if you want
Rating: I donít know, but this is pretty much a dark
ficÖso Iíll go with R
Pairing: B/H H/Other (wellÖkindaÖyouíll seeÖ)
Disclaimers: This is femslash, which means that it
involves same sex relationships/feelings/sex, so if youíre not
old enough or it isnít your bag of chips or itís not legal
where you live, what the hell are you doing here anyway??? Oh,
and I own nothing! I just got them out to play for a little
Authorís Note: I was in a kinda bad place the last
month or so, and this just kinda came out of me. Thought itíd
be neat to try something in second person, annoying as it may be
to actually write. This hasnít been betaíd so all mistakes,
and there are probably many, are totally mineÖsorry. Iíve
edited it, but I think it sounds better as raw as possible.
Feedback is more than welcome!
Summary: Helena has been trying to hide her feelings, but
would that really be for the best?
Thereís something inside you that breaks a little every day. That
breaks a little every time you see her, sitting there in front of her
computer with her beautiful red hair and adorable glasses with the faint
teeth marks on the earpieces from when she really needs to think. That
breaks a little every time you hear her voice whispering in your ear on
patrol, saying everything but the one thing you need it to.
You stand on the balcony, just staring off into the somber skyline.
You think about traveling, and how nowhere else has ever felt right to
you, just clicked and made the word Ďhomeí come to mind. But you
also know it isnít the city that keeps you here.
"Are you okay?" Her soft voice startles you, disturbing the
fragile moment of reflection with ripples that you know will inevitably
turn into tsunamis. Instead of responding, or even looking at her, you
duck your head with the realization that it has grown dark with you
Even as you think that your world rises and sets with her and not the
sun, you feel anger. Irrational or not, itís there and itís been
growing. The resentment, the rage, and the helplessness hits you all at
once, so damn hard you canít seem to breath all of a sudden. And sheís
looking at you with those analytical eyes while your mind screams at her
to just see the logical conclusion of the clues youíve been giving her
for years on end. Thereís nothing you will ever be able to do to
change the situation. You know it. And, on some level at least, you
suspect that so does she.
You love her. You love her more than you thought you could love
anything after having watched your mother bleed to death. You love her
more than life itself, and thatís the problem.
Grinding your teeth in an effort to avoid shedding the tears that
suddenly spring up in your eyes, you clench your fists and raise your
head to once again stare at the industrial sky. Light never suited the
city, and you like it better this way. Easier to block it all out and
just fly through the night, trying to leave everything behind.
So you jump, not bothering to address her faint protests. The wind
whips through your hair and stings your eyes, giving you an excuse to
mist over and dash at the wetness on your cheeks with a frustrated
Without thinking, without any memory of how exactly you got here, you
end up at some dead end dive of a bar. The music pounds your blood with
a not-so-subtle tang of lust, alcohol and smoke. People here are tired
of pretenses and running, looking for something to fill the void for
just one night.
Barbaraís silky voice whispers in your ear, "Why wonít you
tell me whatís wrong?" And if it werenít for the vague edge of
despair and desperation in her voice, you would have brushed it off. But
youíre tired of it all, youíre tired of being a strong adult and for
one night you know youíve got to do something or it will all come
crashing down. So you do the only thing you can, you take the earpieces
and the necklace off, shoving them in a pocket while motioning for the
bartender with the other hand.
After almost an entire bottle of some cheapass whiskey, you admit
defeat. Drowning your sorrows never works, thanks to your momís meta
genes, in much the same way that you never get sick or hung over and
bruises disappear overnight. Which is a good thing unless youíre
looking to lose yourself more than just a little -- or when you canít
stand being in your own mind anymore, bashing away the same thoughts
over and over again until you find scars on your palms from where your
nails dug in.
