Chapter Text
...
Sitting on the rooftop, Oliver breathed in the air of the city. He wasn't far from the place he'd made his base for his time staying in Starling. The Clock Tower gave him a good spot to look out over the Glades as well as an easily defendable spot. Given that it was in the Glades, it was unlikely anyone would stumble upon him there. Would anyone outside of the League even recognize him now? He'd changed so much since he left on the Queen's Gambit and the Island.
Oliver's head came up when he caught sight of Thea. All things considering his sister looked well. The Lance sisters took her in after their mother's arrest. She was being treated as an outcast by most of the given Moira's involvement in the Undertaking. His heart ached for Thea and there was a pull to reveal himself to her.
That would be stupid though. She would have questions that he couldn't answer. Not to mention Sara Lance and her nightly activities as the Canary. It was interesting that she would choose to be a vigilante. He was not blind to their similarities. They were two sides of the same coin. Each seeking a form of justice for the wrongs either done to them or because of them.
In another life it might be Sara out here acting as a member of the League. In another life, it might've been Oliver who was the vigilante. However, they were who they were. Their choices defined them both. There was no room to change the past or the future.
Two figures stepped out of the shadows and into the path of Thea. Oliver stood ready to intervene if it was necessary. Though she didn't seem to need his protection as a young man in a red hood was there. If he remembered correctly that was Roy Harper and he protected Thea. But it seemed the two figures were the Lance sisters. His shoulders eased until Sara looked up at the shadows that hid him.
Her gaze lingered on where he was at, her stance shifting to alert. Her body tensed, but she turned her attention back to her companions. She'd improved from their time on the island. He didn't want to fight her or for her to see him in his current state. Right now he was in his civilian clothes with nothing to cover his face.
Oliver was dressed in a simple leather jacket, blue t-shirt, and dark jeans. He blended in with the crowd, allowing him to go unnoticed in the busy streets of Starling. No one would suspect him of being anything else than a regular guy in the crowd. He was just another face in the sea of people. A ghost. Except to the few who knew his face. Sara would recognize him if she saw his face. Best return to the Clock Tower now. Thea would be safe with Sara at her side.
...
Quentin eyed the Clock Tower. Since his demotion to beat cop, he been set to patrolling the Glades rather than a safer beat. It didn't surprise him since the Captain was punishing him for working with Sara. Sara who hid for several months that she was the city's vigilante. He'd seen her in her black mask and wig. She did a lot of good work especially since she stopped killing since the Undertaking.
In the last few weeks she had reports of a possible squatter in the Clock Tower and passed on the information to him. Since the squatter wasn't hurting anyone it was really part of her work. Quentin was in uniform and carried a bag convenience store bag of food and bottled water. It would not have surprised him to see a homeless person had moved into the tower. So many people had died or had their homes destroyed by the earthquake. Sending them to jail would help no one.
As he entered, Quentin noticed that it looked remarkably unchanged. Only a ladder had moved to allow access to the upper unfinished floors. So she was right. Someone was here.
"Starling City Police," he announced not moving towards the ladder yet.
When no reply was forthcoming, Quentin moved to the ladder and began to climb. Once he reached the top he paused. There was a pack in the corner and a set of clothes on top of it. He could see a knife sheath without the knife next to the pack as well. Whoever was in the tower was armed, and possibly dangerous.
He took another look around the upper floor trying to see in the darkness. However, he saw nothing that would indicate a person being in it with him. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and a shiver went down his spine. He wasn't alone.
Quentin was a veteran police detective and had survived in the force for years. He held absolutely still trying to determine where the person was and if they intended on attacking him. He kept his hands well clear of his guns trying to convey that he wasn't a threat. Still that didn't mean whoever was in the tower with him would feel the same. The silence was deafening. His heart was pounding in his ears.
"Officer," came a modulated voice from above him, "Why are you here?"
Using a voice changer? That was not normal. If this was a random squatter, then why the precautions? Did the person have a reason to hide their identity from him? He'd seen a lot of people.
"Someone was reported squatting in the building," replied Quentin in a calm easy tone, "Normally I don't come in unless the situation is more serious. But given the recent activity in the neighborhood, I wanted to be sure that no one was hurt or in a bad way. I've brought some supplies. Water. Food. Blankets. Are you okay?"
The silence was his only response. Slowly Quentin leaned down and put the bag on the ground before standing straight again. Then he took a step away from it. Still the person did not move from wherever he was hiding.
