Outside Mickey's Tavern - Twenty Minutes Later
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement as Harry Potter emerged from the passenger seat of John Diggle's black SUV with the kind of fluid grace that suggested he'd never encountered an ungainful moment in his life. At eighteen, he possessed the sort of devastating handsomeness that had graced magazine covers from London to Los Angeles—sharp cheekbones, perfectly tousled dark hair, and those striking emerald green eyes that seemed to see everything and judge most of it wanting. Today, however, those eyes were focused on Mickey's Tavern with laser-like intensity.
"Remind me again why we're lurking outside what appears to be the epicenter of urban decay rather than sitting in a civilized establishment that serves proper tea?" Harry asked, adjusting his immaculate charcoal Armani suit with the unconscious elegance of someone born to wear clothes that cost more than most people's monthly rent.
"Because your cousin has a hero complex and an unhealthy obsession with grimy dive bars," Diggle replied dryly, checking his tactical watch with military precision. At six-foot-four and built like a walking advertisement for the benefits of disciplined training, Diggle somehow managed to make surveillance look effortless. "He's been in there for forty-three minutes."
Harry raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Forty-three minutes? In that establishment? Either he's conducting the world's most thorough investigation, or he's been drugged and is currently being held captive by what I can only assume are the bar's resident bacteria."
"Or he's talking to people who actually knew Derek Reston," Diggle pointed out with the patience of someone accustomed to managing wealthy young men with more attitude than sense. "You know, gathering intelligence. Doing actual detective work."
"How frightfully pedestrian," Harry drawled, though his sharp eyes never left the bar's entrance. "Here I was hoping for something more dramatic. Perhaps a rooftop chase or at least a moderately exciting car explosion."
Diggle shot him a look that suggested he'd had this conversation before with other members of the Queen family. "This isn't a movie, Potter. Real detective work involves talking to real people and asking real questions."
"Oh, I'm aware of how the real world operates, Diggle," Harry replied smoothly, straightening an already perfect cuff. "I simply prefer my reality with better lighting and superior catering. Call it a character flaw."
"I'd call it something else entirely," Diggle muttered under his breath.
Before Harry could deliver what undoubtedly would have been a devastatingly witty retort, the tavern's door swung open and Oliver Queen emerged, looking like he'd spent the better part of an hour absorbing the collective misery of everyone who'd ever set foot in the establishment. Even in casual jeans and a simple gray henley, Oliver carried himself with the controlled awareness of someone who'd learned to treat every environment as potentially hostile.
"Well, well," Harry murmured as his cousin approached the vehicle. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, our intrepid investigator appears to have discovered something that's managed to make him even more brooding than usual. Quite an accomplishment, really."
Oliver slid into the backseat with the fluid motion of someone who'd mastered the art of moving efficiently in confined spaces. The weight of whatever he'd learned sat visibly on his shoulders, and Harry immediately recognized the particular brand of moral complexity that his cousin wore like an uncomfortable suit.
"Learn anything useful?" Diggle asked, starting the engine with practiced efficiency. "Or did you just spend an hour listening to the life stories of Starling City's most dedicated alcoholics?"
"Derek Reston was well-liked," Oliver said quietly, his blue eyes distant with thought. "Respected. Everyone I talked to described him as a good foreman, a decent man who looked out for his crew. Someone who tried to do right by his family and his community."
Harry turned in his seat to study his cousin's profile, reading the conflict written across Oliver's features like a particularly tragic piece of literature. "I detect the approaching thunder of an enormous 'but' in this conversation."
"But he's still robbing banks," Oliver continued, though his voice carried about as much conviction as a politician's campaign promise. "Whatever drove him to crime, he's crossed lines that—"
"Oh, spare us the moral hand-wringing," Harry interrupted with the kind of dismissive elegance that could cut glass. "The man was systematically destroyed by corporate malfeasance, pushed beyond his breaking point by circumstances entirely beyond his control, and responded by turning to crime. It's hardly the most original tragedy in human history."
