#is Leslie and she has already given up trying to convince him otherwise | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

raywritesthings · 5 years

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Old Associations

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Oliver Queen, Laurel Lance, Leslie Thompkins, Felicity Smoak, John Diggle, Thea Queen, Lyla Michaels Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Notes: Post-Episode 4x16 “Broken Hearts, No “Eleven-Fifty-Nine”, Leslie Thompkins borrowed from Batman: the Animated Series/DC Comics and is not based on the Gotham version. *Can also be read on my AO3*

John didn’t know what to do.

Before his eyes, Oliver and Felicity’s relationship was deteriorating more and more. First Felicity broke off the engagement. Then, he’d thought maybe they could salvage things with the fake wedding to lure in Cupid, but Felicity had been upset to be working with Oliver the entire time. And just an hour ago, he’d come back to the base since he’d forgotten his phone to find Oliver settled there for the night, engagement ring in his hands.

“Felicity’s quit the team,” Oliver had told him. “And I don’t think we’ll see her for a while.”

John had struggled to say anything. It seemed unthinkable that Felicity wouldn’t be part of the team anymore. Even while she and Oliver had been away, she’d been helping them with things without Oliver’s knowledge.

“Look, things might change, man,” he’d said. “You know, Lyla and I never thought we could work past our issues all those years ago—”

“But I know I can’t, John. I’ve tried, but I will always be what the island made me. Felicity said so herself.” His friend had retreated back to the small room he was using to sleep in at the bunker without another word.

Now that he was home, John found himself turning to his wife for advice. “Oliver has to be able to change, I know he does. He just needs a little more help, maybe. Then Felicity would see.”

“They could try counseling,” she suggested without a hint of sarcasm.

John paused and looked at her. “Not sure someone with a secret identity should be talking to a therapist.”

Lyla shook her head. “ARGUS has a division for mental health. It’s completely confidential, even for a vigilante like Oliver.”

“And they do couple’s counseling?” He asked doubtfully.

“There’s counseling sessions for field partners. Sometimes it’s not so different. Look, your team does enough for us that I’d be happy to get Oliver and Felicity in for a session. If they want to.”

John thought about it some more. It was better than doing nothing, wasn’t it?

“Alright, I’ll see what they think. Thanks, Sweetie.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “How come we didn’t do one of those when we got back stateside?”

She smirked. “By the time I learned about them, you were already back in Afghanistan, Johnny.”

“Right.”

They turned in early that night. John had a feeling it would be a long day of convincing his friends tomorrow.

---

“No, no, no, no and no.” Said Felicity as she marched away from the sitting room and into her kitchen of her now one-person loft. She needed coffee. It was about the only thing she knew how to make for herself. Why did Oliver have to be the one who was good at cooking?

John followed her, of course. “Come on, Felicity. One session, just to try it.”

“I’m done with trying, John. I’m tired of it.”

“You and Oliver are meant to be together.”

“Oliver’s thought he was meant to be with a lot of different women. And we all saw how that turned out.”

He sighed and hung his head. “Look, I just don’t want to see you give up now. This is the man you wanted to sneak out of Nanda Parbat last year.”

“Which you thought was a terrible idea!”

“That doesn’t change that I know how much you love him.”

She set the coffee pot down with a little more force than necessary. “Look, assuming Oliver even agrees to therapy—”

“He will.”

“—that doesn’t change the fact that he lied to me.”

“It can’t change the past, Felicity, but it can improve things for the future. It’ll help you—”

“Whoa.” Felicity held up a hand. “Let’s be clear, I am not the one who needs help in this relationship. Which is not still a relationship.” Stupid mouth getting ahead of her brain.

John was doing his best to hide his grin. “Alright, so it’ll help Oliver to be what you need him to be.”

Much as she wanted to, that was an idea hard to shake. She’d spent so long wanting to be with Oliver, given up other relationships in favor of him, put so many hours into his cause. It’d be nice if the last four years hadn’t all been a waste. She liked it when they were together — really liked the sex — so if the rest of it could get fixed, why not?

Felicity sighed. “One session. That’s all I’m committing to.”

“Great. I’ll let Oliver know and Lyla can talk to you about scheduling.”

He left the loft soon after, and Felicity poured herself a large travel mug for the office.

She really hoped she didn’t end up regretting this.

---

It was the last thing he wanted to do. But he was forced to agree the minute John said the words, “Felicity’s gonna do it.”

What other choice did he have? If this was what he had to do to repair what he’d broken, he would take it, as uncomfortable as it might make him. Trying wasn’t enough, as Felicity had said. He had to just do it.

He could feel himself growing tense as the date of the appointment approached. Thea and Laurel could both tell something was wrong, but he was grateful that they were allowing him to keep his silence. He felt better in their company and John’s than when he was left alone in the base.

Some nights, as he lay on a spare table with his pillow from the loft under his head, he imagined what it would be like back at Laurel and Thea’s apartment. Bright and warm with mugs of tea and ice cream for the approaching warmer months. He pictured himself there sometimes, sharing the couch with Thea or watching Laurel try to cook in the kitchen archway. He wasn’t sure if it helped the loneliness or made it all the worse.

Logically, he knew plenty of people went to therapy. It wasn’t a bad thing. But he had always shied away from the idea for himself. As many times as people in his life and in the public had questioned his sanity...

But there was something wrong with him, wasn’t there? If he wanted to be with Felicity, he had to fix that part of himself first.

He went through his usual training routine the morning before the appointment, pushing himself to his limits in an effort to work through his nerves.

Laurel coming down alerted him to the time, so he dropped off the salmon ladder and grabbed a towel. “Room’s free.”

“You heading out?”

“Yeah,” he said a beat too late. Of course, she noticed.

“Everything okay, Ollie?”

“It’s fine,” he said, then paused. That was his problem, right? He was going to have to be sharing private information with Felicity and a stranger in just over an hour. Maybe he should test it now. “I just...John got Felicity and I an appointment for couple’s counseling.”

He watched her eyes widen and could see the initial shocked response get swallowed back. “Is it- I mean, can you talk about, well, anything?”

“It’s someone with ARGUS, so yes. That’s the idea.”

“Okay.” She set her bag aside and took a step closer. “You said John signed you guys up. Are you okay with that? Did he ask you?”

“He told me after Felicity agreed. Does it matter?”

Her lips quirked, something like confusion in her eyes. “Of course it matters.”

“I have to do this, Laurel. If I want to save my relationship, this is something I just have to get through.” He frowned. He was making it sound like he didn’t want this, which he didn’t exactly, but that wasn’t just up to him. He was making this decision with Felicity, right? “I know it’ll help me, I just…”

“I get it. Really,” she added when he simply raised both eyebrows. “When my dad tried to get me to go to an AA meeting the first time, I balked. I wasn’t ready. Sharing pieces of yourself to strangers can be terrifying, you know? Especially when you don’t want to admit anything’s wrong. It wasn’t until I accepted that AA was something I needed that it worked for me.”

Oliver nodded, then allowed himself a smirk. “I guess I’m just so used to you speaking your mind, I forgot you might have experience with this. There’s not much you don’t share anymore.”

“You’d be surprised. I have to keep some secrets, don’t I?” She ducked her head as she asked it, and Oliver thought he saw her throat bob once as she swallowed. In the next instant, her hand landed on his arm and she gave it a comforting squeeze.

