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It was raining on the day Helena wasn’t married, and it was raining on the day that she was. Like a good omen that seemed to wash away the horrors of her life and offer a clean slate - Helena embraced the downpour happily both times.
—-
Her wedding dress was too tight and too puffy. She felt like she was about to step into an 80s music video, not walk down the aisle. The simple, black dress she’d wanted to wear in a show of defiance had been whisked away behind her back. She wasn’t sure how its existence had come under her father’s radar, but it confirmed her fears that no one was to be trusted.
No one other than Laurel, at least.
The thought of the other woman brought a fresh wave of sorrow, and Helena collapsed into the chair in front of the mirror. The last few attendants backed away, their performative cheer faltering at the open show of discontent.
Good. Fuck them. Helena didn’t care if her dress was perfect or her make-up and hair flawless. Paint her up like a sad clown - it would be more appropriate.
Outside of the church, rain pattered against the stained glass windows, beat down on the roof with thunderous force. It felt appropriate - as though the day itself was lamenting for her while she had to put some effort into pretending she wasn’t miserable and on the verge of running to the safety of her secret apartment where she and Laurel had spent every stolen moment together that they could. If Helena thought she could without putting Laurel or her family in danger, she would have.
But her father had already taken one lover away from her. He wouldn’t hesitate to take another, no matter who she was or who her father was. No matter if she was someone important to the very man he’d chosen as the best match for Helena.
Maybe that was what would get Helena through the day. Knowing Oliver Queen was pining for Laurel Lance the same as his new wife was.
Helena hadn’t meant for it to happen. She hadn’t meant to stumble blindly into Oliver’s bed or begin to care about him beyond the physical connection they felt or the hidden scars they both bore. And she hadn’t meant to stalk his ex-fiancee he was so clearly still hung up on. Helena was impulsive though, hot-blooded and raw like an open wound that couldn’t heal. She was bitter, envious, violent, volatile.
She and Oliver had been a disaster, a powder keg just waiting to be ignited.
And somehow, in the tangled web of them, their secrets and lies and all the skeletons in their closets, amidst her homicidal plans of revenge and his calculated long con, she’d wound up engaged to him and falling for his ex.
The last thing Helena wanted was to fall for someone again. To feel that harrowing, all-consuming fear of having something precious and knowing at any moment it could be torn away forever. Those violent images of innocent blood on her already coated hands. She tried not to care. Tried to remain bitter and resentful of the woman her unwanted fiance still idolized. Helena tried to ignore how much Laurel tried to help people, how hard she fought to do what was right. Tried and tried and kept waking up from nightmares of Michael that began to turn into nightmares of Laurel, torn to pieces between Bertinelli violence and Oliver Queen’s secrets.
But then Laurel reached out to her.
“My dad’s a cop. He might not be the world’s best dad, but he did teach me a thing or two, and I know when I’m being stalked.” She’d been smiling though, and Helena knew then - the same as she’d known on the awkward double date where she’d been a fourth wheel to Oliver and two people he still loved - why he wasn’t over Laurel despite all his protests. “How about we get lunch?”
She should have said no.
Helena stared at herself in the mirror, smoky-eyes and crimson-painted lips and perfect hair and awful, white dress that felt all wrong, and asked herself again why she hadn’t said no.
“...yeah. I can do lunch.”
One lunch led to two led to three led to dinner led to ice cream and drinks at Laurel’s led to breakfast at Laurel’s after spending the night getting to know her just as well - if not better - than Oliver used to.
Laurel became more than Oliver Queen’s ex, alive and breathing still while Michael was buried six feet under. She was fierce and ferocious, sharp-witted, kind, warm. She was insecure and haunted, caught in a whirlwind of emotion over two men she loved very much but knew weren’t right for her. She was strong and brave and all the things that Helena wanted to be. She was too good for Oliver Queen and Tommy Merlyn - and most of all, Helena Bertinelli.
But she let Helena into her life and then into her bed. Worst of all she let Helena into her heart, where Helena had no right to be.