"That doesn't make it right," Oliver said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
"Doesn't make it wrong, either," Harry replied smoothly. "Or at least, it makes it significantly more complicated than your usual 'shoot first, ask moral questions later' approach to problem-solving."
Diggle's hands tightened fractionally on the steering wheel. "Oliver, what happened to Derek Reston and his family is tragic. But that doesn't change the fact that they're now armed criminals who've chosen to solve their problems by threatening innocent people."
"Innocent people," Harry repeated thoughtfully, his brilliant mind working through the implications with the precision of a master chess player. "Such as the executives of Queen Consolidated who made the decisions that destroyed these people's lives in the first place? Or are we limiting our definition of innocence to exclude corporate malfeasance?"
"We're talking about bank tellers and security guards," Diggle said firmly. "People who had nothing to do with what happened to the Reston family. People who are just trying to do their jobs and go home safely at the end of the day."
"Fair point," Harry conceded with a slight nod. "Though I do find it fascinating that we're more concerned about hypothetical future victims than we are about the very real past victims who created this situation in the first place."
Oliver was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the urban decay of the Glades. Harry watched his cousin's internal struggle with the kind of detached interest he might have shown while observing a particularly complex scientific experiment.
"What if we approach them directly?" Oliver said finally. "Not as the Hood, not as some mysterious vigilante leaving cryptic arrows in people's shoulders, but as Oliver Queen. What if I tell them the truth—that I know what my father did was wrong, that I want to make it right, that they don't have to keep running from a system that failed them?"
Harry's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. "My dear cousin, that might be the most refreshingly honest thing you've said since returning from your extended tropical vacation. Of course, it's also potentially the most naive."
"Naive?" Oliver's voice carried a sharp edge.
"Charmingly idealistic," Harry corrected smoothly. "You're assuming that five years of careful planning and criminal enterprise can be undone with a heartfelt apology and a sincere expression of corporate responsibility. It's rather like believing you can stop a charging elephant with a strongly worded letter."
"But it might work," Oliver insisted. "Derek Reston isn't a career criminal. He's a desperate father who's run out of legitimate options. If we can show him that there are alternatives—"
"Then what?" Diggle interjected. "He abandons his criminal empire, returns the stolen money, and goes back to being unemployed in the Glades? That's not exactly what I'd call a compelling offer."
"We give him something better," Oliver said with growing conviction. "A job. A real job, with Queen Consolidated. Management position, full benefits, enough salary to support his family with dignity. We make him whole."
Harry was quiet for a moment, considering the implications with the kind of strategic thinking that had made him successful in business before he was old enough to legally drink in the United States.
"It's not entirely without merit," he said finally. "Though you're overlooking several rather significant complications."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that Derek Reston has spent the last five years planning elaborate heists with his family," Harry replied with the patient tone of someone explaining basic mathematics to a particularly slow student. "He's developed skills, contacts, and resources that extend far beyond his original circumstances. He's not just a victim anymore, Oliver. He's become something else entirely."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that people change," Harry continued, his emerald eyes reflecting a understanding that went beyond his years. "The Derek Reston who was laid off five years ago might have jumped at the chance to return to legitimate employment. But the Derek Reston who's now the leader of a successful criminal organization? He might have different priorities."
Diggle nodded grimly as he navigated the SUV through the increasingly congested streets leading away from the Glades. "Harry's right. We can't assume that offering Reston a job will be enough to make him abandon everything he's built. Crime can be addictive, especially when you're good at it."
"So what are you suggesting?" Oliver asked, though Harry could hear the defensive note creeping into his cousin's voice. "That we don't even try? That we just write them off as irredeemable criminals and move straight to the violence?"
"I'm suggesting that you prepare yourself for the possibility that your offer of redemption might be politely declined," Harry said dryly. "And that when it is, you'll need to decide whether your commitment to giving them a chance extends to letting them continue threatening innocent people."