“Talk as little or as much as you feel comfortable. This is to help you and Felicity, but that’s only going to happen if you feel it really is helping.”

He blew out a breath. “Okay. I’ll try that.” Then he winced. It wasn’t about trying anymore, trying wasn’t good enough—

Laurel’s hand shifted to his shoulder, her smile warm and encouraging. “I really hope this works out for you.”

“Thank you.”

She grabbed her things to change into her workout clothes, and Oliver managed to get himself moving to the elevator. He felt calmer now, grounded. He was in control of this situation as much as he allowed himself to be. It wasn’t an interrogation. He wouldn’t be forced to answer anything he didn’t want to. This was just a way for him and Felicity to better communicate.

They met outside the ARGUS facility by accident more than design. Felicity gave him a short nod, expression tight, and he opened the door for her. Inside, he allowed her to take the lead in introducing themselves and the time of their appointment.

They were shown into the office of Dr. Leslie Thompkins, an older woman with her gray hair tied back in a bun at the base of her neck. Oliver wondered what had led her to a life with ARGUS for so long.

“Felicity and Oliver, I was told. Is that right? Come in, over on the couch there. I’ve brought a chair over for myself.” She waited until they had each sat down, Felicity squeezing herself into the far corner from him, before taking her own seat. “You both can call me Leslie, if you like. Otherwise Dr. Thompkins will do. Now then, I want to hear in your words first what issues you’ve been having as a couple. Try to be honest and respectful.”

She didn’t indicate which of them should go first, but Felicity took the initiative. “Well, Leslie, I personally thought everything was fine up until a month ago when I discovered Oliver had a son with another woman he had not told me about.”

“I see.” There was nothing in her tone or expression to give away how she felt about that information. He supposed that made her good at her job.

Oliver’s gaze fixed on the carpet as Felicity continued. “It’s not the son that bothers me, I should say. It’s the lying. For as long as I have known him, Oliver has been a compulsive liar. He’s always withholding things or making plans on his own — a few months ago he invited my mother to dinner without asking me first. I mean, she’s my mother, right? I should have a say in at least that if he’s not going to give me a say in anything to do with his son.”

“Oliver, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I want to hear from both of you.”

He managed to look back up at Dr. Thompson. “I don’t have any problems with Felicity. I love being with her. I hope we can still be together.”

“But she clearly has some problems with you.”

He nodded. “I understand that’s how she feels about me right now.” Oliver chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye to see Felicity watching him with a frown.

“And that’s how you feel as well?”

“I...It’s a fair assessment. I do keep things to myself. I know that it’s been a problem with my loved ones in the past, that I’ve hurt them when I didn’t mean to. I’ve been trying—”

“That’s the thing, Leslie, he’s always saying he’ll try. Then he goes and lies again, and he promises he won’t the next time, but then — are you getting the cycle?”

“Yes, I understand. The thing about abuse and about trauma is that oftentimes it can trap its victims in a cycle,” Dr. Thompkins said. She afforded Oliver an apologetic smile. “I was made aware of some of your background with ARGUS under Director Waller.”

He nodded again. It was something he should have assumed.

“Director Waller created an environment within the agency of fear and mistrust. These can be hard impulses to unlearn, particularly when faced with similar stressors or stimuli.”

“Okay, but Oliver stopped working with ARGUS years ago,” Felicity pointed out. “Are you telling me he’s just never going to unlearn them?”

“I was doing better in Ivy Town,” Oliver mumbled. “Last summer, when we left Star.”

“You removed yourself from the stressors. That can be one way to deal with trauma,” Dr. Thompkins explained. “The next step would be to begin practicing coping mechanisms that encourage you to be more open with a friend or partner.”

“And when can he start those?” Felicity asked.

Dr. Thompkins sat back a little, considering. “I’d like to try a short exercise right now, Oliver. A word association test. Do you know what I mean?”

“Words that relate to other words?” He guessed.

“It’s when a person’s given a word and they have to say the first word that comes to mind after hearing the other word. It’s used mostly to study memory storage,” Felicity answered for him.

“That’s correct, yes. I’m hopeful that it will help for Oliver to practice opening up and saying what he’s thinking while for myself and Felicity, it should help us to identify possible stressors or subjects that are difficult for Oliver to address. Are you comfortable trying it, Oliver?”

Oliver hesitated. Laurel had said he should only do something if he felt comfortable, and right now he just wanted Felicity to keep talking all she wanted to the counselor while he listened.

But Felicity was watching him expectantly, which was better than the frustration, anger and sadness he’d been faced with over the last month, so he gave Dr. Thompkins a nod.

“Alright, we’ll start off simple. The first word you think of when I say something. Dog.”

They’d had a dog when he and Thea were younger. It had belonged to their grandmother before she died, and he’d fought with Thea because she had wanted to rename it. He couldn’t remember what the name had been in the first place and wasn’t sure if the dog had died before or after he got on the boat.

“Uhh...nice.”

“Cat.”

Was Felicity a cat or dog person? He’d never heard her give a preference. Maybe she didn’t want animals at all. Better to play it safe.

“Small. Sometimes, I guess.”

“Food.”

“...Necessary?”

“A little quicker, Oliver, if you can,” Dr. Thompkins said, perfectly calm and even. “The idea of the exercise is not to think too much about your responses. Just let your mind naturally make associations.”

He bit back a grumble. This was decidedly out of his comfort zone, but if Laurel could talk to a whole bunch of strangers every week or so, he could do this. He had to be strong enough to change.

“Sky.”

“Blue.”

“Island.”

She really wasn’t pulling the punches, was she? “Cold.”

“Water.”

“Cold.”

“Snow.”

“Skiing.” He hadn’t actually been in so long, it almost surprised him his mind went straight back to Alpine. Planning a lodge with Tommy, Laurel’s room key in his hand. It was an easy memory, a comfortable one.

“Car.”

He hadn’t owned his own car in a while. “Bike.”

“Bar.”

“Exam.”

There was a blink from Dr. Thompkins. She hadn’t expected that answer, and neither had he, as he’d realized the split second after it came out of his mouth she’d meant the place.

She barely skipped a beat, however, continuing with, “School.”

“Difficult.”

At the other end of the couch, Felicity gave a snort.

“Job.”

“Unemployed.”

“Vacation.”

“Coast.” The old beach house he could still see in his mind's eye when he tried hard enough.

She was good at mixing it up between serious and innocuous. It was making it impossible to even try to think on his feet. All he could do was just give one answer after another.

“City.”

“Star.” All those nights he’d trained with Thea and Alex to make sure he didn’t habitually add the “—ing” on the end during a speech had it drilled into his head. It was thoughtless, like how he felt now.

“Friends.”

“Team.”

“Family.”

A smile. “Thea.”

“Home.”

“Laurel.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Felicity’s interruption was so sudden he jumped. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone in this room with Dr. Thompkins, who looked paused in the middle of beginning a new word.

“What?” He asked, still stuck on one word responses apparently.

Felicity was watching him with narrowed eyes. “You said ‘Laurel’.”

He frowned. “When?”

“In response to ‘home’,” Dr. Thompkins told him.

“I did?” But as soon as she’d said it, he knew that was right. He could hear it in his voice now, could feel it hanging in the air.

