had something that was definitely not salt and the chairs were uneven and yet somehow, it was everything he'd wanted for this moment.

"I meant what I said last night," Tommy said after a peaceful moment had passed, sounding vaguely lost but affectionate. "I'm....I'm really glad you're back."

Oliver let those words settle in his chest, let them grow roots and start glowing warm and familiar. If he ever forgot why he did the things that he did, he just had to remember this moment, with Tommy, and it'd all make sense again.

But until then, until his vision went cloudy, he had a job to do here. So he smiled politely and said with feigned sheepishness, "I gotta hit the restroom."

.                                        .                                      .

See, it went a little something like this:

Tommy was going to the awards ceremony.

Laurel thought he was crazy - and rightly so - but Oliver's words kept dancing around in his head, in his ears, like some mournful ghost. Going to the celebration meant publicly showing support for his father, and surely Malcolm would take it as a sign that Tommy was still trapped tightly under his thumb.

But Oliver hadn't been wrong about this ceremony celebrating his mother in equal measure. Malcolm had done a lot of work in her name, and Tommy couldn't reasonably criticise all of it.

So, he was going to the awards ceremony, and he wasn't going to tell Cali.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Laurel asked quietly, messing with the back of his collar as Tommy watched her in the mirror. She'd offered to come with him, and he'd taken long enough to answer that she'd changed into a pretty green dress. "Tommy?"

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, smiling when she settled her hands on his shoulders and, standing on her tiptoes, hooked her chin over his shoulder. "I love you."

For once, he couldn't find a trace of hesitation in her voice when she said it back.

.                                        .                                      .

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." Tommy's attention barely strayed from the glass of champagne in his hand as the guest speaker got ready to introduce his father. "Now tonight's honouree needs very little introduction. It's neither his wealth nor his name that we celebrate here tonight. But it is his efforts in making Starling City a better and safer place to live." At that, Tommy actually scoffed into his alcohol. "So please help me welcome Starling City's humanitarian of the year, Mr. Malcolm Merlyn."

Tommy didn't join in the applause, content to ignore everything about his father, but there was something about the way that Malcolm cleared his throat that triggered some ingrained part of him to look up.

Malcolm's smile was terrifying. "The true humanitarian in the Merlyn family was my wife, Rebecca," he started, locking eyes with his son and refusing to look away. "Many of you here knew her. She tirelessly devoted herself to helping those less fortunate in the Glades." A tactful pause; a widowed man mourning his wife. "I like to think that if the man who murdered her knew her, knew the work she did, knew the person she was... He would have helped her to her car, made sure she was safe, instead of stealing her purse and shooting her."

It was the most that Tommy had ever heard his father say about the incident.

For years, the only thing that he and Cali had to go on was a police report, gruesome and cold, that detailed everything about their mother's body from the way her eyes were open to the way her own blood stained the ends of her hair red.

Malcolm was still talking. "The truth is, I haven't done enough for this city. My city. I failed it. But I promise you that I am not finished yet. I promise you that this city will be better for all of us. And on that day, I will look at this beautiful award and feel that I have earned it."

And damn it all to hell, but there was enough conviction in his voice that Tommy was dangerously close to believing him.

There was no forgiving Malcolm, no mending their broken family bond, but maybe he did truly want to change. He wouldn't, and Tommy didn't care if he did, but maybe he wanted to. If it was enough for Cali-

No, that wasn't a fair train of thought either. Cali was chemically conditioned to forgive Malcolm for all of the nasty shit that he'd done, so it wasn't right to be angry with her for running back to him again and again. On the other hand.... Malcolm had said that she'd threatened to shoot him, so maybe the serum wasn't as potent as everyone thought it was?

Tommy's head hurt.

Which, of course, was why the alarm sounded suddenly and loudly, bright red light flashing on the walls as the crowd began murmuring. Malcolm was ushered off stage, the guests herded gradually to the exits, but Tommy couldn't make his feet move. It was probably a false alarm, and he was too busy having a crisis to particularly care about a time-wasting evacuation.

"Tommy!"

