TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Mike Driver
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Today's Document
YOU ARE THE REASON
Kiana Khansmith
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@helenahxnts
checkup ; sal&helena
[Click.]
“Hey, you. Where’ve you been?”*
“Hey! I just got back to home base, actually. How are you?”
“I’m alright, same old. You’ve been away?”
“Yeah. Went on a mission to Rome. I—”
“Hey, wait—you were in Rome and you didn’t come say hi? I’m kind of offended, cuz.”
“Ha-ha. I was with Batman, actually, so, you know. Not much time to stop and chat.”
“Yeesh, name-dropping the Batman like it’s nothing.”
noansweratall:
He’d just about fallen into that kiss, dipping to meet her, hold her. Yes. Maybe it’d be a little thing, for most people. Even here, where parents, people, in general, connections beyond these stony walls, were in short supply. (According to the personnel records, anyway. No accounting for secret families stashed away in… some off-grid farmstead in Iowa, or something equally desperate.) But Tot - Tot, and Helena, were it. Absolutely it, so far as his heart was concerned. And it was kicking, now, quick, as their kisses found each other through the magic. Then even that was fading away, the illusion glimmering, gone, as Helena’s arms reeled him in. He went, easy.
Oh, it was getting dangerously easy to just - believe in this. Hadn’t they asked all their questions? Even the hardest ones, the kind that’d felt like tests. There’d be more, he knew. Always. But for now, for now… Vic let himself cling a little, to Helena, to those solid, real answers. Seen and seeing, smiling against her cheek, her brow, as he kissed her beautiful face. She couldn’t wait. Neither could he. And the old man was impatient as hell, so that worked out.
Vic had a warm chuckle, caught in those hands. One of his had slung around the small of her back, his knuckles rolling lightly along the path of her spine. “Hrm. Well. Put it this way.” The way Tot had put it, with bright eyes, crinkled up with a flock’s worth of crow’s feet. “Showed him those shots of Sicily. And he said, I quote: he’d never seen anyone look so happy as I was, there, with you. Anyone. Nevermind me.”
Miserable bastard that you can be, Tot had half-laughed, rubbing a wrinkled hand over his face. Real subtle. Almost managed to keep the sniffle to himself. Too bad that fucked up freshman he’d brought home had turned out to be some kinda detective. Vic snuck in a kiss to one of those damn dimples, nosing against the softness of Helena’s cheek. “He loves you, already. So we’re clear.” Crystal. That said, he rolled his fingertips up and down her backbone, a fond sort of smirk sneaking over his face. “Just… don’t rag on the jackalope too hard. Might give him ideas. Stranger ones.” Vic had picked up that questionable sense of humour from somewhere, after all.
Like an absolute sap, Helena felt her pulse kick up. Vic had that effect; he’d had that effect on her since they’d met, always so honest and forthright and... Yeah, happy. Just to be around her. It still wasn’t something she was used to, but Helena figured that was a good thing; she didn’t want to imagine a time where she’d get complacent, where she’d forget that being so loved by Vic Sage was something to be grateful for, something to thoroughly enjoy.
“Yeah?” Helena lingered with her arms wrapped around his big shoulders, probably shining up at him so much that he could practically see her thoughts. She didn’t care. “Hmph. As long as it’s not more Mothman merch. I think it’s kinda gauche to wear fan gear for someone who’s basically a close personal friend.”
Helena bit her lip as she looked up at Vic from under her lashes, not quite shy, but verging on it; swallowing it down. “Sal asked after you when we last talked, by the way. I think he’s going to make a habit of it. You really left a good impression.” Whether that was just because Vic was great or because Helena had been transparently besotted in a way Sal had never seen before, who could guess? “I bet those two would get on like a house on fire.” A beat; her smirk snuck up. “Sal and Tot, to be clear. Not Sal and Mothman. I don’t think he’s ready for that.”