“Yes.” Felicity’s frown had not gone away and instead seemed to be deepening. “What about Laurel is ‘home’, Oliver?”

“I- it—” He didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t like he’d meant to say her name, it had just...come out.

“I mean, you could have said anything, you know? Maybe our loft, maybe Ivy Town. Maybe, I don’t know, me? Can you at least try to say something?” Felicity demanded.

He looked from her to Dr. Thompkins, who remained impassive but watching closely. “It was on the island,” he finally said, voice low.

Oliver could remember it clearly now, Laurel’s photo in his hand as he’d spoken to Taiana. “Her name is Laurel Lance. And she was my home before all this.” It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to consciously recall that memory, those feelings that went along with it.

“You see how he does this?” Felicity was saying to Dr. Thompkins. “Everything is the island, everything always goes back there. And back to Laurel. I guess your crazy ex Helena was actually right about something!”

“Felicity,” Oliver began, but she stood up.

“You know, I told John this was a waste of time. I said we were done, and now I am glad we are. I am not a consolation prize!”

“Felicity, wait!” The door slammed, and Oliver made to follow.

“Oliver.” Dr. Thompkins’ voice made him stop. He looked back at her. “In my professional opinion, it would be best to let her go.”

The fingers of his left hand clenched and unclenched. “You were supposed to help us.”

“And this did. It’s clear to me that there were some serious trust issues and power imbalances in this relationship.” She clasped her hands together on her lap and leaned forward. “You’ve been suppressing how you really feel for some time now, haven’t you? And I’m not talking about this Laurel,” she added before he could even start to protest.

Oliver frowned. “Then what do you mean?”

“I mean that you lack any say in this relationship you’re so desperate to save. You’ve given up your voice in an attempt to please someone else, and that leads to a very empty happiness.” Dr. Thompkins stood as well, though the top of her head barely reached his chin. She didn’t remotely look intimidated. “You can’t depend solely on another person for that.”

He stood there, lost for any kind of response. Oliver wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he did have a say in what happened between him and Felicity, but...when was the last time he decided anything between the two of them? When he asked her to marry him? He’d wanted to, but it was Donna finding the ring and showing her daughter that had prompted him to do it when he had. When he’d invited Donna over for that dinner? Felicity was apparently still holding a grudge over it.

He’d sometimes wondered how someone as smart and talented as she was could be with him, but did he really not have a voice?

Dr. Thompkins had reached into a pocket and held out a card for him to take. “Think some things over, and when you’re ready to talk, my door is open.”

Oliver hung his head. He hadn’t been ready, and like Laurel had said it hadn’t helped him and Felicity at all. He took the card to be polite and left the ARGUS facility, only to sit on his bike in the lot.

Like Laurel had said. He’d been trying to be a better friend to her ever since Sara had been brought back from the dead. Had he somehow gone so far in the other direction that Felicity now thought he was in love with Laurel?

It wasn’t that he didn’t still care for her. He always would. Was that still a kind of love?

Helena’s words did come back to him from years ago. “That kind of love doesn’t die.”

A light drizzle was beginning to fall, spattering against the leather of his jacket and wetting his hair. Oliver shook his head and shoved his helmet on, the bike roaring to life. He needed to think, and he had no idea where to start.

---

Thea stretched her arms over her head as she settled onto the couch. It had been pretty calm on the streets the last few nights with Darhk locked away and his ghosts gone to ground.

It had been a good thing tonight especially since they were down two team members instead of just the one who had left the previous week. Thea had asked if anyone had heard from Oliver that day as they’d been suiting up.

“He’s got some personal business,” Laurel had said.

At the same time, John had revealed, “He and Felicity are at couple’s counseling.”

Thea’s eyes had gone wide. “Oliver went to therapy?” The very thought had seemed totally unbelievable. Even now she was having trouble wrapping her head around it.

If it was something he wanted to try, of course she supported him. Oliver just had trouble sharing his feelings at the best of times, so to imagine him opening up in front of a stranger was hard.

Still, if it made him happier, then she was all for it. Thea knew he’d been feeling lost and unsure, ever since having to send William away and losing his relationship all at once. If Felicity had agreed to counseling, maybe things were still salvageable? She’d felt uncomfortable with some of the things Felicity had said to her brother while they’d been working to take down Cupid, but Thea had said things she regretted in the past, too. If they worked through things and came out of it healthier, she could forgive and forget.

They had a bit of time to relax tonight. Rain had begun shortly before dark, and they’d stayed out until it became clear it was turning into a storm and pushing everyone else indoors anyway. Thea had returned to the apartment with Laurel, who had ushered her into the shower so she could warm up. Honestly, her friend was such a big sister.

Laurel had known about the therapy, judging by her reaction to Thea’s question before their patrol. Yet she’d been much more circumspect in her answer than John. Thea wondered if Oliver had asked her to keep things quiet, if he was ashamed. She’d have to make sure he knew there was no reason to be the next time she saw him.

She looked up at the sound of a knock at the door. “Hey, did you call in an order?” Thea called back further into the apartment.

“What?” Laurel’s voice sounded a bit echoey. Right, she was taking her turn in the shower.

Thea got up and went to the door, peering through the peephole. To her surprise, it was Ollie on the other side, dripping wet and miserable.

She quickly opened the door. “Ollie? What happened?”

“Sorry,” he said, voice a bit gruff. His face was wet, and she didn’t know if it was from rain or crying. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Thea pulled him inside, stripping him of the leather jacket that was clinging to him like a second skin. She guided him to the couch, their knees bumping as she curled up next to him. “What happened?”

He didn’t speak.

“John, um, told me about the counseling session,” Thea admitted quietly. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’m not going to judge you.”

“I know,” he said, his smile a twist of the mouth. He gave an unhappy sigh. “I’m trying not to judge myself right now.”

“Hey. There’s nothing to judge. Loads of people go to therapy. If it helps you, that’s all that matters.”

“I know. I know, Laurel—” for some reason he gave something of a laugh, and it sounded helpless. “She said the same thing.”

“Okay,” said Thea. “So what’s bothering you? Did...did something happen at the session?”

“You could say that. Um, it didn’t work. Not how- how I wanted it to...I don’t know.” He put his head in his hands for a long moment before looking back up at her again. “Just, can you answer me honestly?” When she nodded, he asked. “Do I not...speak up for myself, when it comes to Felicity?”

Thea was so stunned she sat there for what felt a solid minute in silence. “Ollie, what—”

“Please, just tell me.” Her big brother was practically begging her, so she did her best to set aside her own surprise and questions.

“Well, you, um...you guys just sort of— it’s not like you don’t speak, just, you know, Felicity’s kind of a talker. And you, generally you just agree with her. But did the therapist — did she not think that was a good thing?”

“No. She said I was suppressing things, making myself dependent on just Felicity for my happiness.” He looked to her, clearly waiting for something. Some kind of answer.

“Well…” The more she thought about this therapist’s argument, the more it kind of made sense. Hadn’t she had doubts about where her place was in Oliver’s life after he’d left last spring with Felicity? When he hadn’t kept in touch while they were vacationing in Bali? Hadn’t she nearly told Laurel to go to Ivy Town without her, convinced there was little she could do to get her brother to come home?