"I could get you a spot in one of the shelters if you need it," offered Quentin.
Again, no response. Obviously the person didn't have a desire to go to a shelter. Maybe they were a fugitive, or something worse.
"Okay," sighed Quentin, "I'm going to leave now. I left my business card in the bag. If you change your mind don't hesitate to call me."
Turning his back on the area he descended the ladder. As he headed to the exit he called over his shoulder, "And try not to use that knife to stab someone in the middle of the night!"
Somehow he got the feeling the person was laughing at him in the shadows.
Chapter Text
...
Quentin returned the next day. This time in plainclothes. Just because he was off duty did not mean that his curiosity was satisfied. It was not in his nature to leave a case unsolved. When he entered the Clock Tower he heard a small sneeze and a grumble from someone in the upper floors. The voice was definitely male.
"You know," stated Quentin loudly, "You could just show yourself. I'm not going to haul you to jail. You haven't exactly broken any laws that are worth that. Besides the building owner will likely be grateful to know that there are no vermin or pests living in his tower."
There was a snort from the upper floors, but the stranger did not descend to the lower floor. Quentin strained his ears to see if he could determine where the man was. After a few minutes, the older man sighed and moved towards the ladder.
"Well, I'll assume that is a sign of disagreement," said Quentin, starting to climb, "Look, all I want to do is help. I brought more food."
As the detective reached the second floor, the hidden occupant chuckled. At the sound, Quentin froze and slowly turned to the source of the laughter. All he saw was shadows. Shadows which were hiding the man. Quentin put down the food he brought for the mysterious squatter.
"Are you always so determined?" inquired the modulated voice, "Even in the face of the unknown?"
"Of course," answered Quentin, turning to fully face the direction of the man, "It is my job to help the citizens of this city. Even if they're a little... eccentric or lost."
That got him an icy silence. So he was less eccentric and more lost. Whether that was a literal or a spiritual sense, Quentin wasn't sure yet. Still, the fact that the man was even speaking to him was progress from yesterday. Yesterday he hadn't spoken at all. Today he had at least asked a question. Progress.
"Look, let's start with something easy," said Quentin, "My name is Quentin Lance. Can I have yours?"
Again, the icy silence. Okay, so not quite that much progress. Slowly Quentin turned his back to the man to examine the room again. With his back exposed to the man, the detective knew that he was taking a risk, however a calculated one. Either the man would attack him, or the man could do nothing. Doing nothing would be progress in his eyes.
There wasn't much in the upper floors. A couple blankets were laid out on an air mattress in the corner. Next to it was the knife sheath from yesterday. The blade was nowhere to be found. From what the detective could tell the items in the bags were a first aid kit and a small duffel bag. Nothing too incriminating in his opinion. Most of the stuff was basic survival gear. So not homeless, probably a drifter.
"Alright, not big on names, are we?" muttered Quentin, "Well, that's fine. Let's talk about something else. Where are you from? Are you from the city, or are you from out of town?"
More silence. Big surprise there. Maybe the man was a bit crazy. Quentin didn't think he would attack him unless given a reason to.
"The Glades is a hard place to live in right now," stated Quentin, "We're doing everything we can to rebuild the damage done by the earthquake. It'll take time though. Did you lose your house?"
This time he thought there was a hesitation before he said, "No."
"Good," replied the detective, his lips curving in a smile, "I'm glad that no one was injured. That's good news. I'm happy to hear that. Is there a family member that I can contact for you, to pick you up?"
"No," was the quick and sharp response.
Quentin raised an eyebrow at nothing. That was a surprising response. What caused such a harsh reaction from the man to his suggestion of contacting the man's family?
"Is something wrong?" questioned the detective, his brow furrowing, "Did something happen to your family?"
"No," repeated the man, and then after a pause, added, "They're alive."
Alive. But not okay, was the implication. Quentin sighed a crouched down a little. It was a common pose to look non-threatening, and was used often by social workers. He hoped that it would have a calming effect on the man.
"If they're alive, then why are you here," inquired Quentin softly, "Your family must miss you. Don't you miss them?"
There was no answer from the shadows, but Quentin had not expected an answer either. Family was obviously an uncomfortable topic. That was something he understood more than most. For five years he thought his baby girl was dead. Now she was a vigilante.
Sara told him a little of what happened on the island. She only arrived on the island after a year. Oliver Queen, had survived the Queen's Gambit going down but died on the island. At least that's what she thought. She'd never found his body no matter how much she searched. Queen had saved her life.