They moved their dates and late night hook ups to Helena’s apartment, her one haven away from her father and the Bertinelli business. The moment Helena realized they were in way over their heads she became more paranoid than ever before. She should have given Laurel up then. She’d certainly tried, but Laurel refused to let someone else make her decisions for her, even if it was to keep her safe.
“I’m a grown woman, Helena. I can make my own choices. I know the risks,” she’d said, the two of them tangled together in the sheets. “Believe me. I know. My life has plenty of risks. Shouldn’t I at least take whatever happiness I can?”
And how could Helena argue with that?
But time went on, and her wedding loomed over her life a death sentence, and now there she was, in the dressing room of the church where she’d been baptised, where Michael’s funeral had been, where she was about to walk down the aisle to marry the man whose worst mistakes had led to her greatest ones. She’d told Laurel they had to end things. She’d told Laurel it was too dangerous. She’d told Laurel that Oliver might not be mafia, but he was dangerous and he wasn’t the man she knew. She’d told Laurel it was too much, she couldn’t keep this up, couldn’t slip away and be with her and keep ignoring how selfish it was. She’d told Laurel it was over.
“It was fun while it lasted,” she’d said. Tried like a fool to pretend it hadn’t meant the world to her, and Laurel had seen right through it, tears shining in those pretty, blue eyes as she’d just shaken her head.
“This is the only selfish thing you’ve done since we fell,” Laurel had whispered before walking out. The slamming of the door had hurt worse than a slap. The echo of those words were worse than if she’d shouted and snapped.
The attendants were gone. The organ was firing up. It was almost time. The door knob twisted in the mirror and slowly opened.
Helena braced herself for her father to step into reflection. Instead she found herself meeting Laurel’s soft gaze. She twisted in her seat, stared wide-eyed as Laurel Lance slipped into the room and locked the door. A duffel bag in Laurel’s hand caught her attention, and she took it all in, the shock of seeing her lover here making the gears slow to turn.
“Listen to me. Because we don’t have much time.” Laurel crossed over and knelt down beside Helena’s chair. “You’re right - I don’t know who Oliver is anymore. And I might not have ever truly known. But I do know there are some things he would never let happen to me. So I called him. I told him everything. I asked him to help me. To help you,” she explained, one hand reaching up to tuck some of Helena’s hair behind her ear. “Tell me you don’t want a life with me. If you don’t, then I’ll go. I’ll let you go. But if you want this, even if we’re on the run, even if we can never come home, even if we’re never able to take your father down, if you are willing to fight and sacrifice for us, then I need you to know I am too. I am ready to leave everything until it’s safe to come back - and I’m willing to accept that might not ever happen, no matter what Oliver promises. Because I love you, Helena Bertinelli. And I think you love me, too.”
The tears that had threatened Helena off and on the whole day finally flowed freely down her cheeks, ruining her immaculate make-up. She couldn’t speak, was only able to nod and pull Laurel to her and press her mouth to hers. All her fears were rushing to the surface of her thoughts, but Laurel’s lips moving against hers drowned them out until all that mattered was that Laurel loved her.
“Of course I love you,” Helena finally whispered, their noses pressed together. “I love you, I love you. And there’s nothing I want more than to run away with you.”
Laurel smiled, cupping her face. “Then get changed and let’s go.”
---
They snuck out into the pouring rain and raced to Laurel’s waiting car. Helena flung her cell phone out the window and laughed when the back wheel crushed it as Laurel drove off, putting distance between them and the church where surely by then her father had come to find her gone, nothing but a wedding dress of his choosing left in the dressing room.
There was no destination in mind. Just possibilities.
Halfway to Central City, Helena reached over and grabbed Laurel’s hand. “Let’s go to Vegas.” She met Laurel’s quick, questioning gaze and nodded. “Yes. For exactly the reason you’re thinking. Let’s do it.”
Laurel laughed, a beautiful sound that Helena wanted to hear for years and years to come, wanted to hear when they were old ladies living together in a nursing home. “Okay,” she nodded, grinning brightly. “Let’s do it.”
---
It wasn’t pouring when they reached the dazzling lights of Las Vegas, but there was a steady drizzle that reminded Helena of her last wedding day. The windshield wipers were only an occasional swipe instead of a constant movement to clear the view - one that was just as flashy and tacky as expected, but Helena felt delighted all the same.