Hand grabbed his shoulders and Tommy dropped the wine glass, one fist already swinging around defensively. Malcolm ducked the punch easily enough, giving his son a very unimpressed look as he straightened up.

Tommy shrugged. "Don't touch me without warning next time." He considered his father. "Actually, just don't touch me."

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but his lips were thin with some kind of emotion Tommy couldn't identify. "I thought your presence here might've meant some progress in our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Do you think we could talk about this later? Believe it or not, we're not sounding the alarm for kicks. We've gotta move."

Tommy gestured to the slowly-dispersing crowd. "Fine," he huffed. "Let's go."

Malcolm reached for his shoulders again, only to think better off it and just motioned towards the stairs. There was an urgency to his movements that Tommy hadn't expected - he'd only ever really seen his dad in control and well put-together. It wasn't often that Malcolm was so obviously unsettled.

"No," Malcolm said sternly and gestured again, more pointedly this time. "Come with me. There's an exit on the second floor. I wasn't leaving until I knew you were safe." Without really thinking about it, Tommy followed his father across the room and up the stairs, only half-recognising that the two bodies on the floor were actually-

Oh my god, they were actually dead, what the fuck?!

His horror was quickly drowned out by fear and adrenaline as he and Malcolm rounded the corner and hurried straight into gunfire.

This really wasn't a fucking false alarm.

Malcolm's hands were back on his shoulders, forcing him towards the wall, tucking him behind a pillar as bullets smashed after them, spraying dust and finer debris everywhere. The gunfire was so loud. Tommy wanted to cover his ears and cower. Malcolm was breathing hard behind him. How could he tell about the breathing? There was so much other noise right now.

The sound of glass shattering and a body hitting the floor. Tommy peeked around the corner and gaped as the hooded figure shot down one of the attackers without hesitation. He danced calmly through the bullets before finding some cover, and Tommy wondered if maybe his hatred for this murderer was fuelled by a secret jealousy because that was dope as hell.

Being not afraid of bullets sounded really great right now.

"Get somewhere safe. I'll hold them off." The voice filter made the vigilante's voice gravelly and unnatural, and Tommy could only stare some more, wordlessly wondering if he might see his sister again or if he would die here tonight, Starling City's own vigilante as Death's witness. "Go now!"

Tommy didn't want to leave the corner. There was still someone shooting at them, and he wasn't sure he could dodge the bullets the way that the vigilante had. Rancid terror pounded through his entire body. He was useless in a situation like this.

Why had he bothered coming tonight? He was so going to kill Oliver for this.

"Come on!" Malcolm hissed in his ear, before disappearing from behind him. The air rang hollow. The gunfire chased Malcolm across the floor, and Tommy watched his father not get shot and thought, I can do this.

And so he threw himself forward, staggering across the uneven ground. He could see Malcolm ahead of him, hear the scuffle behind him. Cold fingers clicked in his ears, the sound of bone on white bone, a soft exhale as he reached safety and Death returned to the Hood.

Malcolm, for all his other failures, waited for Tommy to reach the stairs behind him before he started moving again. "Where are we going?" Tommy gasped, because the xit was supposed to be on Level 2, and they were passing Level 3 now, and Malcolm wasn't slowing down.

"Up," Malcolm answered shortly.

"Who are those guys?"

Malcolm flung himself around the corner and started up the next flight. "I don't know."

"They're trying to kill you!" And me, Tommy added silently.

"Seems that way."

"And we're going up? Without any of your bodyguards?" Malcolm didn't stop running, but he did finally move away from the staircase, towards the elevator of all things. "Dad! We need to get out of here!"

Malcolm turned to face him as the doors slid open smoothly, something cool and completely unfamiliar blanketing his expression. This wasn't the man Tommy knew. This was something else, something a little more dangerous, something that liked danger, that thrived off it. And it looked very similar to the thing that lived in Oliver.

"Tommy," Malcolm said authoritatively. "Take a deep breath and trust me." He shoved him slightly, herding Tommy into the elevator. "Upstairs in my office is a panic room. We get there and we seal it off."

Whatever sense of humour God thought he had, it sucked.

