Oliver Queen

It was past Midnight.

He'd spent hours on the balcony of the Ace of Clubs after Clark had left, staring over the city blankly but not really seeing it.

He only had one drink, and it hadn't been nearly strong enough for what his body was craving. The short night had been the longest amount of time he'd been sober in weeks. Since the day of Jimmy Olsen's funeral.

Thoughts of Jimmy had made him think of the one person he'd done his best to avoid. The one person who'd been hurt most by everything that had happened. Whose life had been utterly wrecked. Shutting his eyes against his thoughts hadn't made them go away and he'd sucked in a breath, trying to steel himself against the pain.

Now as he stood on the doorstep of what he knew was called, quite appropriately, the Watchtower, he rubbed a hand over his face, his stomach in knots.

He'd faced Lois. He'd faced Clark.

He'd even faced Tess.

And he'd pushed all of them away, some more subtlely than others.

But this?

He wasn't sure he was ready to do this. But he had to. He owed it to her. He owed a lot of people a lot of things, but no one as much as her.

Reaching out, he knocked loudly.

And waited.

Terrified.