spoilingstephanie:
…
“The dress is absolutely going to survive the night. Have some faith in me.” Stephanie paused for a moment, still admiring her handiwork and ensuring that the stitches were secure, chancing a quick glance over her shoulder once she was sure that the curling iron was well out of reach of her neck. “…And if not, I am really good at clothing repairs and I will make sure it’s returned good as new. I’m not planning on things getting sketchy but I mean, you never know.” Especially with Stephanie’s luck. Things always went from 0 to fucking shit show in the blink of an eye. “Make-up bag jewelry should be just fine,” Stephanie said with a wave of the hand as she reached for the bag she’d set on the floor to begin to sort through it. “I think I have one of those fancy comm earpieces that look like earrings? Babs gave me one like, a year and a half ago. Might be broken,” which, really, was way more likely than not, “but would come in handy tonight.” If she could even find it. “It’s …. kinda something of a follow-up, I guess? A grade-A douchebag that was I was milking for info at a gala back in Gotham about a year ago will be at some black-tie-bullshit, so Babs brought me going up to Diana. Get to play the schmooze the rich dickbag card again to see if I can score some more info.”
Helena barely resisted a snort at Steph’s conciliatory tone, rolling her eyes as she fluffed another curl. “Honey, I can buy a dozen of them. Don’t worry; if anything happens to it, it’s all yours,” she said, muffled by the pins in her mouth. With a shake of her head, she placed another pin in Steph’s hair and gave it a careful tug, working on the shape.
“I still can’t believe that you agreed to go on this mission,” she said with some amusement, carefully weaving the hairstyle together. She didn’t really do this for anyone other than Charlie or Babs, and only sometimes, so she was being extra-careful to make it look fancy enough to match all the high-society ladies Steph would no doubt be rubbing elbows with. Looking the part was half the task, after all. “You think he’ll talk to you again? After you, I’m presuming, left him blue-balling. Or passed out drunk in a fountain somewhere.”
oracleisonline:
…
“He wouldn’t accept half of Jersey’s treasury,” Barbara pointed out as she handed over a pair of scissors in Helena’s direction, bladed end in hand with the handle pointed towards her friend. “He will accept a cheesy scrapbook made by his daughter and by her best friend that he considers family and a lovingly crafted care package of local snacks.” Barbara was already sending those periodically, but this one was amped up bigger than usual with souvenir-y crap that she’d been carefully selecting for months now. “I’ve already got the care package half done, and now we’re burning the midnight oil to get the scrapbook half done so I can get this shipped out with enough time to actually get it delivered. Time management bit me in the ass a little bit here, here.” Considering the green light she’d gotten from Steve to start pushing into the ISA’s servers, she’d had time for little else and the days had started blending together; she still had enough time, but now this personal project would need to take precedence for a few hours. “You cut, I glue, and then I’m going to delegate the writing that’s left to you. I know my strengths, and my penmanship is absolutely not one of them.” Set to work on the page she’d been working on, Barbara’s fingers made quick work of glueing down the pre-cut scrapbook pages and photos in a fashion that looked acceptable. She paused, rolling her eyes at tall, red and murdery and shrugged a shoulder as she sorted through photos. “Still coming and going,” which was better than Barbara could’ve asked for - he’d taken the key, he was using the key, and she was seeing more of him than she’d seen in years. They’d settled into something that was comfortable and easy, something that had Barbara feeling warm and content even if she was still lingering in that in-between where there were still so many questions. “Things are good. He had a run-in with Steph, which was less good considering she entered my apartment through a window, but that’s fine now even if she’s relentless with questions.”
“Yes, dear.” It was snarky, but not without affection. Helena had burned the midnight oil with Babs on much less pleasant things than some quality time making a cute keepsake for Jim. Usually their late-night missions involved blood and broken bones (not hers) and possible exposure to clay-monsters or crocodile hybrids or clowns (ugh) so she really wasn’t going to complain.
And... this was nice. Helena had thought that Babs was busy back in Gotham, but this was a whole new level. Helena was surprised to find that she’d missed her, a little bit.