It wasn’t like they didn’t still spend time together now that he’d come back, but there was a difference to him when he was just with her or her and Laurel and then when it was them and Felicity, a difference she’d been having trouble identifying. It was like no one else really existed in the room when Felicity was there, like everything else came secondary to making sure she was happy.

“How did Felicity take hearing all of that?” It wasn’t like the therapist had come out and said Felicity had done anything wrong, but Thea couldn’t imagine Felicity had expected to hear anything other than Oliver’s failures in the relationship.

He shook his head. “She wasn’t even there for that part. She left.”

“How come?”

“Because of something I said. I- I mentioned Laurel.”

Thea blinked, feeling caught off guard yet again. “What about Laurel?” And why would Felicity have been upset enough to storm out over it?

His head fell back against the couch and his eyes were shut as he replied, “I called her home.”

“Um.”

“It was this word-thing she was having me do. Making free associations between ideas or something. And I guess I should’ve said Star, but I’d already said Star, and in my head she’s just — she’s always been here.” He cracked an eye open to look at her. “You know?”

Thea nodded. She placed a hand on his arm. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Laurel had always been there. Hadn’t Thea argued the same thing to him when Adam had wanted Oliver to distance himself from her? If Thea thought about it, she would probably call Laurel home, too. She’d moved in with the woman, for crying out loud.

But Laurel was like her sister. She was decidedly not Ollie’s sister. And Thea could maybe see why Felicity might be upset that her ex-fiancé considered another woman home.

The thing was...what did it mean that Ollie still considered Laurel home?

A door opened down the hall and soft footsteps padded in their direction. “Thea, what were you asking me — Ollie.”

Thea looked over to see Laurel standing there in pajamas, a towel wrapped around her head. She took it down, and her hair fell loosely around her shoulders.

“What happened?”

Thea watched her brother swallow once and struggle to speak. She reached down and squeezed his hand.

“The counseling didn’t go so great,” she told Laurel.

“I’m so sorry, Oliver.” Laurel took a few more steps closer. “Have you eaten anything?”

He shook his head.

“Think he just went out for a drive in the rain,” said Thea.

“Well, then we should get you some food. Maybe tea so you don’t catch a cold.”

Laurel started to back up towards the kitchen, but Oliver stood. “No, that’s okay. I should let you both get to sleep.”

“We’re not really tired,” Thea remarked. “We’re used to later nights than this.”

“It’s no trouble. Thea and I haven’t eaten yet, either,” Laurel added. “I’ll just have to see what we have to make.”

“Maybe I should,” Oliver said quickly, the same time that Thea made to stand up. Laurel looked back at them both, her arms crossed. Thea met her brother’s eye and thought she saw a smile not quite form. She bit back her own grin.

“If you insist. But Ollie,” Laurel said as he joined her by the kitchen archway. “We’re always going to be there for you whether you want to talk about it or not.” Then she pulled Thea’s brother into a hug.

Thea watched the split second where he tensed, no doubt unsure of himself and where the boundaries stood. A second later he had melted into it, his cheek resting on top of her head and one hand cradling the back of it. From the little Thea could see of Laurel’s face, her friend was smiling softly. She felt a great wave of homesickness hit her in that moment as she watched, something calling back through the years to her and making her eyes sting.

They were both slow to step back, hands trailing down arms rather than immediately letting go. Oliver looked down at his shoes while Laurel looked away, her eyes catching Thea’s. Thea watched her take in a little breath and seem to shake something off.

“So Ollie,” Laurel said, her tone taking on a teasing tone that if she thought about it, Thea rarely heard her use with anyone else. “What are you making for us?”

Her brother looked far calmer and centered than when he had arrived. He even managed his best attempt at a smile. “Let’s have a look.” He brushed a hand over her arm as he passed her on his way into the kitchen.

They offered him a place on the couch that night, but he declined. He was given leftovers instead, which they managed to make him take since “Geez, Ollie, it’s your food, anyway.”

Thea followed him out into the hall after giving Laurel the signal that she’d be a minute. “Hey.”

Oliver stopped and looked back. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing better. You know…”

He nodded. But she could tell by the relaxed set of his shoulders and the lack of frown lines that he really was doing better than when he had shown up.

“We didn’t really finish talking, but, um...if I were you, I would think about seeing this therapist some more. Get some help, you know, figuring your thoughts out. If she’s available, anyway.”

“She gave me her card.”

Thea nodded. “Good.” Then she walked forward and hugged him as well. “Laurel’s right, though, we’re here for you, too.”

“Thank you. I’m not sure if she knew...” Whatever Oliver was thinking, he decided to keep to himself, holding her a little tighter instead for a few moments.

They both let go, and her brother continued down the hall to the elevator. Thea waited until the door slid shut before heading back inside. Laurel was still in the kitchen finishing washing up their dishes.

“I think he’ll be okay,” Thea told her. “We just gotta give it time.”

“Did he say if he and Felicity are going to try anything else?”

Thea shook her head. “Pretty safe bet they aren’t trying anything anymore.”

Laurel winced. “Well, it was worth the try.”

“Yeah, I think so.” The more that she thought about it, she was glad her brother had gotten a fresh perspective from this therapist. It had certainly opened her eyes to what had been going on the past several months. Should she have said something, done something? She’d thought her misgivings were just her being selfish, not some kind of red flag.

Things would eventually settle, and when they did who knew what was in store next for Ollie? Was there something still to his and Laurel’s relationship? As Thea climbed into bed, she wondered if it might turn out their mother had been right all along.

---

Laurel wasn’t quite sure what to make of the change in Oliver over the next few days. Aside from when he’d first shown up that night after the counseling session, he seemed calmer somehow. More assured than he had been.

She was certain he still had to be feeling some hurt over the breakup. It was a different kind of pain than his usual cuts and bruises, the kind that took longer to heal. The kind that, in some cases, left permanent scars.

But for the most part he had gotten right back into the swing of things, leading the team effectively, training with them. He’d even started to make it a habit to eat his lunches with Thea, a fact that Laurel knew was making her young friend very happy.

About the only one in their group who didn’t seem to like what had resulted from the counseling session was John, which had a certain irony to it since it had been his suggestion. Laurel knew he’d been hoping it would prove a quick fix to Oliver and Felicity’s relationship problems, but life rarely had quick fixes.

Though, lately it felt less like Oliver was working on his relationship with Felicity, and more on his relationship with her. Crazy as that sounded.

It was little things at first, things that over time she started to notice. He was making more time for all of them, of course, but he seemed especially to always be available for training when she was. And he was better at expressing how she might improve or what she was already good at.

They were working together to clean the training area one afternoon, and she could see him shifting from foot to foot, weighing something in his mind. Just as she opened her mouth to ask, he said, “You know, I never thanked you. For how you — everything with William. How you handled it.”

Laurel felt both her eyebrows raise. William wasn’t necessarily a taboo topic, but Oliver rarely brought up his son since having to send him away, and especially not to her.

“I know it couldn’t have been easy, and you had every right to — well, to not want to be involved.”

“Oliver, there was a child in danger. Of course I was going to get involved, whether William was yours or someone else’s. Whatever happened in the past, he had nothing to do with.”

“Right.” He nodded. She thought that might be the end of it, until he set aside the disinfectant bottle and any pretense of getting work done. “I just, I feel like I don’t say enough that I’m lucky to have you in my life. After everything. I want you to know I appreciate that.”