They’d swapped Laurel’s tags for a pair that Oliver had given her when helping her with the plan. He’d texted them later to say Helena’s father - while furious - hadn’t seen anything and was still piecing together what was happening. He’d given them a number to use to reach him once a month for an update and any tips on where to go or where to avoid.
Laurel’s parents were furious, but Helena suspected their anger was born of fear, considering what had happened to their younger daughter. Laurel had called them both from a payphone two days into their escape, promising them that she was fine, she knew what she was doing, and this was what she wanted. That they would contact the FBI soon and give them everything they could, that Helena would provide them plenty to put her father away for life, and then they could come home.
Her father had known that it would never be that easy or simple.
Laurel had cried for several minutes after the calls while Helena held her close and apologized for putting her in this position. “You didn’t,” Laurel had said, voice hoarse from crying. “I made my choices. And I’m sticking with them. No regrets.” She’d kissed Helena then, reassuring her further that she meant what she was saying.
They’d fucked in the shower that night, when they stopped at some cheap motel on the highway. Fingers and mouths everywhere, not caring how loud they were or if there were any noise complaints against them. Bone-tired and sated by the time they were out and dried off, they’d curled up and watched infomercials until finally passing out.
They hadn’t rushed straight to Nevada. They took their time, stopped at tourist traps and bought cheap souvenirs. They’d cut and dyed each other’s hair - Laurel going lighter, Helena going darker. They weren’t trying for obvious disguises or girls on the run looks, just something simple and different enough. They’d both joked about going pink or blue and had nearly bought the dye while drunk until thankfully Helena had said her father would absolutely believe she’d go for something that extreme.
As they drove into the heart of Vegas, all flashing signs and neon haze, Helena felt butterflies in her stomach. It would be fake names of course. Cheap rings on their fingers, and everywhere they went the story of how it happened would change. But as far as she was concerned, tonight she was getting married. She had never thought that it would be to another woman - even though she’d realized in her last year of high school she was in love with the head cheerleader and her ex best friend and had spent the next six months coming to the realization that she was in fact bisexual. But her future had always been so traditional, even in the few dreams she’d indulged in where she was out from the Bertinelli life.
After Michael, she’d given up thoughts of marriage. All that mattered was bringing down her father’s entire empire.
Now, though - so much had changed. Helena reached over and gave Laurel’s hand a squeeze. She drank in the smile Laurel flashed her way.
They pulled into the parking lot of a ridiculous looking chapel and motel combo. Laurel paid for the room while Helena filled out the necessary paperwork for the “minister” and handed over their forged papers. And identification. They kept stealing glances at each other, smiling, laughing, touching fingers like lovestruck schoolgirls. When everything was ready, they popped to the dressing rooms provided and changed into the simple outfits they’d chosen - a loose, white sundress for Helena and a white pant suit for Laurel.
The still steady rain lightly pitter-pattered against the roof of the chapel.
Helena stepped out of her dressing room only a moment before Laurel exited from hers, and she felt her chest tighten as her breath rushed out in a soft gasp. It wasn’t as though she was seeing Laurel for the first time again, or that somehow she was more radiant than ever - though she looked stunning. But the definiteness of the moment sank in. Everything felt so much more real at the sight of Laurel in her white suit, and Helena knew that no matter what happened, this was the best decision of her life.
Laurel’s smile told her she felt the same. “You ready?” she asked, walking over to take Helena’s hand.
“Definitely,” Helena replied, interlacing her fingers with Laurel’s. “I love you,” she whispers as the pre-recorded music starts playing and they take their first steps down the aisle.
“I love you too.”
---
They dance in the parking lot in the evening rain after the ceremony, ignoring the passersby that make lewd comments or the cars honking at them. They kiss as the light precipitation turns into a downpour much like the day they fled Starling City, and run laughing to their room where they don’t bother drying off before falling onto the bed and making love for the first time as spouses.
In the morning they’ll move on. They’ve been talking about going back east to Gotham or heading northwest to Seattle. They’ll probably make a decision over breakfast. In the end, it doesn’t matter. They’re together, and that’s enough.