The weight of that possibility settled over the SUV's interior like a heavy blanket as Diggle pulled into the underground garage beneath Queen Consolidated. The familiar hum of expensive security systems and climate control replaced the ambient noise of the city streets, and Harry found himself thinking about the moral complexity of their situation.
As they rode the elevator up to Oliver's office, Harry studied his cousin's reflection in the polished steel doors. Oliver had changed since returning from Lian Yu—become harder, more focused, more willing to make the kind of difficult decisions that most people spent their entire lives avoiding. But underneath that new hardness, the fundamental decency that had always defined Oliver Queen remained intact.
It was that decency that made him effective as a vigilante, but it was also what made situations like this so difficult for him.
"Oliver," Harry said as the elevator doors opened with a soft chime, "I understand your desire to give the Reston family a chance at redemption. It's admirable, really. Very heroic. The sort of thing they write inspiring stories about."
"But?"
"But heroism without pragmatism is just elaborate suicide," Harry replied smoothly, stepping into the corridor with the kind of effortless elegance that made expensive marble floors seem like personal red carpets. "And pragmatism without compassion is just sociopathy with better press coverage."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Meaning that if you're going to offer Derek Reston a way out, you need to be prepared for every possible response," Harry explained as they walked toward Oliver's corner office. "Including the response where he looks you in the eye and tells you that he's found crime more profitable than legitimate work, and that he has no intention of abandoning his current lifestyle."
Oliver's expression was grim as he pushed open his office door. "And if that happens?"
"Then you'll have to decide whether your commitment to justice is stronger than your desire for mercy," Harry said quietly. "Because sometimes you can't have both."
The late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Oliver's office, casting long geometric shadows across the polished hardwood floors. Beyond the glass, Starling City spread out below them in all its complex glory—gleaming corporate towers standing alongside decaying neighborhoods, wealth and poverty existing in uncomfortable proximity.
Somewhere in that urban landscape, Derek Reston and his family were planning their next move, driven by five years of accumulated grievances and the kind of desperation that transformed ordinary people into dangerous criminals.
And somewhere else, innocent people were going about their daily routines, unaware that their safety might depend on the choices made by people they'd never meet, people struggling with moral questions that had no clean answers.
"You know," Harry said, settling into one of Oliver's ridiculously comfortable leather chairs with the kind of casual grace that suggested he'd been born to occupy expensive furniture, "there is one other option we haven't considered."
"Which is?"
"We could always let Detective Lance handle this," Harry replied with a slight smile. "After all, the Royal Flush Gang is operating within his jurisdiction. Bank robbery is rather clearly a matter for the police, not for amateur vigilantes with commitment issues."
Oliver's look could have frozen water at fifty paces. "Amateur?"
"Well, you're not exactly getting paid for this, are you?" Harry pointed out reasonably. "By definition, that makes you an amateur. A very well-equipped amateur with impressive abs and a concerning number of sharp objects, but an amateur nonetheless."
"Harry."
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
Harry's grin was absolutely radiant. "There's the family charm I remember so fondly."
Diggle, who had been watching this exchange with the expression of someone trying to decide whether to be amused or concerned, finally shook his head. "Are you two finished? Because we still have the small matter of a criminal organization to deal with."
"Of course," Harry said, straightening in his chair with renewed focus. "Though I do think we should establish some ground rules before we proceed."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that if we're going to approach Derek Reston as Oliver Queen rather than as the mysterious Hood, we're going to need a much better explanation for how we know about his criminal activities," Harry pointed out logically. "Corporate executives don't typically have detailed intelligence about local crime families unless they're significantly more involved than they should be."
Oliver was quiet for a moment, clearly working through the implications. "We could say we hired private investigators to look into the Queen Consolidated layoffs. Due diligence, corporate responsibility, making sure we understand the full impact of past decisions."