“Ollie…” Laurel couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s really fine. I’m glad William’s safe, and I understand that you couldn’t say anything about him to us for a long time. Don’t feel like you have to check up on me.”

“No, but I want to. I, uh, I went back to see Leslie.”

“Leslie? The therapist,” she realized a second later.

“Yeah. She thinks I have issues communicating with people. Especially people I care about.”

Laurel couldn’t quite stop herself wryly remarking, “Really?”

Thankfully, he just shook his head with a smirk. “Yes. And I think, with you and me, we’ve known each other for so long and understand things about each other, we leave a lot unsaid.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“I want to work on not doing that. So this is me, telling you that you are important to me, and that I will always try to listen to what you have to say or how you’re feeling.” He paused. “If that’s what you want.”

As surprised as she was by this turn, Laurel already knew her answer. “Of course. Ollie, we’re always going to be in each other’s lives, and if we can help each other at all, then I want that, too.” Even if there were some things she would never say or feelings she would never reveal, the knowledge that Oliver wanted to try more at their friendship warmed her from head to toe.

Impulsively, she reached out to cup his cheek. “I know you’ve been trying to do things a better way ever since you came back to Star, and I think this is really helping you find that way. And I’m so happy I get to be part of that.” She felt the curve of his smile under her palm as well as saw it. “Now come on, Thea and John are going to want to use the mats to warmup before we head out.”

They finished cleaning up in companionable silence.

Truthfully, she hadn’t expected him to return to therapy after his initial experience. Part of her was intensely curious about how it was going now, in the absence of the couple’s framework. But Oliver had always respected her privacy about what she discussed at her AA meetings, so she wasn’t about to disrespect his. If he wanted to tell her more about it, he could. If he didn’t, that was fine, too.

She’d extended an offer via text for Felicity if she wanted to talk. Laurel knew her friend had to be feeling a bit isolated since leaving the team. She wondered if Felicity had made any work friends aside from Curtis; her relationship to the board members seemed tense at best. At the least, Laurel knew Donna was still sticking around since she was dating her father.

But Felicity never replied, which was out of the ordinary for her tech-savvy friend. Maybe she felt they’d all chosen Oliver’s side, even if Laurel was doing her best to stay neutral on the matter. It wasn’t as though she believed Oliver was totally blameless for the things that had gone wrong, but in most breakups there were mistakes made by both parties. She could understand that right now, however, Felicity likely felt wronged. Guessing was all she could do for the moment.

Until one night when she and John were out for another round of surveillance. In the absence of the Ghosts, organized crime was reaching out tentative feelers back into the city, and they wanted to learn their patterns before hitting them. She was happy to find John had packed a couple light snacks in the glove compartment this time.

But even snacking couldn’t distract her from the way her friend kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, guarded and tense in a way he hadn’t been for a long while.

Laurel sighed. “John, can you just say whatever it is you’re thinking about?”

“Not sure you wanna know.”

“If it’s bothering you, then yes, I do want to know.”

She wasn’t sure what decided it for him. But eventually, John shifted around in his seat to better face her. Laurel copied him.

“Alright, I’m gonna tell you this so you can get out ahead of it, but I got Felicity to talk to me about the counseling session.”

She nodded.

John hesitated another minute. She thought he might be trying to figure out how to put whatever he wanted to say. “She says Oliver’s still in love with you.”

Laurel felt her mouth drop open.

“I know,” said John as her mind continued to draw a blank.

“Did he say that? I mean, what—” She couldn’t even start to contemplate the idea of Oliver making that kind of brazen declaration.

“Not in so many words. If you ask me, she’s blowing things out of proportion because she’s upset. She wants reasons not to get back with him.”

“So he’s not. In love with me,” Laurel added.

John shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what’s going through his head anymore? I don’t even know why he went back to that ARGUS therapist after she screwed everything up.”

“He seems to find it helpful.”

“Yeah, well, we’re the ones who are gonna have to help him out. Look, I think we can fix all this if you just go talk to Felicity.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Tell her you and Oliver are friends and nothing more. You’re not in love with him, so it’s all in the past. She’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing,” Laurel repeated, her voice faint to her ears.

“Right. So how soon can you do that?”

But Laurel couldn’t answer. An old memory had risen up in her mind; her and Oliver in a hospital hallway, her younger self begging him to help her fix her failing relationship, only to be stunned by his refusal.

“Because it wouldn’t be true. And I have enough lies in my life already.”

She was in that moment now, again, only she was in his place with his words setting deep into her bones.

A light of understanding came into John’s eyes. “Oh, Laurel.”

She looked away, wishing the mob guys they were staking out would make their move already. They didn’t.

“You really still—”

“It doesn’t matter. What I still feel doesn’t matter. It’s about what Oliver and Felicity feel.” She looked back over her shoulder at him. “And I’m saying this as objectively as I can, but John, if Felicity is looking for reasons not to get back together with Oliver, then we all just have to accept that. Forcing things won’t do it any good.”

He watched her closely as he said, “So you want them to stay broken up.”

“I’m not saying they can’t find each other again, just right now is not the right time. I want them to be happy, whether that’s together or apart.”

“And what about you, Laurel?” John asked. “When do you get to be happy?”

“I...that’s not what this is about. I’m fine with my life how it is.”

John shook his head and stared out the window. “This is a mess. So you won’t go talk to Felicity?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. It shouldn’t be me, it should be Oliver.”

John sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Something in his frown told Laurel he didn’t think it would happen.

But why not? Until the counseling session, Oliver had been near inconsolable about his relationship ending. He’d been willing to do anything to save it. Why not this?

They didn’t pick up much useful information on their stakeout and returned to the base. Laurel let John deliver the information and did her best to hurry Thea along to head home. She wasn’t sure what to think about where she and Oliver stood at the moment.

He’d said he wanted to prioritize their friendship. That didn’t have to mean anything, but what if it did? Should she say something? Risk it all, risk ruining everything?

She was still worrying over it as she left work the next day, heading down to the base out of habit to start her training. She took two steps out of the elevator and stopped when Oliver looked up at her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. Did Thea not come back down here with you?”

He shook his head. “She’s with Alex. They’re grabbing an early dinner and she’ll join us before patrol.”

“Okay.” And John was probably watching baby Sara until Lyla got home for the night, so that left the two of them here in the base alone. For who knew how long.

Laurel turned and made for the changing area. She got into her workout clothes and found Oliver waiting on the mats when she came out. There was something electric to the air, something she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge for a long time. Her chest felt tight.

He tossed her a set of sticks and they began. She was distracted, making simple mistakes she hadn’t made in over a year, and he soon had one stick under her chin and the other at her back, caging her in.

When she met his eyes, there was something sad there. “Felicity told you, didn’t she?”

The breath rushed out of her. Laurel lowered her sticks and he did the same. Neither backed away.

“It was John, actually. How...how did you know?”

“Because I know you,” he said.

She wet her bottom lip with her tongue, weighing in her mind whether to ask. “Were you going to tell me yourself?”

He drew in and let out a breath. “John said I was in love with you?” Laurel nodded, a little confused he’d phrased it in a question. “The truth is I’m not sure exactly what my feelings are.”

She took a step back, eyes landing on her shoes. “Oh.” It was better, then, that she had asked rather than say anything more telling.

“When Felicity and I first went to see Leslie, she had me do a word association test. Have you heard of those?”

