Work Text:
Thunk.
Barbara's got her wheelchair facing the target, steady and composed as if she's on the computer. She picks up a knife, twirling it through her fingers; it's got a green hilt, part of the set they gave her for her birthday. It goes flying through the air, hitting the target dead center. Thunk.
Neither of them looks at Dinah as she enters. Barbara's eyes are fixed on the target, while Helena leans against a wall with an arrow in hand. She rubs her fingers up and down the wooden shaft, tracing the soothing patterns in the grain.
Dinah thinks of the one time someone called it creepy, the way Helena stemmed with her arrows. He didn't make the same mistake twice, at least not where he was at risk of them hearing.
Thunk. Thunk. If someone didn't know Barbara as well as Dinah does, she might miss the tension in her jaw as she flings knife after knife. The blade shimmers in her fingers, green and silver twirling in on each other. Slytherin house, which Barbara firmly believes is one of the few salvageable things from J. K's dumpster fire of a franchise.
Thunk. Dinah sits cross legged on the floor by Barbara's chair, watching her move. Her body ripples with the kind of power people miss behind her glasses and wheelchair, the kind of power that people are only too happy to ignore. Even Bruce and Gordon underestimate her sometimes.
Thunk. Barbara stops, twirling the knife between her fingers. She moves it as easily as confidentially as she does her keyboard, still keeping her eyes on the target and whatever's on her mind. Barbara's told them about how paying attention to multiple things at once is sometimes the key to being able to pay attention to anything at all.
Dinah leans her head against the side of Barbara's chair and waits. Her own eyes are still on the knife, the dark green dance mirroring Barbara's swirling thoughts. It doesn't stop when she begins to speak; occasionally changing direction as her voice rises and falls.
"I tried to memorize the names once," Barbara says. "I just...never quite managed it. It's funny, isn't it? I've got the strengths and weaknesses of half the Justice League down better than the fucking Batcomputer, but I don't...I can't..."
She shakes her head. "There are just so many, and it keeps getting longer, all the time.
The Joker said he was letting me live because apparently being in a wheelchair," her voice twists into a cruel imitation of his whiny cackle, "is a fate worse than death." When she speaks again, her voice is slightly strained. "He said if he was feeling nice, he'd come back and put me out of my misery before my dad had to."
The knife stops. It shakes in her hand, Barbara's knuckles white around the hilt.
"They get called heroes, you know. The people who do this. The people who kill the ones they're supposed to love, they get hugs and kisses for making the sacrifice. Like the ones on the actual altar don't even matter." There's a grim smile on her lips. "Poor, poor Agamemnon just had to kill Iphigenia so he could fly free. And nobody cared when Clytemnestra saw through his bullshit."
She's always been good at putting things like this into words, their Barbara. It's like she takes all the cruel, knotty, aching feelings about this day and puts them into words, the thoughts of all three gathered in a single glaring mirror.
"I'm Oracle," she says. "I'm a goddamned superhero. And I still get those looks from people on the street, people in the stories, from other heroes who should damn well know better." Her tone shifts, dripping into sarcasm. " Poor little thing, trapped in that chair. Poor Barbara. Poor, helpless soul. She's so strong and resilient, but in the end, she's got to know she's just a burden. It must be so hard on Gordon."
Dinah brushes a hand against Barbara's and the other woman turns to look at her. She stands up so Helena can see, too, and starts to sign.
Poor Dinah, can't talk without blowing out windows. Poor Dinah, can't have babies, you must feel like so useless. Poor Dinah, I`m so sorry, would it help if I spoke a little bit louder? You can hear me just fine? Alright, how 'bout if I yell? She carries cards in her pocket spilling the whole stupid story, or at least the version that's safe for civilians, but it doesn't always get through (and some people get so antsy when a Black woman reaches into her pockets).
"Poor Helena," Helena says quietly, stepping away from the wall. She walks over to Barbara's side and settles herself gingerly on the wheelchair armrest. "Poor, freaky Helena. Must be tough to deal with." She chuckles. "Good thing she doesn't understand social cues enough to know when we're talking about her."
Barbara slowly, carefully sets the knife aside. She reaches out and squeezes their hands with a soft sigh, like she's reassuring herself they're still there. Helena leans into her touch while Dinah settles on Barbara's other side. She puts an arm around Barbara's shoulder, and Barbara sets the knife aside before reaching out to wrap an arm around Helena's waist.
"I feel like there's something I should do," Barbara whispers. "Something I should hack, something I should find, something to make it stop." She hugs herself. "But you can't hack people out of being monsters, and you can't hack the world to stop casting us as burdens, and you can't--"
"You can fight," Helena says firmly. "You--we can save we you can."
Dinah signs, We can make everybody see. We can make it impossible for them to forget.
Barbara nods, a bit of hope coming back into their eyes. Dinah and Helena smile at their girl, and she smiles back. Not happy, maybe, but hopeful. Determined. Dangerous, even.
"C'mon," she says, leading them from the room. "Let's get to work."