"Not bad," Harry agreed. "Though it raises the question of why you waited five years to conduct this due diligence. Corporate responsibility is generally more convincing when it's timely."
"Because I was dead," Oliver said dryly. "It's difficult to conduct due diligence when you're stranded on an island in the North China Sea."
"Fair point," Harry conceded. "Though you've been back for several months now. What's taken you so long to address these issues?"
"I've been busy."
"Busy shooting people with arrows and brooding picturesquely on rooftops?"
"Busy trying to save this city," Oliver corrected firmly.
"Ah yes, the grand mission," Harry said with just enough irony to make it clear he wasn't entirely convinced. "Tell me, how exactly is that going? Saved the city yet, or are we still in the early stages of the salvation process?"
Oliver's expression suggested he was reconsidering his decision to involve his cousin in vigilante activities. "Harry, if you're not going to take this seriously—"
"Oh, I'm taking it very seriously indeed," Harry interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp with genuine intensity. "I'm taking it so seriously that I want to make sure we don't get ourselves killed through poor planning and excessive optimism."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Harry's casual facade gave way to something harder and more focused. For just a moment, the brilliant mind that had made him successful in business and dangerous in negotiation was fully visible.
"Derek Reston isn't going to be impressed by corporate apologies and job offers," Harry continued with quiet intensity. "He's spent five years watching his family struggle while the people responsible for their suffering continued to live in comfort and prosperity. He's angry, he's organized, and he's had plenty of time to plan for contingencies."
"Your point?"
"My point is that if we're going to do this, we need to do it right," Harry said firmly. "Full background research, detailed contingency planning, and a clear understanding of exactly what we're prepared to do if negotiation fails."
Diggle nodded approvingly. "Now you're talking sense."
"I have my moments," Harry replied with a slight smile. "Though I do prefer to space them out for maximum impact."
Oliver looked between his cousin and his bodyguard, recognizing the shift from banter to serious strategic planning. "What do you need?"
"Everything Felicity can find on the Reston family," Harry said immediately. "Financial records, employment history, criminal associates, known addresses, vehicle registrations, phone records if she can access them legally. We need to understand not just who Derek Reston was, but who he's become."
"Already on it," Oliver confirmed.
"Good. We'll also need detailed security assessments for every Queen Consolidated facility, updated threat analysis from the police department, and contingency plans for extraction if this meeting goes badly."
"Extraction?" Oliver's eyebrows rose.
"Oliver," Harry said patiently, "you're planning to walk into a meeting with armed criminals and essentially confess to having intimate knowledge of their illegal activities. Even if your intentions are entirely benevolent, there's a reasonable chance they might interpret this as some form of entrapment or law enforcement cooperation."
"They might try to kill us," Diggle added helpfully.
"Exactly. So we need to make sure we can leave the meeting alive, preferably with all our limbs still attached and functioning properly."
Oliver was quiet for a moment, staring out at the city beyond his windows. "What if they agree to meet? What if Derek Reston is willing to listen?"
"Then we make the best offer we can, and hope it's enough," Harry replied simply. "But Oliver, you need to understand that we might be offering redemption to people who no longer want to be redeemed."
"And if that's the case?"
Harry's emerald eyes were cold as winter. "Then we stop them. By whatever means necessary."
The words hung in the air between them, carrying the weight of a decision that none of them particularly wanted to make but all of them understood might be inevitable.
Sometimes justice and mercy were incompatible, and sometimes the only choice was deciding which one mattered more in the long run.
The question was whether they'd have the wisdom to make that choice correctly when the time came, and the strength to live with the consequences afterward.
Outside the windows, Starling City continued its ancient dance of light and shadow, hope and despair, redemption and damnation. And somewhere in that complex urban equation, Derek Reston and his family were making choices that would determine whether this story ended in salvation or tragedy.
Harry looked out at the city and wondered if there was any way to resolve this situation without someone paying a price higher than they deserved.
He suspected there wasn't, but he was willing to try anyway.
