Work Text:
Tuesday, October 18th, 1927
“Pathetic.”
The man sitting in the med bay with his feet up choked on his beer at the sound of the unexpected voice that echoed throughout the room. It wasn’t Amaya’s voice, even though she had just walked out a second earlier.
He cast his eyes around the room and quickly found the source of the voice, leaning against the doorway with a cruel scowl on his face and a lit cigarette between two fingers.
No.
It was impossible.
He was dead.
But he was here.
“Dad,” he breathed, staring at the man in front of him. Then he shook his head. “I must be losing my mind.” The folks from Star City may have been used to the sight of dead people walking around, but Mick sure as hell wasn’t expecting to see the dead man talking to him in the middle of the Waverider’s Med Bay. Or maybe this was all just some horrible dream, after he’d fallen asleep drinking. He thumped his own head with his fists, hoping to… wake himself up? Pound the voice away? He didn’t know what he was hoping for.
“Obviously.” It didn’t work. The ghost of Dick Rory was still there, taking a drag from his cigarette before continuing. “Why else would you still be on this tub, puttin’ your neck on the line for some stupid do-gooders? You always were a dumb little shit.”
This couldn’t be happening. Dad was dead. The cops confirmed it, and the firefighters, and Jax and Sara that time they all travelled back to that night.
Maybe it was a past version of Dad? One from this- No, it couldn’t be. They were in October 1927, and Dad was born in April of 1926; that version of him would be a baby, not the chain-smoking, violent bastard Mick had grown up knowing.
“You’re goin’ soft, Mickey boy,” ‘Dad’ taunted, “You think you can fit in here? Be one of them? Nah.”
Mick got to his feet. “Shut up.”
‘Dad’ ignored him. “Doesn’t matter what you do, Boy. You’ll always be the same screw-up kid who left his own mother to die. You ain’t ever gonna be one of those heroes, and they know it. That girl knows it. Won’t be long before you screw somethin’ up, and they have no choice but to dump you back into a life of knockin’ over liquor stores and lookin’ over your shoulder for the cops.” He finally stood up straight and sauntered down the hall and out of sight. “Face it, Mickey: You ain’t ever gonna be good enough.”
“Wait!” Mick got up, running to the Med Bay door, only to see a completely empty hallway. ‘He’s wrong,’ he thought, ‘He’s gotta be wrong.’
But something about those cruel words felt like the truth.
‘Now I really need a fucking drink.’
And he emptied the rest of his beer into his mouth.