So you start to look for some distraction from something other than
the alcohol, and study the people around you, dismissing most of them
outright. Physical beauty isnít anything new to you, you see it every
day and itís nothing more than random genes being combined in the
right way, so you look for something more, something by nature
indefinable. Maybe itís the quickness of the eyes, maybe itís the
softness of a smile, but tonight itís definitely going to be female.
Should you feel guilty about assuaging some of your pain, your lust
by using someone who is going to be using you just as shamelessly? No,
but you know you will in the morning anyway. Yet another foray into the
night that youíll hide away deep into yourself, too ashamed of those
secrets to let even Barbara in that far. Her name popped up unbidden,
bringing with it a fresh wave of longing and self-loathing, making you
look even harder and settle for less than you normally would.
Then again, you normally wouldnít have come even this far.
Somethingís gotta give, and if this can stop the self-flagellation for
even a moment, then it wonít matter. Because in the end, youíre
going to be torn apart by it all. And thatís talking about more than a
delicious redhead that you donít want to think of. Thatís talking
about the super villains, the double life, the dangers of being meta in
a world that isnít ready for you. Add to that the fact that you know
damn well that youíll never really be able to settle for anything less
and itís enough to make anyone see the bottom of a bottle.
Or to look for a one-night stand where the word night itself is
actually too long to describe it. And you donít really have to look
very long, thanks to the genes from your mom and your dad, though
thoughts of them are hugely misplaced on a night like this. The next
thing you know, youíre pressed up against a wall in a shitty alley,
blocked there by a shapely blonde Ė of course having resisted the urge
to grab the first redhead in sight because that was a little too
desperate for even you tonight.
A hand, teeth, tongue, lips, fingersÖeverythingís all a blur. You
donít normally go for being the one actually getting fucked, but
tonight you needed to lose control in some way. And fucking, however an
ugly word it might be, is the only word for what youíre doing Ė
well, more precisely, whatís being done to you. But not all of you is
with her here, youíre not lost in the moment like you thought you
would be, and a little part of you is glad of that. You canít escape
the pain, even as the orgasm sweeps through your body. Thoughts of
Barbara send your pleasure even higher, but you canít feel guilty
about not thinking of the blonde, whose name youíve already forgotten,
because sheís picturing someone else as well.
Once sheís finished, you have the faint realization that youíre
going to be sore in the morning and not able to sit correctly for a few
more days, meta abilities notwithstanding. Maybe you like having the
physical pain remind you with every step you take that you really are
still alive. Maybe you want the pain to heal; bringing with it the hope
that someday your heart will be able to mend as well. Maybe youíre so
lost and damaged that the pain is a much-needed tether to a reality youíd
much rather leave behind. Maybe all of that is too much truth for you to
And, being the hunter that you are, you flip the blonde against the
wall and proceed to ravage her until sheís nothing more than a meek
puddle of flesh mewling that other womanís name in the aftermath of
her climax. Maybe you punished her a little bit for not being Barbara,
maybe you left teeth marks a little too enthusiastically, and maybe you
relish the fact that sheís going to be sore as hell for a week, but
you canít seem to feel guilty about it and she doesnít seem to mind
Without another glance backwards, you run and keep running through
the inky black of the Gotham night. Youíre exhilarated by the thought
that maybe you can keep running until either you canít breathe anymore
or until youíre on the other side of the country. Fanciful thoughts
never did you much good, having made you fall head over heels in the
first place, and you just keep trying to outrun your mind.
So the next morning, with the night creeping back inch by inch in
grudging deference to the raising sun, you slink back to the clocktower.
You donít live there anymore, and havenít in quite some time, but
thatís only a matter of semantics to everyone involved. Including the
blonde teenager yawning and making a beeline for the coffee machine,
which Alfred has Ė as always Ė remembered to begin just in time.