After all, even the most cynical pragmatist occasionally needed to believe in the possibility of redemption.
The alternative was simply too depressing to contemplate.
—
# CNRI OFFICE, EVENING
The office had transformed into something that would make NASA's mission control jealous. Joanna had commandeered the entire east wall, turning it into what she'd dramatically christened "Command Central"—a sprawling masterpiece of color-coded vendor lists, venue layouts, and donor contact sheets that looked like she was planning either a charity gala or a small invasion of a neighboring country.
"You know," she called out from her perch on a rolling chair, perfectly balanced while pinning another contact sheet to the wall, "I'm starting to think I missed my calling as a military strategist. This is like chess, but with canapés and really expensive wine."
The fundraiser had evolved from a desperate Hail Mary into something that actually resembled a real event. The confirmed RSVP pile had grown thick enough that Laurel had to use a paperweight shaped like the scales of justice to keep the stack from toppling over—a gift from her father that usually collected dust but now seemed oddly appropriate.
Tommy had been showing up religiously, trading his usual schedule of leisurely brunches and spontaneous shopping trips for budget spreadsheets and vendor meetings. The transformation was jarring; gone was the guy who treated every day like an extended weekend, replaced by someone who actually knew what a timeline looked like and could negotiate with caterers without getting distracted by their life stories.
"I still can't figure out if this is character growth or an elaborate performance piece," Joanna had whispered to Laurel that morning, watching Tommy charm a florist into donating centerpieces with the same intensity most people reserved for hostage negotiations.
Tonight, it was just Tommy and Laurel holding down the fort, working through the auction catalog while sharing what Tommy had declared to be "the best Chinese food in the city, and I don't care if the restaurant looks like it hasn't been updated since the Carter administration."
"Seriously, Tommy," Laurel said, scanning the latest addition to their donation list, "Margaret Thorne donated a week at her Napa vineyard. That's got to be worth—"
"Twenty-five thousand," Tommy interrupted, not looking up from his lo mein. "Maybe thirty if we play up the exclusivity angle in the program description."
Laurel paused mid-bite of her General Tso's chicken. "You know the exact value off the top of your head?"
"I may have done some research," Tommy said with studied casualness. "Also, I may have mentioned to Margaret that her tax write-off would be particularly generous this year, and that the press coverage would do wonders for her new wine label launch."
"Of course you did." Laurel shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're actually terrifying when you focus that networking thing of yours on something productive."
"Terrifying?" Tommy raised an eyebrow, twirling noodles around his chopsticks with unnecessary precision. "I prefer 'impressively strategic.' It sounds more sophisticated."
"Don't let it go to your head, Merlyn," Laurel warned, but her tone was lighter than it had been in weeks. "I'm just saying you're good at this. The schmoozing, the persuasion, getting people to open their checkbooks for a good cause. It's... actually impressive."
Tommy set down his chopsticks with theatrical gravity. "I'm sorry, can you repeat that? I want to savor this moment of Laurel Lance admitting I'm good at something that isn't just spending my trust fund on overpriced everything."
"Don't push it," Laurel said, throwing a fortune cookie at him. "I said impressive, not miraculous."
"Right, right," Tommy caught the cookie one-handed, grinning. "Wouldn't want to set unrealistic expectations. Though I have to say, 'impressive' is a significant upgrade from your usual assessment of my life choices."
"My usual assessment being?"
"Let's see," Tommy began counting on his fingers. "Frivolous, self-absorbed, commitment-phobic, allergic to meaningful responsibility, and I believe 'professionally useless' came up at least once."
Laurel winced slightly. "Did I really say professionally useless?"
"Verbatim. Though to be fair, you were particularly angry that day. Something about me missing dinner because I got distracted by a poker game that turned into a weekend in Vegas."
"Okay, that was professionally useless behavior," Laurel conceded. "But this... this is different."
