#d.lance01

Oliver landed in this time like he was a fish being thrown back into the water—he gasped, trying to fill his lungs as full as he could. Was he having a panic attack? It was possible. He stumbled back into the alley behind him and leaned back against the wall, swallowing thickly and leaning his head back against the brick. He took a few deep breaths, the cool air making his throat burn slightly. Oliver then bent over, coughing and trying not to make too much noise as he did so, his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t know if it was the travel through time—which he finally got someone to figure out so that he wouldn’t be alone and a fugitive in that awful future—or it was the sheer panic at how close they were to getting him. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t need to keep looking over his shoulder. He had been on his own for so long that he could barely remember how it felt to have someone there to look out for  you. Oliver hated being isolated, but he couldn’t risk bringing anyone else into it, not Roy or Emi or Mia or Connor...and especially not Dinah. He remembered the day that he had last seen her, the day he kept replaying over and over in his mind as if it were a film, as if it were the only thing he would ever get from her. He knew that it might be. He knew that the worst day of his life could be the last thing he had to hold onto of the love of his life. 

Crouching against the wall, he pushed his elbows against his knees and interlaced his fingers tightly, pressing his thumbs against his forehead. A soft noise vibrated in the back of his throat as he tried not to cry, tried not to scream, tried not to let everything that he was feeling overwhelm him. He took another deep breath, but it was painfully squeezed out of his lungs as he felt his chest constrict. It was like steel bands had wrapped around his ribs and were slowly pulling them in tighter and tighter until he had nothing left. 

He didn’t even know if it had worked, if this was the right year or if he had just been sent back 6 minutes. He needed to get up, do something, try and figure out what was going on, but he couldn’t do it just yet. He just kept his face pressed against his clasped hands, as if he was praying—and in a way, he was.