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Helena was always the only girl, the only child, trailing after the assassins. She watched grown men lift weights and handle weapons and beat each other to a pulp, and copied each move until she could do it better. She'd imagined herself growing up into a body like theirs, thighs like tree trunks, the shoulders of a bull. It took her years to accept that she would never have the advantage of sheer size, that her hands would keep their slender shape--they looked more and more like her mother's hands as she grew older. All that time, she practiced against opponents at least six inches taller than her, cruisers and heavies to her flyweight. It was good for her. She learned to anticipate, balance, flow, to make the physics work in her favor.
Hand-to-hand combat should always be a last resort, of course; far preferable to kill a monster without getting his blood all over you. She'd be less likely to be caught, that way, and it would save on dry cleaning.
So it's been a long time since she's done any real sparring, and it's been longer--actually, forever--since she's sparred with a woman.
Dinah has good hands, better legs, and she aims a kick at Helena's ribs that she's not quite able to dodge. She catches Dinah's ankle, but Dinah twists away before she can execute a decent move. They each back off for a beat, bouncing on the mat. Ten minutes in, and Helena's sweating like--well, like a boxer, but Dinah only looks gently warmed up, like she's been lying in the sun. Must be her impossible fucking breath control. And the hair-wrap, soaking up her sweat, holding the bright gold of her dreads and braids back from her eyes.
"What?" Dinah says.
"What," Helena says back.
"You spaced out for a second there."
"Didn't," Helena says, and hates how childish she sounds. "You seemed like you needed a break."
"Yeah, keep dreaming," Dinah says. "You got this look like we're fighting."
Helena puts her fists up in response, arches her eyebrows: get it?
Dinah flashes her mouthguard in a smile. "Really fighting. You looked--intense."
Helena doesn't smile back, because she doesn't do smiling back. She rolls her shoulders. "I think you're just trying to distract me," she says.
"I can think of a thousand better ways to do that," Dinah says.
So can Helena, which could be a problem, as they slide back into the rhythm of the match, moving faster now. They're good together. It was clear from the beginning, fighting that army of clowns. Helena knew instinctively how to play off Montoya and even Harley, but, she thinks, Dinah most of all. Like it was planned, preordained. Like this was what she'd come back to Gotham for. Not for bloodshed, not for vengeance, not for money. Just to dance.
Helena ducks under another kick and comes up into the clinch, their arms linked, Dinah's heartbeat punching against Helena's. Neither of them can quite leverage the other off her feet. They break after a couple seconds, but goddamn, this--this is why it's different, fighting a woman. No, be honest, fighting Dinah.
Helena's known she was gay since third grade math, when she figured out that she didn't want to be a nun, she just really liked Sister Cecilia. It's just never been relevant to her goals. Okay, relevant once in a while, but the next morning she usually slipped out before whoever-she-was woke up. She was on a mission. It didn't involve cuddling.
And now there's no more mission, now she's home. This is home, and that thought drives her as she gets Dinah to the ground, gets a forearm across her throat. But Dinah's nowhere near surrender. She's shifting her hips and locking her knees around Helena's, and is she actually grinning? Yes, they both are, Helena feels the stretch of it on her own face. Even as Dinah gets her legs back under her, pushing up, making space in Helena's hold. She can't close, and she won't let go. They could stay locked like this for hours--bending and twisting, pressure in Helena's every muscle, sweat making stars in her eyes--
--and across the room, her phone starts beeping, marking time.
She lets go. Rolls over and sits on her heels, wiping her eyes clear with the back of one hand. Lots of things will hurt later, but right now, all she feels is heat.
Dinah stands up slowly--at least now she has the decency to be winded--and stretches, fully, arms over her head, back arched, gulping the air down and sighing it out. "Jesus," she says. "If this was for real, I'd have to knock you out, huh?"
Helena springs up to her feet. "I was winning."
Dinah shakes her head. Spits her mouthguard out and there's that smile again, a bright flash of teeth. "I had you right where I wanted you. I just lost track of time."
"Yeah, that went fast," Helena says. "And no, you didn't have me."
Dinah laughs. "You didn't have me, either. Next time maybe we should get Montoya to ref--"
"No," Helena says, way too forcefully, but Dinah doesn't seem to notice. She grabs her squeeze bottle and drinks some water, head tilting back, eyes shut. The pure pleasure of a satisfied thirst. Helena ducks her head, gets busy unwrapping her wrists. Images flickering across her mind: what it would take to make Dinah really lose her breath, to get her back against the wall and her legs, those impossible legs, wrapped around Helena's neck. How they'd move together, the rhythm they'd find, the rightness of it. Like--coming home.
Be patient, Helena's spent her whole life telling herself, and maybe she should listen now, bide her time. Be careful not to mess up this brand new good thing. But she looks back at Dinah, standing on her left foot to stretch her right quad, and thinks: fuck it, I've done enough waiting for one life.
She takes a step toward Dinah, then another. "A thousand ways to distract me," she says. "Really."
Dinah puts her foot down very slowly. She rests her hands on her hips, her face turning serious, almost too serious. This is Helena's chance to walk it back. She fights the flinch in her nerves, plants her feet, holds Dinah's gaze.
"That's right," Dinah says. A light kindling in her dark eyes. "I mean, I haven't counted them. I'm not anal-retentive like some people."
Helena's pulse leaps in her throat, and holy shit, she's grateful for all her training, all that discipline, and the fact that she doesn't blush. "I'm not anal," she says. "And don't say I"m OCD, either. That's offensive."
Dinah tilts her head, looks at Helena through her lashes. "What would you call it, then?"
Another big step forward and Helena is close enough to touch Dinah's shoulder, trace the line of muscle all the way down to her wrist. Match their palms together, see how they fit. "Thorough," she says. "I'm thorough."
"Okay," Dinah breathes, and her fingers curl into Helena's, perfect. "C'mon, then. You can start counting in the shower."