Not feeling great was the understatement of the century. He'd been worse before, that was true, but before wasn't his current concern. Puking blood outside the back of a pub was, and Christ if it wasn't leaving him feeling exhausted too. In other worlds he might have demonic blood to back him up, but here he had nothing but himself.
Well, that wasn't entirely the case. He had Sara worrying her head off because of some stupid honesty magic he couldn't resist. Poor woman hadn't deserved that, and he carried the guilt of weighing her down with everything else now. He'd already put her and the other Legends through enough, the Crisis bullshit was enough to make anyone have a bad weekend.
And then there was Oliver. The first man in a long time he'd considered a friend in so many ways. And he was, like all the others, gone.
Lucifer had been right to remind him he had no friends, but it had been a lie, hadn't it? He had friends. Dead friends. Ghosts that followed him around. They hadn't shown up here yet, so there was that at least, but he thought that might just be because they were enjoying watching him die too much to bother him in the midst of it.
Harley though? Harley he'd met once. A version of her. She was broken like he was, but optimistic in a way he never could be. And maybe that's why he was going through the effort of cleaning up the blood on his mouth before he made his way into the actual bar now. Alcohol was going to help. It bloody had to.