They fell into a comfortable working rhythm, the kind of easy silence that came from years of knowing each other's habits. Tommy organized the high-value auction items while Laurel cross-referenced the guest list with dietary restrictions, their movements synchronized in a way that spoke to months of shared late-night study sessions and lazy weekend mornings from what felt like another lifetime.
The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of papers and the distant hum of Starling City traffic fifteen floors below. It was Laurel who finally broke the spell, asking the question that had been gnawing at her for days.
"Tommy," she said, not looking up from her notepad. "Why are you really doing this?"
"I told you, I want to help—"
"No," Laurel interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. "Don't give me another line about corporate responsibility or community engagement or whatever press release answer you've been practicing. I want the truth. The real truth."
Tommy went still, his pen frozen mid-signature on a vendor contract. For a moment, she thought he might deflect with that quick wit of his, turn the question into a joke or redirect the conversation entirely. Instead, he was quiet for a long time, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering maze of the city below.
"Can I tell you something?" he said finally, his voice carrying a weight she hadn't heard from him in years. "Something that's going to make me sound like an even bigger cliché than I already am?"
"Try me."
Tommy took a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his usual casual confidence. "Three weeks ago, I picked up a girl at Verdant. Blonde, gorgeous, exactly the kind of situation I've built my entire social reputation on. Smart enough to keep up with conversation, uncomplicated enough not to ask about tomorrow."
Laurel felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest, but she forced herself to keep listening.
"We went back to her place," Tommy continued, his voice growing quieter. "This incredible penthouse in the financial district, all glass and steel and probably worth more than most people's houses. I was going through all the usual moves—you know, the charming banter, the carefully calculated spontaneity, the whole routine that's worked like clockwork since I was old enough to have a routine."
He paused, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture that seemed unconsciously vulnerable.
"But when we got up to her apartment," he said slowly, "I realized I'd been there before. Not that apartment specifically, but... same building, same floor, same expensive emptiness dressed up as sophistication. Two years ago, different girl, but everything felt exactly identical. The designer furniture, the art that was probably chosen by an interior decorator, the kind of perfect sterility that money creates when it's trying too hard."
Laurel's pen had stilled in her hand, her Chinese food forgotten.
"So what did you do?" she asked quietly.
"I left," Tommy said simply. "Just walked out without explanation. Left her standing there in her designer lingerie, probably wondering if I'd had some kind of breakdown. Which, in retrospect, maybe I had."
"Tommy..."
"And on the drive home," he continued, his dark eyes finally meeting hers, "all I could think about was you. Not in some pathetic, pining way—well, not entirely," he added with a self-deprecating smile. "I was thinking about all those mornings I used to wake up next to you. How different it felt."
The words hung in the air between them, charged with years of history and unspoken regret.
"Different how?" Laurel asked, though she wasn't sure she was ready for the answer.
"Real," Tommy said without hesitation. "God, Laurel, it was so real. Every morning, every conversation, every stupid argument about whether to get coffee or make it at home. I remembered all of it, every single detail, even when I was spending years trying to convince myself that what we had was just... fun."
Laurel felt her throat tighten. "It was more than fun."
"I know," Tommy said softly. "I knew it then, too, but I was twenty-two and terrified that if I admitted how much you meant to me, I'd somehow screw it up worse than if I just pretended it was casual."
"So instead you screwed it up by actually making it casual."
"Yeah," Tommy laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Brilliant strategy, right? Instead of risking losing the most important thing in my life by being honest about how I felt, I guaranteed losing it by acting like it didn't matter."
Laurel studied his face in the warm glow of the desk lamp, seeing past the expensive shirt and the practiced charm to something raw and honest that she'd almost forgotten existed.
"You really just walked out on her?" she asked.
"Fastest I've ever moved away from anything, and that's saying something considering my track record with commitment." Tommy's smile was rueful. "That poor girl probably thought I'd had some kind of medical emergency."
"Or that you were married," Laurel suggested, surprising herself by almost smiling. "Or secretly gay, or part of some elaborate reality show."