Laurel nodded. “Yeah. It’s where they give you a word and you say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Right. So I did it, and it was not easy at first,” he admitted. Laurel pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as she could clearly imagine. “But I kept trying, and eventually I guess we got into a rhythm. She picked a lot of different words, some easier than others. The last word she picked was ‘home’...and I said you, Laurel.”

“Me?” It was all she could say. Laurel wasn’t sure she could say any more without giving away how much that meant — so much more than some three little words.

Oliver nodded. “You’ve always been that to me.”

Laurel tried to keep calm. Even if Oliver felt that way, he’d made a distinction between that and being in love. She needed to know more, and he seemed to want to tell her. “So that was when Felicity left?”

“Yes. Not before mentioning Helena for the fiftieth time,” he told her, a heavy dose of chagrin in his voice.

“Helena?”

“Yeah, well she — I never told you this, did I?” He shook his head. “The reason we broke up was because she could tell I wasn’t over you.”

“And that’s what Felicity thinks now?”

“It’s what she said. The thing is, I know I’ve done this before. Something happens, and I come to you and...and then I leave after,” he said rather than finish his thought. “And I don’t want to do that again, so I’m getting help. To figure out how I feel and to figure out what always makes me so afraid of that feeling.”

Laurel’s eyes felt wet, so she steeled herself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known Oliver was getting help. But to know that he wanted to try and change even more than he had done on his own, it was hard trying to hold back her own happiness for him.

“That being said, whatever my feelings are, whatever I learn about myself, you don’t have to worry that that means anything’s expected of you. I know that’s something in the past, that we can’t go back.”

It was like someone had upended an ice bucket over her head. “What?”

Lines appeared in his brow as he looked at her. “You said, we couldn’t—”

“Oh, Ollie.” Laurel pressed a hand to her forehead, wondering how they’d somehow come to this. After all these years. “When I said that, I was...well, I probably needed help, too. I was pushing people away because I didn’t want to wait for them to leave.” She glanced back up, teetering on the edge of whether to take this next step. “Can I show you something?”

He nodded, and she led him off the mats and over to the cases holding their suits. Laurel opened hers and unfastened one of the pockets on her belt. She turned around, the old photo in hand, and watched his eyes widen in shock and recognition.

He reached for it slowly, like in a dream. “You kept this?”

She nodded. “As a reminder, for when I might have doubt.”

He looked up at her, clearly understanding what she meant. He’d written the words after all: Never doubt my love for you.

His lips pressed together for a long moment. Laurel waited, her breath held. This was her best-kept secret, and now he knew it all.

“I’ve wasted so much time,” he said at last, his voice cracking.

“We both have.” Laurel reaches out and covered one of his hands with her own. “But there’s still time. Time to get better, to figure out what’s really going to make us happy.”

He met her eyes, the light she knew was in him shining through. A smile slowly grew. “I think you’re right.”

Oliver leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek as his hand touched her arm. It was a gesture so familiar to her. She let out a shaky breath.

“There’s something I’d like to try doing with you,” he told her.

Laurel opened her eyes and looked at him. They’d both grown and changed so much over the years, but she still knew this man better than she knew herself sometimes. He was nervous, a little hopeful, and so, so happy.

“I’m listening.”

---

Leslie flipped to a fresh page in her notes in preparation for a new session. The notebooks she kept on her sessions with patients were for her eyes only and kept under lock and key whenever she wasn’t in her office. Not even the director of ARGUS was allowed to look at them, which had always been a matter of fierce contention between her and Amanda Waller.

It hadn’t always been her goal to counsel the members of this oftentimes controversial organization. She’d started out as a private practitioner, then moved to running a soup kitchen in the Glades. Almost ten years ago now, the kitchen had been forced to close as their rent had kept rising far beyond their means — by design, she’d later learned. Malcolm Merlyn, their true landlord behind a smokescreen of shell companies, had wanted the space empty for his grand Undertaking. It was such a shame, what a monster he became after the loss of Rebecca; Leslie had partnered often with her health clinic in the old days. If she could have seen what her husband had done in her honor…

But Leslie had been at loose ends after the kitchen closed, and that was usually when Amanda Waller tended to show up. She’d been brought on board to patch up the head cases, as it was put to her. Instead, she’d found herself the sole confidant to many lost and lonely people. It was hard sometimes, hearing the hopelessness in their voices and how they believed they were beyond saving.

She’d not been expecting that to come from Oliver Queen, former mayor candidate and famous son of the newly-christened Star City. Even knowing the little she did about his ARGUS ties. But that was who had walked through her door a few weeks ago for a partner counseling session with his ex-fiancée.

Right away, she’d been able to read the tension coming off both of them, and the opening remarks from Felicity Smoak had been antagonistic rather than open towards reconciliation. She had not been there by choice, and that had meant Leslie’s job was going to be all the harder.

From there had followed the clear trust issues, the miscommunication and the lack of personal autonomy Oliver seemed to have. Leslie doubted it was anything Felicity had done in particular to cause that dynamic. Relationships involving one of more trauma survivors required a level of mindfulness many people didn’t realize to avoid negative feedback loops for both parties. But an unwillingness to accept that first premise made addressing the other issues impossible. It was why she had recommended letting things end between the pair.

She had left a message for Felicity if she wished to speak in a one-on-one setting, the same offer she’d made Oliver the day of the session. Though Felicity had yet to respond, Oliver had taken a day to decide before getting back to her. They had scheduled a session for later in the week and continued from their.

It was remarkable the difference that could be made in a person over a short time just by giving them an outlet to express themselves freely. Leslie held no illusions that Oliver was ‘better’ now and had cautioned him not to assume the same — there was no quick fix to recovery. Everyone went at their own pace and their own path. But likewise, trauma symptoms did not preclude a person from happiness.

She’d encouraged him to make time for the people in his life he felt happiest with and to pursue hobbies or other areas of interest. Last session, he’d shown her some sketches for new arrow designs, something he admitted he’d been allowing Felicity to do in his stead over the last year.

“I knew she was good with technology and knowing the terms for everything. When we came back, she already had the first shipment designed and on its way.” He shrugged. “Maybe mine won’t be as good, but it’s- it helps knowing exactly what I’m relying on in the field. And it reminds me a little of working on the old boats and engines with my father.”

It was always interesting hearing about the Green Arrow’s exploits the next morning on the news now that she was on a first name basis with the vigilante, but Leslie considered that just another part of the job.

Today’s session would likely prove to be an interesting one. Oliver had asked to bring another person with him for partner counseling.

“I asked her if she was okay with that a couple weeks ago, but I think now is a good time,” he’d said. “We’re not — I mean, there’s nothing official about us or anything. But she’s important to me and I think we could benefit from your advice.”

“Partner counseling isn’t limited to romantic partners. If this is something both of you have agreed to, you’re more than welcome to bring another person. This is your time, Oliver. Whatever helps you is what we’re here for.”

Leslie looked up at the sound of footsteps and soft voices approaching her door, drawing her out of her reflections.

“In here?” A woman’s voice asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Oliver that time. He pulled the door open the whole way, holding it for a woman with blonde hair dressed smartly in business professional attire. Which made perfect sense considering she was their city’s ADA.