For years Quentin blamed Queen for her even being on the boat. Sara explained that he wasn't cheating on Laurel with her but looking for advice. He wanted to do right by Laurel but wasn't sure how. Just that he wanted to change for the better.
It'd been a kick in the teeth for Quentin to learn how wrong he'd been. Especially when he considered his own behavior in the aftermath. How he'd acted in the wake of her apparent death. Now he helped looked after Thea while her mother was in prison.
"Listen," said Quentin coming out of his thoughts, "If you need to talk, you can call me. My number is on the card. I won't turn you in, and I won't make you do anything you don't want to. Okay?"
There was no answer, not that he was expecting one. Sighing, the detective stood. His knees creaked. He was getting a little old for this kind of work. Turning to the ladder, the older man started to descend. He'd tried. Hopefully the young man would accept his offer.
As he reached the first floor a shadow crossed over the opening. Quentin looked up only to catch a shadow of a movement. It was gone a moment later.
"Strange," mused the detective, frowning at the door, "Very strange. What are you hiding from kid?"
...
Oliver nibbled on the sandwich that was left for him. He wondered how Lance would feel if he knew who was feeding. The irony of the situation did not escape him. Five years ago, the detective would have been arresting him. Now he was trying to save him.
Not that he could be saved, not anymore. Oliver's soul was stained red with blood of those he'd killed. Both for the League and for himself. He didn't regret killing. It had to be done.
He finished his meal and cleaned up the wrappers. He would dispose of the trash when he went on patrol. Right now, the sun was just starting to set. He had a few hours before the darkness would allow him to slip unnoticed through the city.
Had his disappearance been noticed yet? Were the assassins already searching for him? Or were they waiting to see if he'd return on his own? Oliver was not naive enough to think that they would not follow him. He had no intention of remaining in the city for long. Only until he was certain that his sister was safe and his mother was well.
...
Quentin was back in uniform and walking the beat in the Glades. The night was quiet. No one was causing any problems tonight making it slow. Perhaps the presence of the Canary was keeping the criminals on their best behavior. After several months of her patrolling the Glades the crime rates had dropped significantly. In fact, in the last two weeks, the crime rate had dropped to its lowest since the Undertaking.
A scream for help tore through the air. He shouldn't have even thought the word slow. Quentin took off at a run towards the alley where the sound had come from. Drawing his weapon, the police detective entered the darkened alley. A woman was pushed to the ground, a knife at her throat, the man holding the knife was demanding her purse and her jewelry. Typical mugging. Except that there was no sign of the Canary.
"Police!" yelled Quentin, his gun pointed at the assailant, "Free..."
He didn't get to finish the word. An arrow protruded from the mugger's chest suddenly. He gurgled once, and then fell to the ground. The woman was screaming, hysterical. Quentin rushed to the mouth of the alley to keep an eye on the body, and to radio for backup. A figure in black stood at the other end carrying a bow. It looked just like Malcolm Merlyn had in the Dark Archer gear. However his height and build weren't right for it to be Merlyn.
"Who are you?" shouted Quentin, training his gun on the newcomer.
The figure tilted their head to the side. Gloves fingers tightened on the bow and to his surprise he didn't reach for an arrow. Instead, the person ran, disappearing into the shadows. Cursing the detective sprinted to the mouth of the alley and looked around frantically. Nothing. There was no sign of the mysterious archer. Whoever it was, was gone. Frustrated, the police detective returned to the scene of the crime. One problem at a time.
Chapter Text
...
Oliver slipped into the hospital room silently. Laying on the hospital bed sleeping peacefully Tommy Merlyn. Checking the medical chart he found that Tommy was healing well all things considered. A rebar had pierced the man's abdomen when he went to the Glades to rescue Laurel. He spent a lot of time under sedation to allow him time to heal without pain.
A wave of gratefulness went through him that his brother in all but blood was alive and expected to recover. According to the charts his recovery would be difficult. Especially due to the location of his injury. It would require several months of physical therapy before the scars from his injuries until he could return to a normal life.
Sighing Oliver replaced the medical chart and made to leave. Only to stop when Tommy let out a groan of pain. Freezing Oliver watched to see if his friend was waking. Glazed light blue eyes blinked open. Tommy looked at him in confusion. He hoped the other man would think this was just an odd dream.
"Oliver," questioned Tommy his voice slurred by the medication, "That...that's you, isn't it?"
"Go back to sleep Tommy," said Oliver in lieu of answering, "Its just a dream."