Little bits of paper fluttered to the ground as Helena worked on cutting up the first of her snowflakes, eyes on the task even though she wanted to stare Barbara down. “You deserve it,” she said with absolutely zero sympathy, already amused at the thought of Steph harassing Babs over Gotham’s red-helmeted menace. “They didn’t get on too badly, though?” she checked, because, well. If he was going to beat up Tim as a kid, why not Steph as an adult? “And are you still scheming for us to have dinner?” She managed to say it like a dirty word, even as she unfolded a (very pretty if she did say so herself) snowflake for peer review.
noansweratall:
He was distracting her. So? Helena didn’t let herself get distracted for nothing. His fingers curled with hers, finding that comfortable fit, and a couple notes of Sinatra - come fly with me - hummed up and away from him, the world already a little lighter than it’d been, a few minutes ago.
Ain’t that something.
“Well.” Vic started, well aware that he’d grinned to match her. “That depends. As stories go - think this one’s heart attack material?” Vague. He didn’t leave her guessing. Couldn’t, too full of this… buzz, an eager, sparking, uncertain sensation, to wait. “Tot’s gonna be up late as hell. End of semester, marking to do. You know. Told me he could use some company. If you’re ready to meet the old man, then…” It wasn’t now or never, but - Tot’d looked so goddamn old, when the two of them facetimed after Sicily. The web of wrinkles around his tired eyes, the deep creases in his cheeks as he smiled and sighed, so gladly, to see the pictures - the urge to make sure Helena didn’t miss him, that their chances didn’t run out by some hideous Hub City chance, had caught Vic by the throat and fucking refused to let go.
Dramatic, maybe. But. Their lives were like that. See the report that’d sent him up here.
Swaying closer, Vic watched those black eyes for an answer, thumb running back-and-forth along the lines of her hand. “So?”
.
A curious tilt of Helena’s head answered Vic’s question, dark brows rising in a silent entreatment for more explanation. And then, of course, when Vic did explain...
Helena watched her faceless lover with shocked-huge black eyes, a spark of delight skittering right through her like static and settling warm and sweet in her belly. And so when Vic leaned in, the curve of his cheek rounding into a smile she couldn’t see, Helena leaned in right back. Over the edge of the table, to catch his lips, off-center in her excitement and the lack of visibility; then another, better kiss; then a sound third. “Yes,” she sighed into Vic’s mouth, hand clenching in the soft leather of the coat she’d been working on before she twisted around and tossed it with unerring accuracy over the camera in the corner. Problem sorted, because:
“Yes, baby, yes,” Helena repeated, happy, as she caught his face in her hands and kissed him again. “Let me see you,” she murmured, giving up on her seat to shuffle closer and loop her arms around his neck.
“Yeah, I wanna meet your dad,” she said into his mouth, the giddiness those words inspired bubbling right up in her chest. Sal, Tot, the rightness of it—God damn it, Helena wasn’t going to fuck him in the armory. She wasn’t.
It was just—Vic wanted her to meet his dad.
She maybe wanted to fuck him in the armory a little bit. “I can’t wait,” Helena said instead, stroking her thumbs through his hair, fingers half-laced where they cupped his skull. “Been wanting to meet him for a while. Give him an earful about how Douglas haunts my dreams,” she joked, dimples slashing deep into her cheeks. She rocked on the balls of her feet, still watching him with bright eyes. “You think he’ll like me?”
spoilingstephanie:
…
“– and the Spoiler clears the finish line!” Stephanie held up the hem she’d finished showing, briefly flashing the neat, precise line of stitches that she’d put into the bottom of the dress. “I made sure to make them loose enough so that I can cut the thread after tonight, unless you’re looking for this dress to hit you mid-calf.” Stephanie slid the needle into the spool of thread, setting it aside as she laid the dress onto her lap. “Half down makes sense, definitely need to keep the comm unit hidden. And I promise to do my best not to just throw it all up into a bun halfway through the night and ruin all of your hard work.” Trying her best being the key here, considering she damn near always had her hair thrown into an insanely messy bun at the top of her head. “The good news is, the one nice pair of shoes I brought with me should work just fine with this, and I think I actually have a pair of earrings in the bottom of my make up bag.”