Tommy almost said as much to Malcolm as 'Here Comes The Sun' hummed along happily in the elevator, so completely out of context that it was actually almost funny. All too soon, though, the reprieve was over as they reached Malcolm's sub-floor, and there were once again stairs for Tommy to conquer.

This suit was the best purchase of his life.

The click of the two guns cocking stopped him in his tracks. Two figures, two weapons trained on his father. One move, they would be dead. The vigilante was too far away to help. They were going to die here-

One of the guns tilted away, swung around to stare him down. Tommy couldn't stop a gun. This was how him mom died and Cali-

Oh god, he was never going to see Cali again. She would be alone with Malcolm. Laurel could have Oliver. Tommy didn't want to die, he wanted to live, for his sister and for his mother and for Laurel and for-

Malcolm was moving, faster than Tommy thought possible in this situation, and the man in front of Tommy was reeling away, clutching his throat. Tommy looked left, but Malcolm was already taking the weapon from the second thug and flipping him around and holding the gun to his-

"Wait!" He shouted and Malcolm hesitated but then-

The sound of a gunshot and then Tommy was falling again, but Malcolm was off and running and Tommy could hear his father yelling for him to go but there was dead body right there and Tommy had seen him die and-

"Tommy, move! Go!"

He ran after his father, but Malcolm didn't go far. "You killed him," he said breathlessly. "Oh my god, Dad, you killed him!"

"Surely as he would have killed you," Malcolm said like that was normal or noble or what Tommy wanted. He fiddled with a keypad and another door hissed open and Tommy was being grabbed again and moved along, closer and close to safety. The door shut behind him and then, then, there was quiet. "Electromagnetic locks," Malcolm said proudly.

"What if they cut the power?"

"This floor is on an entire separate floor."

Tommy's eyes darted to the ceiling-to-floor windows and felt strangely like laughing. "The glass?"

Malcolm still looked so damn proud, like he'd wanted this for some reason. "Lexan. Bulletproof. It's over."

His ears were still ringing from the gunshot, the scent of blood was still crammed up his nose, and Tommy wanted to gag. "How did you know how to do that?" He demanded, even as he dug around his pockets for his phone, somehow unharmed save for a scratch in the top left corner. Cali had been trying to call him. "Fight. Kill. How?"

Malcolm said nothing, just gave him an odd look and strolled past him to another wall, but Tommy gave up on the question and tapped on Cali's contact and pressed the phone to his ear and listened for his sister's voice.

"Tommy?" Cali shrieked into the phone. "Holy fucking shitballs, Tommy, what the fuck is going on?!"

"It's okay," he told her frantically, even though his hands were shaking and he had seen Malcolm murder a man and- "We're okay. It's okay. It's okay. There are shooters here, so you-you stay home, okay? I'll come find you when we get out, okay? I'll find you."

The connection crackled. "I love you," Cali sobbed over the line and Tommy wanted to cry too, because he'd been in plenty of bad situations before but none of them had been like this. "I'll stay at home, okay? I love you, please come back, oh my god."

The glass shattered.

Tommy cried out, the call to Cali shorting out as he dropped his phone and crumpled to his knees, then listed to the side and crashed to the floor, as the shockwaves of whatever the fuck had just blown up reached him. Malcolm grunted as he hit the wall, sinking low to the ground amongst shards of glass.

A dull and muted grey set in with a viciousness, and the gunshot turned to wailing in his ears. Not unconsciousness but not full awareness. Glass was biting into his palms and cheek, he could feel it, but he couldn't move yet to get away. Cali must be out of her mind with worry.

Was Malcolm okay? They'd both taken hard hits, would both need a moment to recover, but while Tommy was inching back to himself, he heard no indication that Malcolm was doing the same.

A grunt and then, "Tommy? You okay?"

He nodded once, neck screaming as whiplash took hold of his spine. Malcolm was already clambering to his feet, but Tommy couldn't even get to his knees. Too much, it had been too much tonight and he was scared, so scared, and he didn't want to say that, but-

Gunshots, muted and somehow still ground-shaking, pinged once, twice, three times and Tommy looked up just in time to see Malcolm toppling backwards into the floor, arms splayed like this was some sick and twisted trust fall.