"Of course," agreed the injured man, his eyelids sliding shut, "Just a dream. I miss you, Ollie. I try to watch out for Thea with you being gone. But there is only so much I can do in this damn bed."
"You did well," replied the younger man, his voice thick, "Thank you. You were always a good friend. Thank you, and goodbye Tommy."
"Yes," sighed Tommy, his breath slowing down, "Goodbye, Ollie."
Then he was asleep again. Oliver gave him a sad smile. To think that Tommy felt responsible for Thea. He regretted that he was unable to tell him that he was in fact alive. That would cause more trouble than it was worth. Still, he would find a way to thank his friend. Even in his absence, his loyalty had not wavered. With a sigh, Oliver left the room. Time to return to his Clock Tower residence.
...
Tonight he was following Laurel. Rumors had it someone was going to attack her so he wanted to be close by in case someone tried. Oliver leaned against the top of the rooftop. He was in his League uniform. He had his mask on and his hood pulled low over his face. Just in case the Canary caught up to him. No doubt Lance had told her about the man who killed in front of him. How long would it take for her to catch onto his trail?
Laurel was on the move. He followed her from the rooftops never letting her out of his sight. She didn't look nervous. But she was cautious. As if she was aware that there was danger. Maybe, there had been previous attempts on her. Or perhaps, she had simply heard the rumors that someone had a hit put on her. Either way, Oliver was glad that she was taking precautions.
Oliver felt someone following him. Not Laurel, no they were specifically following him. Trouble? Their movements weren't silent enough to be a member of the League. So, that meant that it was the Canary. Sara was trying to follow him. Oh not tonight. He decided to shake her off. No need to have her chase him through the city. It would only leave Laurel vulnerable.
Shadows were his friend and he was easily able to hide from her. His path was unpredictable. Left, right, forward, backwards, circles, zigzags. Until he was certain that the Canary was no longer following him. Then he returned to the Clock Tower.
...
Two days had passed and Quentin was still no closer to finding out the identity of the new archer in town. It was driving him nuts. Why would an ordinary citizen pick up a bow and arrow to fight crime? It made no sense. At least, not to him. If the man had the ability to fight, why not use guns, or knives, or fists. A bow and arrow was a bit dated in this age of high technology and computers. What kind of message was the man trying to send anyway?
He could never understand certain people. They always had a thing to say. Whether that was to inspire hope or to bring despair. This was probably a nut job like the others. Probably a hero worshiper of Merlyn. A copycat of the worst variety. Someone who thought that they could just go out and kill. Like the world was some kind of game.
Quentin ran a hand tiredly down his face. He'd seen the destruction that a madman could do. This guy wasn't insane like the Count or Merlyn. Technically Quentin wasn't even allowed to research this man. He hoped that he'd be able to get his Detective shield back.
Pushing the thoughts aside Quentin entered the Clock Tower right in time to hear the squatter sneeze. At least that meant he was in today. When Quentin came in the day before he wasn't in there. Or if he had been he was quieter than normal.
"Hey," called Quentin, "Its just me."
Silence answered him, but that didn't bother the detective. By now, he was used to the quiet. He climbed up the ladder and dropped the bag of food in its usual spot. The blankets had been folded and the air mattress had been stowed in a corner. Next to the mattress was a duffel bag. It was all very tidy. Almost military. Maybe the guy was a vet? It would explain his discomfort with family, and his desire to hide away in the Clock Tower. PTSD was a real problem for returning soldiers. Especially in recent years.
"You shouldn't follow someone like me," said the modulated voice from his left.
He was closer than he normally was. Quentin very carefully did not look in that direction. Instead, he focused on the wall. His posture relaxed to show that he wasn't a threat to the other man.
"If you wanted to hurt me you'd have done so by now," stated the detective, "I'm not afraid of you. Besides, I'm a cop. Its part of my job to help those in need."
"I didn't ask for your help," countered the hidden man, "You don't know what you're getting yourself into. Getting involved with someone like me will only get you hurt. Forget you saw me. It'll be better for you. For everyone."
The last part was said in such a quiet whisper that Quentin almost missed it. What the hell was the guy on? Did he have a guilty conscience or something? No... wait that was it. At least not entirely. He was running from something.
The realization hit Quentin like a truck. This guy was running from something and it wasn't law enforcement. Was it ARGUS? Sara had told him a little about ARGUS and her time with them. How they treated her. She had the scars to prove her words. Was the kid being chased by the organization?