Laurel Lance smiled in thanks over her shoulder at Oliver before fully entering the room and holding her hand out to Leslie when she stood. “Dr. Thompkins, it’s great to meet you.”

“You as well. Please, feel free to call me Leslie.”

She motioned them over to the couch that hadn’t been used since that first counseling session — she and Oliver usually sat in the chairs on either side of her desk.

The pair sat close, not enough to be touching but clearly feeling comfortable sharing personal space. Oliver looked mostly calm but had a bit of a nervous twitch in one of his hands. Laurel reached out and took it in her own. They shared a look and a smile.

“Just give me one moment to get all my papers together,” Leslie called over, hiding a smile of her own as she did so.

Yes, this she could work with.

#lauriver #laurel lance #oliver queen #laurel x oliver #arrow #leslie thompkins #felicity smoak #john diggle #thea queen #lyla michaels #green arrow #black canary #my writing

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its-just-like-the-movies · 7 years

Text

The Letter (1940, A)

There is something wonderful about how the best Old Hollywood, big studio melodramas so deliciously inhabit a space between the visual beauty of their wealthy protagonists (and producers), the bigness of their emotions, and the sincerity of their realization. It’s almost funny watching Dark Victory, which fervently tugs on the heartstrings through its magnificent score, every element working in tandem to make you feel sympathetic for a dying Bette Davis. And yet, in spite of how overtly the whole thing is working to get to you, in spite of how much you can see the wires, it still works. Then again, being able to see the way these pictures are constructed isn’t because they’re poorly made, the methods of filmmaking are just more resplendently obvious than a comparable picture might be today. Then again, would a modern version of The Letter be able to be as compelling, given today’s filmmaking practices? There’s no tinkling score or over-reliance on actors to shape the material, no juggling between close-ups to film a scene, no affectation around the wealth of its protagonists, no cleaning up of the politics around it. Would it feel the need to do that, even if it set in a pre-WWII rubber farm in Singapore? What would a contemporary setting even be for this project?

But why fret about the movies of the never when we can gush about the movies of the almost eighty years ago, and how well they hold up? Even if some of why The Letter’s combined elements are so noticeable is because of the era in filmmaking it resides in, as much of it is because the film is so virtuosically assembled that you cannot help but notice the quality of the whole and how wonderfully constructed each of the parts are. Yes, there is the Hays Code ending that is so obviously tacked on, and how an oddly cast, imperiously framed Gale Sondergaard somehow turns in a bad performance despite never saying a word in English. But these are two minor perforations in an impressive vehicle, stuffed to the brim with peak contributions from almost literally everyone involved. Rare is the film with seven Academy Award nominations that I can happily stand by every single one of them, and in fact wonder where its Costume Design and Adapted Screenplay nominations, perhaps even Production Design. Even rarer is for a women’s picture of any kind to get that kind of recognition this day in age. Bette Davis is the sole, unabashed lead of this Best Picture nominee, and it’s practically impossible to attach that kind of Oscar heat to any recent Best Actress nominee that doesn’t have an accompanying Best Actor nominee waiting in the wings. Technical juggernaut Gravity is the only exception to the rule in this decade, throw in The Hours, Chicago, and Moulin Rouge! and we’ve got the millennium covered. It’s dispiriting to realize how many Best Actress nominees are the sole representatives of their films, and even more dispiriting to wonder if the same fate would’ve befallen The Letter. So let’s rejoice again that it was made in an era where women’s pictures were known as a valuable commodity at the box office and to those all-valuable awards bodies, and let me get down to actually talking about it.

You could hardly ask for a more galvanizing opening to The Letter, as the tranquil roll of the credits over workers luxuriating in their barracks in the moonlight is broken by the sound of a gunshot. Out bursts an unknown, wounded man who becomes even more doomed once we see that the person shooting him is Bette Davis. The steeliness of her posture, the rigidity of her arm, the hardness of her expression, everything about the way Leslie Crosbie kills the man she says tried to rape her is the only thing that feels like it contradicts her later recounting that she doesn’t remember killing Geoff Hammond. Her presence, her rage, is simply too potent to match her description - no, her recreation - of a frightened woman desperately fighting for her life. Not that Leslie’s retelling of the killing to her husband Robert and her lawyer Howard Joyce isn’t completely convincing. In fact, what sets off Joyce’s antennae is how perfectly she tells this story of fighting for her honor against a drunk acquaintance, how composed she is until she suddenly isn’t, how there’s something that’s just off about her otherwise spot-on description of events. These suspicions are given even greater weight once he learns from his assistant about the existence of a letter from Leslie, suggesting a relationship with Hammond and asking for a meeting the night he died, albeit threateningly. An explanation that Leslie wanted to corroborate on buying her husband a birthday gun doesn’t quite stick, but she tells it like a woman trying to save her life and get back to her husband, not a scheming murderess furious she isn’t being believed, though her rage is still palpable.

And yet, because the letter is not public knowledge, the idea of Leslie being in any legal trouble is a joke to the wealthy whites of Singapore. Yes, she did kill a man, but because he died how he died, it’s not as though anyone thinks Leslie committed a crime. She defended herself from a drunk attacker, already ostracized for marrying a Eurasian local. Mrs. Hammond, who does not get get a first name, is the woman in possession on the titular, scandalous letter, and most of the film is devoted to Leslie and Mr. Joyce trying to get it from her, fulfilling her requests and meeting her in the ethnic part of Singapore to make the trade. The actual trade-off is perhaps the film’s second-weakest sequence, though one wonders how much this could’ve been elevated even a little had Gale Sondergaard decided to pick an expression other than Imperious Anger. Eyes lit by moonlight through window shades, the sheer electricity of her anger feels oddly one-note, though Mrs. Hammond being scripted only in unsubtitled Chinese denies us any way of understanding why she would give Leslie the only evidence that could possibly bring her husband’s killer to justice. It’s still as tense as any other scene in the film, though it’s just too obvious that Wyler doesn’t know what to do with Mrs. Hammond aside from framing her as a narrative obstacle, not a human person. As it stands, the central conflict of The Letter is not about the trial or the letter so much as it is the accruing of tensions around its main characters as these events come hurtling towards them. What is the state of Joyce’s ethics, his soul, as he commits himself to taking this letter away from the eyes of the prosecution and the hands of a widow to save his friends? What shall become of doting Robert once he finds out the letter exists, and what has been done to acquire it? What’s to make of Leslie’s soul as it is, and who is she really? A long-standing lover or a rattled wife, both perhaps responding a little too insouciantly after killing a man on front steps of her bungalow.

Still, say this for Wyler, Mrs. Hammond is by far the exception to the rule of quality in The Letter. All three of its tech Oscars are richly deserved; Georgy Amy and Warren Low make this is a fleetly edited yarn that knows when best to deploy a close-up, a two-shot, to jump to an insert of an important item. Max Steiner’s score is roiling, emotive, and malleable enough to fit into any emotion Bette Davis is telegraphing for us, even if her face isn’t quite saying it. And Tony Gaudio’s cinematography is a tremendous, nimble asset to The Letter, doing great work with moonlight coming in through window screens, with the blocking of actors, with finding the right angles to get a pang of unrest at an empty porch, a bedside confession, a shadow traveling on the lawn. . Much like the first hour of Malcolm X, Gaudio’s cinematography in the film’s lowest moments - the tradeoff with Mrs. Hammond and the tacked-on finale - creates a feast for the eyes and an interesting mood that almost takes away from how disinterested the director is in these moments. To hop off Oscar’s bandwagon for a quick moment, let’s not deny ourselves how scrumptious each and every one of Leslie’s outfits are, how well Joyce’s and Robert’s suits fit their bodies, how intimidatingly styled Mrs. Hammond is.