Grinning, and somewhat meaning it, you poke Dinah in the head to hear
her squawk at you, only to jump when a voice floats down from the upper
level. "Girls, canít you behave? I swear Iíve seen you do it at
When Dinah grabs your wrist with her eyes narrowed and nostrils
flaring, you donít even bother to act intimidated, instead laughing
openly. But your laughter dies as you see the startled recognition on
her face as she accidentally brushes your mind and picks up images of
your sordid night. Tears threatening, you jerk your arm from her grasp,
holding it close to your chest as if her touch burned when you both know
damn well that itís your own activities you find so disgusting. The
gentle look on her face is enough to make you realize that she knows
everything, and probably has since the first day you met, sending you
over the edge and forcing a single tear to roll down your cheek.
You hear her voice again; much closer this time as her wheels squeak
their way into the kitchen, "Is everything okay? Usually quiet
means violence with you two, and Helena, I swear to God if you knocked
Dinah out again because she took a pop tartÖ" and trails off at
the look still on Dinahís face and your quick Ė but not quick enough
Ė motion to wipe away the tear.
And you just canít seem to keep your composure because itís kind
of like the straw that broke the camelís back to see the sympathy in
the blondeís face. But the weird irony of the whole situation that
your life has become forces out a bubble of near hysterical laughter
from somewhere deep in your chest. You know you sound damn near crazy as
a loon, but itís like someone else has control over your vocal cords.
Almost as soon as you began, the laughter cuts off so suddenly that the
teenagerís rush to get out of the room echoes like gunfire.
Now that sheís gone, you donít have anything to look at but
Barbara. If you do that, youíll be lost in those jade green eyes whose
depths you long to explore and the other person in control of your
speech might let out a little bit too much truth. So your shoes become
the most interesting thing in the world, and you notice the new scuffs
from the nightís sojourn into that oversexed alley. Just the thought
of your actions in the presence of the redhead is enough to make you
blush from your neck to the roots of your hair, and itís all you can
do not to groan in anger at yourself.
But you donít have any more time for self-hatred as her soft voice
brokenly asks, "Why donít you talk to me anymore? IÖI donít
know what Iíve done wrongÖbut Iím so sorryÖI donít want to
lose you any more than I already haveÖand the worst part is I donít
know why. Please let me in."
She looks at you expectantly, and you know that if you were in her
position, youíd be doing the same thing. Then again, youíre not the
only emotionally closed off one in this room right now.
"IÖI canít." Those damn tears again, you wish theyíd
quit coming. You hate, absolutely hate, crying. It gives you a headache
and doesnít make the situation better anyway. Youíve cried more in
the past twelve hours than you have in the past twelve years combined.
"I canít help you if you donít let me in."
And even though those words are innocuous enough, they infuriate you
to the point where you just start ranting like you always do in your
headÖbut this time out loud.
"Let you in? Let YOU in? God, Barbara, do you even know what youíre
saying? Come on, you are the ONLY person in my life I can count on Ė
and that includes me! But you have NEVER let ME in. No, you always sit
there and listen and joke, but thereís a wall you keep up that I keep
running headlong into. And maybe hitting my head that much that often
has given me permanent damage, I donít even know anymore. What I do
know is that friendship takes two people, not just me talking and you
Since you had to stop for breath at some point, she gets the
opportunity to break in, sounding thoroughly confused and embattled,
"I do talk to you, Helena. I-"
"NO, no you donít! Sure, you tell me about how some insane
high school twerp threw fecal matter at the window second period or how
Wadeís parents are complete assholes but you donít TALK. Itís all
surface from you, no confessions, no dreams, no fears, nothing. Just
And that is met with silence. Your chest is heaving from the
emotional, if not completely rational, outpouring. Even though you begin
to feel guilty about saying these thoughts out loud, you know youíre
right and you just had to say it. From the way that sheís staring at
you with that horribly lost look, you know that it was all pointless.
You canít help but think that sheís spent so long in front of her
computers sheís become one, and canít recognize emotions unless itís
done so in a thoroughly scientific matter.
