Threadbare | Arrow

Chapter Two

A/N: There are depictions of unhealthy relationships and unhealthy mindsets in this chapter. Please use personal discretion when reading.

. . .

"Darling, you've been my greatest defeat

So hate me to death if you must"

KEATON HENSON - 'Prayer'

. . .

'Welcome home', the text read.

Two words. Two words sent from an unfamiliar number. That was all.

It was enough.

Oliver had typed and re-typed his response a million times or more, his questions tripping over each other and becoming an incomprehensible mess. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted to ask her - wasn't quite sure what questions she would even answer. If she would deign to answer at all.

He didn't know how she'd gotten his number, given that his phone had shattered in the Quake and he hadn't bothered to carry the old number over to his new phone. She'd probably gotten it from Felicity, maybe even Thea.

'I'm so sorry,' is what he ended up writing back, heart in his throat and fingers trembling just slightly. 'I'm so, so fucking sorry, Cali.'

The guards at Iron Heights had taken his phone away before he could check for a response, and he hated them for it, hated Malcolm for putting his mother here, hated himself for not stopping everything when he could've.

When Moira entered the room, stripped of her pretty dresses and her make up and her loose-curled hair, it took a moment for Oliver to recognise her as his mother, to place her in his memories. Prison had aged her, no matter how little time she'd spent there.

He couldn't bring himself to greet her with a hug, even when she hesitated a moment and watched him with cautious eyes. Shame was painted over every single one of her pores like greasy foundation, even as her smile warmed and relaxed in his presence.

"Hey," he said softly, and didn't stand up to offer her a hug. There would be no way of surviving the feel of her, not when the betrayal was still fresh.

"Hey," she said back, in the same quiet tone, taking the seat opposite him.

It was awkward - no wonder Thea hadn't wanted to come, not with this silent weight of expectation from her. "I'm sorry I didn't make it sooner," he managed, swallowing down the nastiness he'd kept locked away since she'd confessed on live television.

Moira was already shaking her head. "No, no, no. Please, Oliver. There are gonna be enough apologies with me apologising to you for the rest of my life."

Apologising for conspiring, for bowing to Malcolm, for getting Robert killed, for lying to him and to Thea and to Walter. Apologising for his grief, for Cali's grief, for the city's anger. Apologising for waiting so long to speak up.

But she had spoken up. "You don't have to," he told her, and somehow managed to make himself believe it. "You saved hundreds of lives."

"And killed hundreds more." Moira's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. Clearly, she'd spent her days thinking about the devastation and the decay and the death. Pain soaked her eyes. It made her hard to look at. "Including Tommy. And Janet Parker."

He couldn't bare to have a murderer for a mother, not when Tommy had condemned him for the same thing. "That was Malcolm," he said, because his mom had spoken up, had made that choice. It had redeemed her just enough - just enough for him to shoulder the rest of the blame instead