"All more plausible than the truth," Tommy agreed. "Which was that I realized I was trying to sleep my way into forgetting someone who I never should have let go in the first place."
The honesty of it hit Laurel like a physical force, leaving her breathless and uncertain.
"Tommy," she said carefully, "this doesn't fix everything. You can't just have an epiphany and expect—"
"I know," he interrupted gently. "I know I hurt you. I know trust isn't something you just get back because you had a moment of clarity in someone else's overpriced apartment. I'm not telling you this because I expect anything from you."
"Then why are you telling me?"
Tommy was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm she remembered from law school study sessions.
"Because you asked for the truth," he said finally. "And the truth is that I'm doing this—all of this, the fundraiser, showing up here every day, learning how to be useful instead of just decorative—because I want to be the kind of person who deserves to wake up next to you again."
Laurel stared at him, her heart doing something complicated that she wasn't ready to examine too closely.
"I want to be someone who does more than just take up space and spend money," Tommy continued. "Someone who actually contributes something meaningful instead of just drifting through life looking for the next expensive distraction. And maybe that's selfish too, wanting to change so I can win you back, but it's the most honest selfish thing I've ever done."
The office seemed impossibly quiet in the wake of his confession, the silence stretching between them like a bridge neither was quite sure they should cross.
From down the hall, they could hear the cleaning crew starting their rounds, the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner providing a mundane counterpoint to the weight of the moment.
"This is crazy," Laurel said finally.
"Which part?"
"All of it. You, me, this conversation. The fact that you're sitting here eating Chinese takeout and planning charity auctions instead of being photographed at some club opening."
"Hey, I'll have you know I turned down three very exclusive invitations to be here tonight," Tommy said, and some of his usual lightness was creeping back into his voice. "Including one that involved a private jet to Miami and a promise of 'life-changing networking opportunities.'"
"Life-changing networking opportunities?"
"That's what they called it. I'm pretty sure it was code for 'really expensive party with really attractive people who won't remember your name tomorrow.'"
Laurel shook her head, but she was smiling now. "And you chose spreadsheets and lo mein instead?"
"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like a questionable life choice," Tommy grinned. "But the company's better here. Even if you did throw food at me."
"That was a fortune cookie, and you deserved it."
"Fair enough. What did yours say, by the way?"
Laurel cracked open the cookie she'd thrown at him, smoothing out the small slip of paper. "'Good things come to those who wait, but better things come to those who act,'" she read aloud.
"Ominously relevant," Tommy observed.
"What about yours?"
Tommy opened his own cookie, reading the fortune with a raised eyebrow. "'Your future is created by what you do today, not tomorrow.'"
They looked at each other across the cluttered desk, years of history and hurt and unspoken possibility hanging in the air between them.
"Think the universe is trying to tell us something?" Tommy asked.
"I think the universe has a twisted sense of humor," Laurel replied, but her voice was softer than it had been all evening.
"So," Tommy said carefully, "what do we do with that?"
Laurel was quiet for a long moment, studying the fortune in her hands.
"We finish the auction catalog," she said finally. "We make this fundraiser the best damn charity event Starling City has ever seen. And then..."
"And then?"
"And then we see what happens," Laurel said, meeting his eyes directly. "One day at a time. One honest conversation at a time."
Tommy's smile was different this time—quieter, more real, carrying a weight of possibility that felt both terrifying and hopeful.
"I can work with that," he said.
"Good," Laurel replied, picking up her pen again. "Because we still have forty-seven auction items to catalog, and I'm not staying here until midnight just because you had an emotional breakthrough."
"Noted," Tommy said, grinning as he reached for his own pen. "Though for the record, this is the best emotional breakthrough I've ever had."
"Don't push it, Merlyn."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Lance."
But as they bent their heads back over their work, both of them were smiling, and for the first time in years, the silence between them felt less like an ending and more like a beginning.
---
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