Tommy couldn't catch him in time, and Malcolm's skull bounced on the linoleum flooring.

"Dad!" He yelped, and wrestled control back from the injuries just enough so he could half-crawl and half-drag himself over to his still and unnervingly silent father. "Dad?" They had to move, get away from the window and whoever was shooting at them. Who knew if Tommy was the next target or not?

With a grunt of pain, Tommy pushed himself to his feet, exhaling sharply when slices of pain ripped through the haze of shock. Glass was etched into his skin like sediment deposits, and it hurt, and they'd be pulling chunks out of him for hours, but they were still too exposed. Each hand grabbed a wrist, and Tommy could only mumble apologies as he dragged Malcolm closer to the wall, away from the shattered windows.

"I'm sorry," he said again, voice shaking as he dropped back down to his knees and fumbled with Malcolm's bowtie. He needed to see the injuries, see how bad they were. "Dad, oh, I'm so sorry. It's okay. We're gonna be okay."

Movement. Malcolm groaned, eyes flickering slightly until he peeled them open. "I'm okay, I'm okay," he managed, snatching his shirt out of Tommy's hands and pulling it open to reveal the light blue, supposedly-bullet-proof vest underneath.

Which was great! Cause it might've just saved his life. But there was still blood coming from so many different places, and his face was getting paler, and Tommy's hands were shaking because he was so afraid.

"You're bleeding," he choked out uselessly, and then snagged on the sentence. "You're bleeding. You're bleeding."

"I'll be fine," Malcolm promised, even as his eyes turned glassy and whatever colour he'd managed to hold on to slipped away. "I'll-" The words cut off, his head fell back. There was too much blood, but Tommy wasn't sure where it was coming from. Malcolm was wearing a vest, for God's sake! Why was he still dying?!

"No, no, no, no, no. DAD!"

Movement by the window.

Tommy's hand shot for his dad's gun without thinking and he spun on his knee, using two hands to steady the weapon as he brought it up and aimed it at the vigilante. "Stay back!" He snarled, half-feral.

The vigilante held out a hand. "I'm not here to hurt you or your father," he promised, but Tommy couldn't trust him, couldn't trust anyone right now.

"I said stay back." Tommy didn't know if he would pull the trigger. He didn't want to find out.

The vigilante lowered his own weapon to the ground and Tommy tracked the motion carefully, frantic eyes locking onto the bow and twitchy pulse making it hard to think and bloody skin making it hard to make this moment rationale. He cocked his head to the side when the Hood reached down and coaxed a bullet out of the remnants of the window, lifting it to his nose and, curiously, smelling it.

"It's curare," he murmured, more to himself than anyone, and when his muscles tensed to move, Tommy's finger curled around the trigger.

"Don't come any closer," he warned.

The vigilante - who hadn't once lowered his hand, as though he were keeping distance from a cornered animal - started talking far too quickly to make sense. "Your father's been poisoned. An assassin named Floyd Lawton laces his bullets with curare. I've dealt with this before. We need to dilute the poison in his bloodstream."

Tommy didn't know what the hell that meant, or who the hell Floyd Lawton was, but he did know that his father was dying and that this-this man standing in front of him had murdered so many people. Could murder him now and get away with it. Could murder his father and leave Tommy alive to take the fall.

Well, Tommy wouldn't let anybody near his father, wouldn't let anybody near himself, right now. Couldn't. His arms were frozen holding the gun out. "I said stay the hell back!"

The vigilante, to his credit, kept reasonably calm. "In three minutes, he's paralysed. In four minutes, he suffocates. If you don't let me help you now, he's dead before anybody gets here!"

Dead before anybody gets here.

Dead.

Dead in four minutes.

"Help?" Tommy said, adjusting his grip on the gun slightly. "How?"

"Fresh blood buys him time to get to the hospital."

"A blood transfusion?" Tommy glanced back at his father, and thought for a second about...not. Why should he throw so much of himself into saving this man? This man who had abandoned them, neglected them, manipulated them, betrayed them. This man who had experimented on his own daughter, had chemically trapped her in the tangled webs of their family. This man who drugged his daughter, who hit his son, who hated them for being their mother and loved them for the same reason.