"Why should I forget that I saw you," asked Quentin calmly, his posture remaining loose and non-threatening, "It's not like you're dangerous or anything."
"You're being naive," chided the voice.
"Maybe," shrugged the detective, his eyes staring at the blank wall, "Or maybe not. What are you hiding from, kid?"
"I'm not a kid," refuted the voice avoiding his question.
"Everyone is a kid to me," dismissed the older man, his lips curling upwards, "I doubt you're older than my daughter."
The silence was telling. Though he couldn't see him, Quentin had the feeling that his mystery guest was uncomfortable. Interesting. That confirmed his suspicions. Whatever this guy was running from, he was young. Between 20-30 by his best guess.
"Detective," sighed the voice, "You can't protect someone who no longer exists. Just leave."
"Someone has to worry about you," argued the detective.
"Who worries about a dead man?" challenged the voice.
Quentin stiffened. Dead men. Now, that wasn't the first time he heard such a thing. Sara thought the same about herself. That she was more dead than alive. There were times where she didn't remember that she was no longer on that Godforsaken island. Wherever the kid had been, it hadn't been good.
"Dead is dead," muttered the detective, his head lowering, "And, you are definitely not dead, Kid. You are standing there and breathing. That means no matter what you may think, you are still alive."
"Being alive is more than breathing, detective," countered the voice, "Leave it alone. You won't succeed in whatever mission you have assigned yourself. Go. Take care of your family and live your life."
Quentin shook his head. Stubborn, and determined, and brave. The man had a death wish. Typical. Why were the young ones so eager to throw their lives away?
"We're not done," declared the detective, a frown crossing his features, "I'll come back. And one day, I'm going to find out who the hell you are. Then, I'm going to drag your ass to safety."
"You can try," responded the voice, humor in its tone, "Though, I really wouldn't advise it. Goodbye, Detective."
"Yeah," mumbled the detective, his eyes narrowing at the wall, "Goodbye, Kid."
With that he turned and headed towards the door. It was a promise he would save this kid.
Chapter Text
...
Al Sahim had disappeared from Nanda Parbat quiet skillfully. None of the assassins had seen him. Nor had any of the guards. The Demon's Head was not pleased by the news. Oliver was not supposed to leave the Castle and he knew it. While it could be that he was just avoiding everyone, Ra's doubted it. From the looks that Nyssa and the others were giving him, they didn't believe it either. Which was why, the Demon's Head was currently in a small council meeting to discuss his disappearance.
"Where is he?" growled Ra's.
"There seems to be a new figure in Starling City," answered Sayad almost reluctantly, "Most likely it is, Al Sahim acting on his own accord. While the current vigilante, the Canary no longer kills, Al Sahim doesn't have such reservations."
Ra's frowned at the man's obvious reluctance. However, the answer itself was interesting. It seemed his Beloved had disobeyed his instructions not to return to Starling. While he understood why he'd done it, that didn't mean he could allow him to remain in the city. Oliver's place was with him. In Nanda Parbat. Not gallivanting around the Glades.
"It would seem that his mother's involvement in the Undertaking was a bigger issue than we had foreseen," commented Nyssa, "He is obviously sticking around to watch his mother's trial from afar. Father, perhaps we should allow him some time..."
Ra's ran a hand down his face. His beloved was a complicated creature. One who had a deep attachment to his family. Perhaps, it was unwise of him to refuse to allow Oliver to go to Starling. To allow him to check on his sister. At least then he would have been able to keep an eye on him. Still, the damage was already done. He needed to consider this rationally and not with emotion.
"Perhaps, you are correct," stated the Demon's Head, sighing, "However, he cannot stay alone. Al Owal, you will join him in Starling and report on his behavior."
"Master," the assassin said, bowing his head.
"Go," ordered the older man, gesturing towards the door.
...
Oliver hissed as he wrapped a bandage around his upper bicep. Blood oozed through the fabric from a knife wound. A young gang member had gotten lucky with a knife as Oliver knocked out his buddies. They had been trying to take control over his tower and hadn't taken kindly to his defense of his territory. Luckily, the blade hadn't gone too far into the muscle. It was a shallow wound. He wouldn't even need to stitch it. Just wrap it tightly and make sure that it didn't become infected.
The sound of footsteps however had him standing again. Were they back? He grabbed his bow and pulled up his cloth mask. Taking a fighting stance, the archer readied himself for an attack.
"You there?" asked Lance from below.
