what he wants is an answer; an explanation. any string of words that might make this entire situation make an ounce of sense or, at the very least, allow him a foothold as he comes to process what all of this meeting entails.
no such kindness is granted.
no, of course not. the uncomfortable pit in his stomach comes as a familiarity. unwelcome as it were. along with its churning and threats to rise up against the back of his throat; wishing to make itself known. figuratively, physically. it was a wonder oliver could keep himself standing, what with how shaky his legs suddenly felt. regardless, he stood firm. locked in place as he listened to dominion -- to ángel -- avoid everything.
by their faint jingle does he realize his arm had lowered from the door, keys clasped within a tightening hold. metal sinks into his palm, jagged teeth of his house key settling in the grooves made. a reality check, if nothing else. dreams don't hurt like this.
"you would not plan a heist at all," he corrects, voice found somewhere in his swirling gulf of questions. "you retired. there is no more dominion."
relentless is the ache that settles within his ribcage, anxieties tendrils holding firm to the organ that beats in their hold. they tighten, squeeze, with every passing breath. with each new drop of realization that pools around the detective.
what acts as the stake to quiet his misery is that nickname. piercing deeply, as it should.
"you.... have not called me that." not since--... but he was so careful. their photograph was never left out, never made known! a keepsake for oliver and oliver alone, his last remaining momento of their connection.
"i will ask again: why are you wearing that."
he feels sick. his hand hurts. his everything hurts.
with a firm, yet shaken breath, oliver finally turns from his door. body turned to face the other man head on, like an obstacle he could no longer avoid. that mask would do him no favors here, not anymore.
"ángel," he begins, heart strained by the nauseas wave that knocks into him next. its rhythm was too evident, too quick. it was making him dizzy, but he had to know. the question sat ready at edge of his tongue, one he, too, wished to avoid.
"what... do you remember?" ( what changed? )