Why should Tommy save him now?

He looked back at the vigilante. "A blood transfusion?" He repeated. "That's insane."

"It's the only way. He needs your blood." A pause. Tommy's finger still rested on the trigger, his heart still mourned over the choice he had to make. To save his father or to let him die? What would Cali think? What would Cali feel? Would she thank him? Hate him? "You're out of time," the vigilante said, a touch quieter. "You need to make a decision right now."

Panic was clawing at the backs of his eyes, spiders making their homes under his fingernails. "Why should I trust you?" He spat. The tremours were moving up his arms now.

Another pause, longer this time, and Tommy ached to pull the trigger, ached for this to be over. His father was dying and he was talking with a serial killer about a blood transfusion and-and poison like this was some bad action movie!

The vigilante's hand moved to his chest and Tommy stiffened again, but he simply pressed a button and moved to remove his hood.

A familiar nose. A familiar mouth hidden by a familiar style of facial hair. A close-cropped head with dirty blonde hair. Eyes that were darkened and mildly masked by green warpaint.

And Oliver said, "Because you always have."

"Oliver," Tommy breathed, and it felt so much like worship with him on bended knee and Oliver standing before him like a god. He lowered the gun, let it slip from his fingers and clatter on the floor. Tears registered vacantly at the edge of his awareness. He ignored them as Oliver burst into motion, taking his silence as a yes.

His chest was on fire. His entire body felt like one huge bruise as he turned to lean protectively over Malcolm, who looked quite dead. Tommy was still in his suit, in his bowtie. How stupid was it to be in a suit when you're father was dying?

Oliver crashed down into a crouch beside him, fumbling through the medical kit and pulling things together in a way that Tommy couldn't comprehend and didn't care to, until he had a needle in one hand and was reaching for Tommy's wrist with the other.

"Okay," he said as gently as Tommy had ever heard him. "Ready?"

No, Tommy thought but bit his tongue and let his friend take his arm. "Do it," he said tightly and didn't care about how his face twisted up with pain as Oliver jammed the needle in. Clearly, those five years hadn't taught him how to be careful with fragile goods.

Because that's what Tommy was, fragile. Breakable. Scared and in pain and watching the father he thought he hated die slowly.

"Come on," Oliver muttered to himself as the two of them watched the blood seep from the needle into Malcolm's arm. "Come on, come on, come on."

"You're the vigilante," Tommy croaked. It was one of the only things he knew for certain right now. Malcolm was dying, Tommy was wearing a suit, and Oliver was a serial killer. "Why?"

Oliver breathed out. "Later," he said, which really meant never and Tommy knew that but- "He's going to need medical attention to fully clean out his system, you understand?"

Understand what? That the transfusion wasn't working? That Oliver has been lying to him ever since he got back? That Cali probably knew about it too, that everybody's been laughing at him for months? That his father was dying, and Tommy had spent time considering whether to let it happen?

He nodded, though, because he understood that Malcolm needed medical attention.

"Thank you," he forced out, not because he was grateful, but because he knew that he was supposed to, that if he didn't, Oliver would probably never help him again.

Fingers twitched against Tommy's palm, and Malcolm wheezed slightly as he moved his head. Ignoring the way that Oliver was backing away, retreating into the shadows, Tommy sat back on his heels and watched his father come back to life, and he didn't know whether to feel relief or dread.

.                                        .                                      .

He felt a bit like a third-rate mummy, swathed in so many bandages. The nurses had taken one look at him when he'd shown up at the hospital and whisked him off to be patched up. One young man had perched on a too-small chair and spent an hour and a half methodically treating every scratch and tear and wound, picking out tiny glass fragments with a practised and steady hand.

Tommy watched him, and wondered if he had a family and what they might be like. He wondered if they were kind, if they were mean. Were they proud of their son? For being a nurse? It was a respectable job, a decent job. Who wouldn't be proud of a young man like that?

"What's your name?" Tommy asked in a low voice, and when the young man glanced up at him, he tried for a smile. "You're not wearing a name tag."