Oh for fucks sake. Why was he back? Oliver had hoped that after the last conversation the detective would give up. Or at the very least not return so quickly. Shaking his head, the younger man relaxed his grip on his bow. He gave an affirmative grunt loud enough for Lance to hear him. Footsteps echoed from the ladder followed by a grumble from the detective as he made his way up. Oliver slipped back into the shadows.
"Still here, huh," muttered the cop, a frown on his face, "Did you not have anywhere else to go?"
Another non committal sound was his response. Lance's eyebrows furrowed. Oliver tilted his head to the side and observed him. The detective was not dressed in uniform. Instead, he wore a leather jacket, jeans, and a t-shirt. It'd been a long time since Oliver had seen him so dressed down. Of course, the last time the archer had seen the older man was before the Gambit sunk. How might have things been different if he never went to the island?
Lance placed his usual bag on the ground before stretching. Oliver noticed how the other man winced.
"Are you okay?" he asked before he could stop himself.
"I am," answered Lance then he peered at the shadows, "You act like you don't care but you do, don't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said the younger man, turning away to look at the window.
"Sure, kid," chuckled the detective, a smirk on his lips, "Why don't you let me get you a bed somewhere? Just for one night?"
"No," replied Oliver, his tone short and abrupt, "I'm fine. Besides there are those who need it more than I do."
"Alright," sighed Lance, his shoulders slumping a bit, "I get it. But, you can't live in the Clock Tower forever. The Canary knows that you're here. She hasn't told anyone besides me, but she does know."
"I am fine," he insisted.
"Okay," relented the detective, "But, at the very least come out of the shadows. Its awkward not being able to actually talk to you."
"You'd take my clothes the wrong way," muttered Oliver.
"What could possibly..." the detective trailed off, his mouth dropping open, "you're not nude, are you?"
"Yes, yes, I am," deadpanned the archer, rolling his eyes, "I'm a nudist and I love to walk around without a stitch of clothing. What kind of a question was that?"
"You actually have a sense of humor!" gasped the detective, his expression comically exaggerated, "I didn't expect that. Who are you and what have you done with the moody hermit that lives in the Clock Tower?"
"Very funny," growled Oliver, but he felt a small smile crossing his face.
It was hard not to want to banter with the other man. It was so easy to do so. Sighing the archer leaned his head against the wall. This was stupid. He was letting himself get attached. He should push the other away. Keep his distance. If the other found out his true identity, he'd hate him. Even more than the detective already did.
"Kid," said the voice, breaking him from his thoughts, "Hey, where'd you go?"
"Nowhere," whispered the archer, taking a breath to calm his nerves, "You're making me feel like a teenager. You realize I'm an adult right?"
"Sure," drawled the detective, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "So, the fact that you're hiding in the shadows and won't say anything personal is totally not the actions of a teenager. And, the moon isn't a giant rock orbiting the earth either."
Oliver drew the pen he had in his jacket and threw it at the other man. The detective yelped in surprise. His arms flailed a bit as the object bounced off his head. Once the shock passed, his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. The glare that was directed at the archer was impressive. Oliver chuckled a little.
"You are a piece of work," huffed the detective, shaking his head in exasperation, "How did you even hit me with that? There's barely any light in here."
"Practice," offered Oliver, smirking a bit.
"Practice right," drew put Lance, "What were you raised by ninjas or something?"
Oliver couldn't quite stop the flinch. That was too close to the mark. It wasn't missed either. Quentin frowned at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. For a moment, the detective was quiet. Then, the older man slowly crouched down, his posture relaxed and non-threatening. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm. Like he was approaching a frightened animals.
"Is that what happened to you?" questioned the other, his gaze searching, "Were you kidnapped and brainwashed by some... group? Is that why you won't come out of the shadows? Because, you think that you'll hurt me?"
Lance hit it on the head without even meaning to. Oliver could see the gears turning in his mind. He had no idea how much danger he was in. Or that he was in any danger. As far as the detective knew, Oliver was nothing more than a traumatized young adult. He wanted to help but Oliver couldn't let him. Letting anyone close would put them in danger.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly, "I put you in danger every time you come."
"I'm not afraid of your enemies, kid," argued the detective, a frown crossing his features, "And, I'm not going to leave a person in need of help. You don't have to deal with this alone. Let me help."
Oliver shook his head and said, "If you knew who I was, you would leave me. As I am now, I am a dead man to everyone who once knew me."