No matter what the end result of this rant, you feel the walls
closing in and the air becoming too thick for normal consumption, so you
run Ė and leave Barbara doing her best fish impression, mouth opening
and closing, just staring at the space you once occupied.
And you run down the stairs instead of jumping from the balcony,
screaming four letter words into the morning. Because itís daylight,
because itís never going to change, because you honestly canít seem
to stop crying, and because deep down you know you stopped too soon. You
should have said those four little words. ĎI love you, Barbara.í You
should have taken the plunge, because at least then you would know and
start to pick up the pieces of your heart.
But maybe you donít really want to know. Maybe you donít really
want to move on. Maybe youíve forgotten what it was like to be happy
and have true, honest hope. Maybe youíre scared that without Barbara
as the unreachable pinnacle, youíll be forced to admit that youíre
broken beyond repair. Maybe this is the only kind of hope you know.
In a masochistic streak, and because you feel lost without them, you
put the earpieces and necklace back on Ė knowing that at some point
the great Oracle will need to get in contact with you, whether it be as
Helena the woman or as Huntress the vigilante. Youíre not so far gone
that you could turn your back on your city.
Not yet, anyway.
You end up just wandering around the city, squinting slightly but too
lost in your ruminations to really notice the sun brightly shining.
Somewhere deep inside, in the same place that all your cynical
tendencies reside, you wish it would at least storm. The rain would pour
and leave you dripping and your toes would squish in your boots with
every step while the drops would mask the tears. The lightning would
crash, but the darkness would remain otherwise unbroken, with the sudden
bursts of electricity stopping time every few seconds to leave a
photograph of a miserable world burned on your retinas.
But youíre not that lucky.
You watch idly, moving the whole time, as the sun begins to set,
realizing that the entire day has passed in a grey blur of windows and
sidewalk. And when Dinah shows up directly in front of you, you almost
knock her over, stopping just in time with a muttered curse.
"Look," she tells you, all business and wanting to act
mature, "you and Barbara need to talk."
Without looking her in the eye, you grind out, "No we donít."
But sheís not content to let you go without a fight, because she
responds with, "Yes, you do. This is tearing you both apart and for
the life of me I canít figure out why."
Finally looking up, you stare directly into her eyes and clearly say,
"Itís complicated, thatís why."
Almost growling in frustration, the blonde grabs your wrist roughly
and gets in your face, "Well watch this and THEN try to tell me itís
When you blink, still formulating an appropriately scathing response,
you open your eyes to see yourself in the clocktower once again. But youíre
not really there, itís kind of hazy, and youíre looking down at a
body that doesnít belong to you. Dinah. You realize with a start that
you must be in her mind, and sheís showing you one of her memories.
You, well really Dinah, are walking towards the balcony slowly, as if
not really wanting to go out there but drawn anyway. And, in too short a
time, you Ė er, DinahÖwhatever Ė are watching Barbara crying
quietly into the morning sunshine. The sight of her tears snaps
something deep inside you, and all you want to do is run over and hold
the redhead until her tears subside, only youíre helpless to do
anything but tag along in the blondeís memory.
Upon hearing Dinah ask, "Whatís wrong?" you canít help
but watch in fascination as the walls drop over Barbaraís face, and
all signs of emotional distress disappear in less than a second.
"Oh, uh, nothing. Shouldnít you be at school?" And you
canít help but accuse the redhead of being a worrier, always
deflecting attention from herself onto someone or something else. After
spending nearly half her life sublimating her needs and dreams to that
of hundreds Ė if not thousands or millions Ė of nameless and
faceless Gotham residents, she canít seem to let anyone in.
"Talk to me." Dinahís tone is soft but firm, and you know
that she would invade Barbaraís privacy if she deemed it necessary.
And you can tell that seeing Barbara crying has shaken her almost as
much as it has you. "Itís Helena, isnít it?"