The young man smiled. "Angel," he said sheepishly. "My parents are very Christian. I don't know why they thought it would make a good name."

Tommy's smile relaxed slightly. "Well, Angel, thanks for patching me up. You've done a wonderful job."

Angel leaned back and rolled off his globes, rubbing a dry towel over his hands and shaking his head at the pile of glass they've collected in a dish. "Well, Tommy, I think we've pulled enough glass to make a brand new window. How are you feeling?"

A half-shrug. "Better. Not so shaky. Tired."

"I wanted to treat you for shock," Angel said with a frown, "but I've been told you don't need it. Is this true?"

"I don't think I'm in shock, doc."

Angel shook his head. "Maybe not now, but you definitely were earlier. If I had my way I'd have you hooked up to an IV and laying in a bed right beside your father, but alas, you remain a free man." His look grew harder. "Now I want you to be 100% honest with me - have I missed anything? Is anything else hurting?"

Tommy didn't know how to tell this man that nothing would ever stop hurting. HIs chest, his lungs, his throat. Tears burned him from the inside and the outside, and Oliver's wicked truth hooked onto his collarbone and hung on tightly.

"No," he said. "No, Angel, I think I'm fine. Thank you."

A knock at the door interrupted the pair, and Anita peered in and waved at Tommy. "You're fathers awake," she announced. "He's asking after you."

Tommy's knee jerk response was to say that he didn't care. That Malcolm should be asking after him and that he should be worried and guilty and in pain because that's what he deserved. Tommy wanted to rage and stomp his feet and throw a tantrum because this wasn't fair.

Instead, he stood up and put his suit jacket back on very gingerly. "I'll come with you," he told Anita and then offered his hand to Angel. "Thank you, seriously, for fixing me up."

Angel accepted the handshake, but his eyes were sad as he watched Tommy follow Anita out the door and into the adjacent room.

Malcolm looked truly pitiful, laying in bed with all the machines hooked up to him. He still had some of his power, but with his sallow skin and hospital gown, there was nothing to be afraid of. This was not a man who tore down empires and terrorised his children. This was just a man, who made bad choices and wasn't immune to dying.

"I should be dead." Malcolm's voice was slurred and cloudy, and Tommy snorted as he sat on the spare chair that had been placed strategically beside the bed. "Poison."

"I gave you a blood transfusion," Tommy said flatly, and when Malcolm gave him a strange look, he let himself deflate enough to admit, "Actually it was...the vigilante's idea. He saved you."

"He did?"

'Oliver saved you!' Tommy wanted to yell. 'Oliver saved you and he's the vigilante and I almost didn't let him because I wanted you dead too!'

God, how many things he wanted to say, so many things penned up in the centre of his thoughts as his tongue played guardsmen. "I thought I was going to lose you," he admitted.

Malcolm's grin was threadbare. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You said that after mom died," Tommy snapped back, and it wasn't fair to Malcolm, but there was a young boy who lived inside Tommy who had never forgiven Malcolm for all the promises he'd broken. Who lived with a bruise on his cheek and blood on his lips and hatred in his eyes. "But you still left."

Malcolm shifted, pushing himself a bit more upright. Agony lashed across his face for a split second - gone before Tommy could open his mouth and offer ot help. "I wasn't a very good father to you after your mother passed away," he said, and it was such a grand understatement that Tommy's lips twitched. "I was so lost."

"Where'd you go?" Who found you?

"I found myself in a place called Nanda Parbat. I met a man there. He helped me...make sense of things. He helped me find a new purpose for my life; to make this city a better place for everyone." Here, Malcolm made direct eye contact and refused to look away. "Especially for you and Cali."

There was something in his tone that encouraged the spiders back to life and Tommy shivered as phantom legs tickled the underside of his skin. Foreboding rippled across the back of his neck - Malcolm was making a threat of some kind here, Tommy knew it.

He wanted to challenge his father, wanted desperately to shout, but when he went to talk, Malcolm's attention drifted to the doorway and a mask clicked in place over his features. "Moira," he welcomed.