"Dead men don't bleed or breathe," countered Quentin, his eyes narrowing, "They also tend to be in a grave. Last that I checked, you are not in a grave. Come on, kid. If everyone believes you are dead, what is the harm in telling me?"
"Even if you are one who knew me from before?" asked Oliver darkly before he could stop himself.
Quentin's brows rose to his hairline and his mouth opened and closed a few times. Obviously, he hadn't expected the question. Oliver ran a hand over his face. Gods he was so tired.
"If that is the case," breathed the detective, his eyes wide, "Then, why not go to your family. They'd be relieved to know that you were alive. Why hide from them?"
"They are better off believing that I am dead," answered Oliver, his tone sad, "There is nothing good that could come from them learning the truth. You should leave me."
"Not happening," replied the older man, his lips thinning, "Now that I know that you're someone that I've met before, that makes this all the easier. All I have to do is figure out who would fit the bill. So, lets see, are you from the Glades?"
"Go home," demanded the archer, his tone dark, "Before I make you, Detective."
"Make me," retorted the other, his arms crossing, "If you were going to hurt me, you'd have done so already."
Oliver stepped forward a little as he drew back an arrow into his bow. It was enough for the man to see what he was wearing and there was a flicker of recognition. Then, the other's expression turned to shock.
"Mer... no you're not Merlyn," said Lance, "But you are wearing the same gear as him."
"Merlyn," scoffed the archer, his grip on his weapon tightening, "He trained at the same place I did. If he hadn't been killed by the Canary, my Master would have ordered his death."
Lance's eyes widened and his body stiffened. However, he didn't run. Did this man, have no self preservation instincts? This was getting to be ridiculous. The older man should not be sticking his neck out for him.
Slowly Lance approached him. He held his hands in a placating gesture. His movements were careful and slow. Still, he kept his eye contact and did not falter. Oliver growled. The sound was loud enough to cause the other to pause. Then, the detective continued to approach him. He pushed down on Oliver's wrist. Reluctantly the younger man lowered the bow.
"You're not going to hurt me," stated the detective, his tone firm, "You're trying to scare me away. But, that isn't going to happen. Trust me."
Oliver didn't reply. Instead, he slipped the arrow back into the quiver. With a sigh, the archer moved to sit on his mattress. Lance followed him and crouched in front of him.
"Come on, kid," murmured the cop, his eyes pleading, "Talk to..."
Lance's phone chose that moment to go off followed by Oliver's. The detective pulled his phone out and listened to the voice on the other end. Oliver got the alert that Laurel Lance had been kidnapped by the Doll Maker.
There was no time to waste here. By the time Lance turned around he was gone.
Chapter Text
...
Quentin never thought he'd be happy to hear the thwack of an arrow. But, when the Doll Maker hit the ground an arrow in his chest, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. He spun on his heel to see the familiar form of the guy who hid in the Clock Tower. The man had his hood drawn up and a mask on his face. Just like the last time.
He didn't stay however as Sarah in her Canary gear chased after him. Quentin wanted to follow but he couldn't leave Laurel. Luckily, his partner and backup had arrived. Together, the two cops were able to carry her to safety.
Laurel was shaken, bruised, and covered in lacerations, but she was okay. There was no sign of the new vigilante. Nor of the Canary. On the rooftop he did find the bindings Sarah used that had been cut with a blade. As he helped search for evidence his phone pinged.
Sarah was requesting his presence at the Foundry. She'd found something. At least, that's how she made it sound.
After the scene had been cleared and the crime lab had taken custody of the body, he was finally able to leave. He went straight to Verdant. Once inside, the detective descended to the basement. Felicity was sitting at the computers typing on the keyboard. While Sarah was getting a shoulder injury treated by Diggle.
"What's going on?" he asked stepping into the room.
"Well Sarah," answered Felicity waving at her, "Decided going after Mr. Mysterious alone. And she knows who he is."
"Really," inquired the detective, "Who is he then?"
"Someone you'll never expect," sighed Sarah, wincing in pain, her arm in a sling, "It's Oliver."
He wanted to deny it. That it should have been impossible. Then he remembered that he thought the same about Sadag. Everything began to click. How the young man avoided talking about his family. Why, the guy was so jumpy. That explained everything. The kid probably thought that Quentin still hated him for the fact he was the reason that Sarah was on the Queen's Gambit. He didn't. Not anymore. Not after hearing what Oliver had done to protect her on the island.
"Let me go talk to him," said Quentin.
"I'm coming," argued Sarah, standing, "We're both going. He'll listen to us."