In response the redhead nods, taking a shaky breath before plunging
on by saying, "Yeah. IÖI donít know whatís wrong. I get the
feeling that itís me. That Iíve done something, but I donít know
what it was. IÖI miss her. I miss my friend."
Softly, encouraging Barbara to open up more, Dinah prods, "Have
you tried to talk to her?"
Thereís a horribly lost look on Barbaraís face, and she responds
in a tone thatís almost a constant question. "I tried to talk to
her this morning, but it was like being in my presence made it worse.
She attacked me, and Iím pretty sure I hadnít done anything
At this, Dinah reaches over and rests a comforting hand on the older
womanís shoulder. And gasps. "Youíre in love with her." A
statement, not a question. Your mind comes to a screeching halt, reeling
and uncertain, but the memory plods on and you have to keep up.
Barbara turns her head, staring off into the distance, and you can
barely make out a softly whispered, "Yes."
Even though you canít feel what Dinahís feeling at this moment,
her voice sounds incredulous enough to tell you that she must have been
gaping at Barbara. "Why havenít you told her?"
That definitely got a reaction out of the fiery Oracle, because her
head whips around and her eyes pin you with barely restrained anger and
pain. She sounds calm but looks devastated. "She hates me. Canít
you see it? I donít know when or why things changed, but they did and
she canít even stand to be in the same room as me. ThereísÖthereís
nothing I can do but let her go. I love her enough to want her to be
happy, Dinah." And you breathe a little easier with her eyes
averted, once again staring out past the skyline.
Another blink brings you back to the present world, Dinah finally
letting go of your wrist. This whole telepathy thing is completely
disorienting, and youíre not sure if you like it. Youíre also not
sure what you should do with this information. A part of you is jumping
up and down, screaming in joy. But another part of you is absolutely,
stark terrified of this development.
A sharp smack on the shoulder brings your focus back on Dinah, and
you glower at her, preparing to rip into her with a verbal assault of
how she should NOT piss you off today, but she interrupts your brewing
storm by saying, "And youíre still here becauseÖ?"
You have a badass answer all lined up, but after the night and day
youíve had, youíre simply tired of pretending to have all the
answers and not need anyone. So, with shoulders slumped and eyes
downcast, you respond, "I donít know what to do."
Dinah snorts in disgust, and if she were looking to get a rise out of
you thatís exactly what she should do, but she disarms the situation
unknowingly. Lifting your chin with her hand, she looks in your eyes and
softly says, "Go. Talk to her. Youíve GOT to work this out. Iím
tired of living with all this emotional dysfunction." A momentary
pause, where youíre sure that your fears are written clearly on your
face, so Dinah sighs again and continues, "Okay, so kiss her. That
will tell you both everything you need to know. But you need to
And with a tiny shove and motherly shooing motions, she gets you to
turn and make your way back to the clocktower. Apart from the
terrifyingly awful situations playing in your head, you could be walking
blindfolded for all youíre aware of your surroundings.
You are, after all, heading home. You donít need to see or hear or
smell because there is an unerring compass in your heart, just as there
always has been, leading you to exactly where youíve always meant to
be. Barbaraís heart. It just took you this long to finally listen.
And striding out to the balcony, the sun shining through beautiful
raven hair, you feel a chink in your armor. Itís not a big opening,
but it will be enough to work with. With your heart on your sleeve and
everything on the line at long last, you feel strangely calm. Walking up
to her chair, she feels your presence and turns towards you. She opens
her mouth to speak, but youíre there in an instant, not wanting to
spoil the moment and lose your courage, covering her lips with your own.
You pour every emotion into the kiss. The longing, the lust, the
pain, the understanding, the need. Maybe all this hope is a lost cause
because sheís not really responding to you, but sheís not exactly
pulling away either. You know your life is going to change after this
one moment, and that knowledge is mind numbingÖbut exhilarating too.
Youíve never felt more alive. So you lay down your last card and try
to send your love through this one perfect kiss.
And she kisses you back.
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