Tommy was already out of his chair and heading for the door before Moira even realised he was there. "Oh Tommy," she sighed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Tommy turned back to his father, just once. "Could I talk to Moira for a minute?" Malcolm asked, which really meant that Tommy's time was up and he wasn't welcome to stay any longer.

So he slipped out into the hallway, tucking himself away somewhere a little bit quiet. His phone, now seriously battered and broken, had just enough life to make a call. He lifted his phone to his ear, winced at the prick of smashed glass against his face.

"Tommy?" Cali answered loudly. "Oh my god, thank the heavens you're alright. I'm trying to get to you but the hospital won't let me in. Are you okay? Why won't they let me see you? Tommy, I swear if you got shot, I'm going to kill yo-"

"Did you know?"

Cali's tone dropped into something more frantic, more guttural. "What do you mean? I'm coming to you, Tommy, just hang on-"

Tommy laughed, and it grated on his vocal chords and it was bitter and harsh and ugly and it made Cali just...stop. "Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"Don't try and bullshit me, Cali, this isn't a game anymore. Did you know about Oliver being the vigilante?" A ringing silence was the only answer he needed, and he laughed again, louder this time, angrier. "You've gotta be kidding me! That was your 'big secret'? That Oliver was a serial killer?" He broke off and swallowed down the sadness. He needed to keep that rumbling anger for a little bit longer. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Cali said nothing for a long time, but when she finally gave him her answer, her voice was small and scared and wounded.

"It wasn't my secret to tell."

Tommy hung up.

Oliver, who'd been lurking off to the side and waiting for the courage to get closer, finally stepped into the light. "Tommy-"

"My dad's going to be okay," Tommy said angrily. "Thanks to you."

Oliver moved another step closer, but didn't reach out to touch him. "It's thanks to you."

Tommy didn't want to play this game, though, didn't want to waltz around and pretend that looking at Oliver didn't make him sick down to his very bones, didn't want to pretend that he hadn't just spent an hour frightened out of his mind, didn't want to pretend that Angel hadn't hurt him when they'd taken the glass out.

He kept staring dead ahead and said, "I once asked you what happened to you on that island. You said 'a lot'. That doesn't quite cover it."

"Tommy..."

"I saw you kill those guys who kidnapped us when you first got back, didn't I?"

So long ago now, and yet still somehow so vivid in his mind. Being tied to a chair, a bag over his head, and then being struck, and then hearing someone killing their captors and thinking that it could've been Oliver, except that couldn't be right because Ollie didn't kill people, that wasn't who he was.

Well, whoop-dee-fucking-do, Tommy Merlyn was a fucking idiot.

Oliver's lack of answer, though, was an answer in and of itself and the heat in Tommy's throat burned hotter. "I know you have a lot of questions," Oliver started and Tommy wanted to cackle, wanted to punch him in the face.

"Yeah," he said, emotions barely-controlled. "Yeah, but for now, just two. Cali-" Wicked pain darted across Oliver's features before vanishing under his pathetic apologetic misery. "Cali," Tommy said again firmly. "Did you tell her?"

Oliver studied him for a moment, and Tommy knew that he was searching for the right answer, was trying to determine which words would preserve their friendship just a little while longer. "No," he said eventually. "She worked it out and confronted me. I asked her not to tell, made her promise, and you know how she is with promises."

So he'd been right. They'd both known. They'd both kept it from him. No wonder he'd never been able to push through that glass wall and curl around Oliver's heart the way he used to. No wonder their conversations always dissolved into arguments, no wonder Oliver kept leaving him behind, no wonder Cali was the favourite.

No fucking wonder.

He scoffed, shook his head, turned to actually look at his friend for the first time. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

There were tears shimmering in Oliver's green eyes, anguish and heartbreak holding hands. He looked tortured, which was screwed, because Oliver wasn't the one who'd watched his father kill a man tonight, wasn't the one who'd watched his father get shot and die slowly, wasn't the one who'd had to sit while glass was picked out of his body by a man with Christian parents.

Finally, Oliver took a shaky breath and very, very quietly, in a voice so small Tommy had to strain to hear it, said, "No."

And just like that, it was all over.