"No," he denied quickly, "Too many people and he'll disappear. Let me speak to him alone."
...
Quentin returned to the Clock Tower. He was in his normal clothes. The older man had his hands in his coat pockets and a frown on his lips. Upstairs he could hear movement of more than one person.
"Hold still kid," ordered a gruff male voice that he belatedly realized was Oliver.
"I'm fine," insisted a girl who he remembered as Sin a friend of Sarah's, "Why'd you help me, dude?"
"Because, its the right thing to do," replied Oliver, his voice exasperated, "Hold still this will sting."
"Fuck!" yelped the teenager, her voice a hiss of pain, "Watch where the hell you're putting that crap. Do you even know how to use that?"
"Believe me, I've patched myself and others up in worse conditions," retorted the younger man, "Besides, its not my fault that you decided to jump a gang banger. You're lucky that I was passing by."
"Yeah," drawled the girl, sarcasm thick, "Real lucky. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Hiding away in the Clock Tower."
Quentin climbed the ladder. Both occupants froze and looked at him. Oliver's features were hidden behind his mask, and a hood. He had started for his bow until he recognized Quentin.
Sin was dressed in the usual hoodie, skinny jeans, and combat boots, that she usually wore. Her face showed her surprise and confusion at his appearance. She had a bandage on her arm and a few bruises on her face. Oliver was wrapping a wound on her arm.
"Detective," greeted Oliver cautiously.
"Hey, Kid," said the detective, giving a smile, "Hello, Sin."
"Hi," mumbled the teen, her brows furrowed in confusion, "What are you doing here, Detective?"
"He's been checking in on me," answered the archer, not relaxing but neither was he making a move for a weapon, "Making sure I've got food and a bed to sleep on."
"And, you are," commented the cop, his eyes raking the room, and noticing the extra bedding, "I'm glad that you're being sociable."
"I'll leave you to it," Sin said quickly excusing herself.
She slipped past the two men and was gone a moment later. Oliver watched her go, a frown on his features. Then, the archer turned his attention to the detective. His body tensed and his gaze became guarded.
Quentin approached him slowly. He had his hands in his pocket and his expression was calm. When he was within arms reach of the other, he stopped. Oliver was stiff and his posture was closed off.
"Sarah told me," whispered the cop, his tone quiet, his gaze searching the other, "Oliver..."
"I haven't gone by that name in a long time," growled the other.
"It's your name," argued Quentin, "It's who you are. I don't know what's happened to you since the island but you're still Oliver Queen."
"I'm not," insisted the man, shaking his head, his fists clenching, "He died on that damned boat six years ago. Forget you saw me."
Damn it! Why was he being like this?! If he believed that part of him was dead why was he still here? It made no sense. Unless... Quentin had an idea.
"Let me ask you something," tried Quentin switching tactics, "Why are you still here? If you're not Oliver Queen, then why did you return to Starling City?"
Oliver hesitated. That was more telling than if he'd yelled at Quentin. The younger man's body swayed slightly towards the detective before catching himself. It was only a couple seconds of hesitation. But it was enough. Enough to tell him that there was a reason that Oliver was in Starling City. Something that was important to him. It wasn't hard ot guess what that reason was now that he knew who he was.
"You're staying for Thea," he said in a way that made it clear that it wasn't a question, "You can't bring yourself to leave while its uncertain if your mother will be able to return to her or not."
"She doesn't need to know I'm alive," stated Oliver, his posture tense, "I'm better off dead to her."
"If that were the case," countered the detective, his tone firm and not allowing argument, "Then, you would have stayed in whatever hole you were hiding in. Instead, you're in the city that you grew up in. Watching over a sister that you're afraid will lose her mother. Tell me, are you really trying to convince me that she'll be better off without you. After everything that has already happened to her. Ki... Oliver she has lost everything already. She needs her brother."
Oliver shook his head but Quentin took a slow step forward. When the younger man didn't make a move to run, Quentin continued to approach him. Soon, the cop was at the other's side. Gently the older man placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Oliver," murmured the detective, squeezing the man's shoulder, "If you're not ready to let anyone else know that's fine. Just come with me. Let me show that there is still someone out there who cares about you."
For a moment he thought Oliver would push him away again. That the archer would return to his hiding. However, the kid didn't. Instead, the younger man turned his gaze to look at the wall. His body relaxed and he nodded his agreement.
"Okay," he agreed and relief flooded Quentin.
Finally.