But let's not bury the lede here. The Letter lives and dies by how Wyler and Davis navigate the role of Leslie Crosbie, and they do incomparable work filling out this woman without betraying her. The first real genius of Davis’ performance is that Leslie’s responses to new information are in the basis on emotion and intellect without flaunting if these reactions are coming from an innocent or guilty mind. The questions of Leslie Crosbie’s innocence or guilt, steel and vulnerability, who she does and doesn’t believe in, is handled with remarkable subtlety and depth by Wyler and Bette Davis. The genius of her performance specifically is that she does not sell out Leslie, navigating her emotional and intellectual arcs without playing innocent or guilty outright. This isn’t John Carroll Lynch’s squirrelly prevarication in Zodiac, actively playing the perceptions of the audience or her fellow characters, but nor is this Rooney Mara’s shell-shocked, impenetrable innocence in the first half of Side Effects. Davis’ choices are compelling in the moment and hold up once every truth has been laid bare, every letter read and confession given. It is the way that Davis responds to new pieces of evidence, to questions, to statements of affirmation from friends, from her husband, from Joyce, emotionally and intellectually, in how she moves her eyes and cocks her head. Even if we doubt the honesty of what Leslie is saying, we never doubt the emotional Davis is an actress who knows how to use her entire body in a performance, not just those electric eyes but her posture and her physicality - the different ways she grabs her husband, her posture as she shoots Geoff Hammond, her unease with Mrs. Hammond - and that theatricality, on top of the bigness of her emotions and the subtlety of her playing, fits perfectly with The Letter’s tone, Wyler’s ambitions, and Leslie’s truths.

James Stephenson as Howard Joyce gives the film’s other great performance, and in contrast to Davis his greatness is based in stillness, the variants and degradations of commonalities in a decent, hardworking man. Joyce’s willingness to go along with obtaining the letter goes against everything Joyce believes in, yet he cannot seem to understand why he’s putting his career in jeopardy, even if he is friends with the Crosbies. Stephenson finds the tremors in Joyce’s faux-cool exterior, seemingly taking the whole thing in stride as becomes increasingly fraught by his own actions. His closing statement to the jury of Leslie’s trial, the outcome so assured the prosecution doesn’t even bother to present their own finisher, betrays so many emotional conflicts while still functioning perfectly as an impassioned statement on behalf of his client. Herbert Marshall is very much the third wheel narratively and in terms of performance, though his turn is still poignantly sympathetic to this basically decent man being kept from the truth about his wife until he stumbles into it.

Robert’s stumbling happens almost immediately after the trial concludes, where a getaway plan is dashed once he learns about the letter, and what was done to acquire it. The truth about the night Geoff Hammond died, what prompted him to arrive and what he did to make Leslie shoot her, is finally revealed by Leslie herself. The final half hour is essentially a series of reckonings between Leslie and her husband as the two realize what their marriage can and cannot withstand, culminating in the film’s saddest confession as Leslie howls in the face of a failed reconciliation that she is still in love with the man she killed. It’s here that the tacked-on ending of the Hays Code takes hold, as an eye is exchanged for an eye on Leslie’s front lawn. A getaway stroll is immediately foiled by a police officer the killer stumbles into, an arrest seemingly made through a series of silent glances. It’s palpably odd, unlike a similar tacked-on comeuppance in The Bad Seed, where its ethics-code assigned bit of karmic justice fits the film’s cray-cray style. I suppose The Letter chooses the proper minor character to dole out vengeance, but the sudden resolution of the killing feels bizarrely enacted. As mentioned early, the sheer beauty of certain moments in the sequence feels as though Wyler is trying to find something to be interested in, and its truncated presentation suggests he’s trying to get through it as quickly as possible. The sheer distance Wyler stages us from the killing is odd considering how close we are to Leslie’s killing of Hammond at the beginning, how he does nothing to skimp on the violence of the moment and the responses it creates in Leslie, in the panicked workers. Yes, this killing is done in almost complete isolation, but even the audience is isolated from it, and the poignancy of the moment suffers for it.

If I’ve had a difficult time balancing between what’s inevitable about The Letter and keeping some of the mysteries intact, forgive me, but it’s hard to call the narrative trajectory the film’s most compelling feature. It’s a character study with the trappings of a film noir. The Letter is a deep plumbing of Leslie Crosbie by Wyler and Davis, and they do so with astonishing success and syncopation. There’s no distance between Leslie and Bette, even if the performance is so remarkably realized you can’t help but notice how good she is in the role. The diminished returns of the final minute is nothing compared to the preceding 93 minutes, and I’m amazed that in all my ramblings I’ve barely devoted a paragraph to Wyler’s direction. To be fair, Wyler credited himself totally with the success of The Letter once it was realized, though the fact that the man is perfectly willing to speak for himself is no excuse not to give my own praise. Wyler makes the film sing, coordinating perfectly not just with Davis but with Stephenson, with Steiner, with Gaudio, with Amy and Law. His is the hand that guides the whole thing to triumph, and he’s as worth crediting as Bette Davis is for making The Letter such a vivid, singular experience. Even if the trial is seen as a joke by many of the characters, Wyler’s investment in the trial is enough that the incriminating letter has real weight on him and on Leslie. The stakes of the whole thing, and how those stakes are different for Leslie and for Joyce, is never lost on him.

Have I said enough to convince you to go and watch The Letter? Frankly, I’ve run out of nice things to say about the film. Taking into account the two quibbles I’ve made about Mrs. Hammond and the odd ending, it’s not enough to matter compared to the virtuosity that the rest of the film exerts. There’s no moment when the picture isn’t completely compelling, and if the sputtering disorganization of this paper indicates anything, it’s that my enthusiasm for the film far outweighs my interest in giving an organized testimony about it. You could never get a corker this finely tuned and psychologically rich made this day in age, let alone one starring a platinum-class actress operating in perfect sync with an equally invaluable director. The Letter has a gargantuan amount to offer, from the fascination of the central mystery to how marvelously it’s realized on every level. You could barely ask for a better version of the film, certainly not one with the Hays Code in play. I’d encourage anyone with an interest in top-tier actressing, sordid 40’s mysteries, stylized lighting, spiritual crises, all guided by a genius director, to rent this film as soon as you possibly can. Hell, buy it. Every choice in The Letter is carried out with finesse, fulfilling its duty to the moment and to the ultimate finale. At 95 minutes it’s built like a steel watch, endlessly rewatchable and sturdy enough to withstand multiple viewings. So go, my pretties. Find The Letter. Give it the attention that it deserves. Anything that has the hutzpah to open with a woman killing a man at the dead of night knows exactly what it’s doing from the start, and believe me, anything this confident and charismatic deserves more shots at our love and attention than the six that Geoff Hammond got.

#my posts #my reviews #the letter #1940 #i get it you guys it's a mess but I started this got lost and powered through it #by making the piece insanely long and poorly structured #at least to me it seems unstructured #ah well #enjoy it guys!

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