“Huh.” That was actually a way neater row of stitches than she’d expected, Helena thought, as she peered over the top of Steph’s head to the newly-raised hem of the dress. “Nice. Though I’m kind of skeptical that the dress is going to survive the night,” she noted with some amusement, primping Steph’s newly-arranged curls with practiced hands. “And don’t worry, you can do whatever you need with the hair; for now, I’m just going to make sure you have enough curly flyaway bits to distract from the comm.”
She hummed as she set and twisted, reaching around Steph for bobby pins. “And I also have non-makeup bag jewelry if you need it.” Which was a ridiculous statement to have to qualify. “Remind me again how you ended up going on this mission?”
Batman, Vol. 1, #609
noansweratall:
His eyebrows ticked up, attentively, as Helena underlined his name; took that, to pull his mind away from the dark gleam of her eyes, the fullness of her smile, the fit of their fingers, woven together. “That all?” Vic took a lean over his elbow, smiling into another kiss, lips to the curve of Helena’s sun-kissed cheek. “I mean - could hold me to a few other things. In the meantime…”
Just, seeing as that long-term was unthinkably far away. Thank fuck.
_
It really was - different, being here. Not in the way Sokovia was, with its unsettled spirits and looming monsters. How long had they wandered around, after dinner? Through the Sicilian evening, still gently, sweetly warm. Perhaps it was just the scale of it all, how relatively small the city was, compared to the sprawl and skyscrapers he was used to. Maybe it was simply that he hadn’t had his face out, his magic stripped back, for this long in years. Both, likely. Whatever the case, Palermo felt so much… closer, somehow. Just, as a space. More intimate. More real, vivid with texture and sound in a way the Mousehole had never felt.
Unless he was with Helena. Connected.
Vic had half-sat up from the bed when she did, laid out long on his side, a hand settled on the dip of her waist. A swim. He hadn’t even owned anything to swim in, before those few days they’d rushed to pack. Which Helena’d fixed, of course. Looking after him, like - always. “When in Sicily. Right?” That’d been the idea. To know this place the way Helena did, and wanted him to. The thought sent a smile flashing over his face, quick as the handful of ass he got ahold of before slipping right off the bed, making a beeline for their bags. How he’d fucking grinned, pleased with himself, with - everything. “Bet we’ll have the pool to ourselves. Actually…” No ghosts, even. Most of the hotel’s spectral residents seemed to be sunseekers; except for that cluster at the bar, still glimmering together as he and Helena passed. Too busy with their cocktails of memory to bother anyone. “Or,” he turned, hooking Helena’s swimsuit - sleek, strappy, sure to be the best view around - out of her luggage. “Were you thinking… the beach?” Wouldn’t that be something. When in Sicily.
.
God, her feet ached. A lot of her did, but her feet especially. Helena curled and uncurled her toes against the soft carpet where her legs hung off he edge of the bed, enjoying the deep ache at her heels and the balls of her feet, the pleasant tightness of her calves. They’d walked so much. It had been wonderful. And still, Vic was sprightly as he pushed off the bed, making her giggle and squirm at his quick grope. She wondered if he ached the same, or if the magic running through him took those kinds of human pains away. For the first time in a long time, Helena found that she didn’t care. She ate up the breadth of his shoulders and back as he bent over their bags, smile spreading wider as she pushed up to sit properly, hands sliding and bunching along the sheets.
“I was thinking the pool,” Helena replied, smile not wavering at the deep-sweet-hurt when she pushed to her feet, swaying Vic’s way to pluck the scrap of fabric from his hand, “but I’d be more than amenable to a seaside soak. In either case...” She toyed with the strappy swimsuit, turning it this way and that before letting it drop back into the bag, “can’t wear that or it might not dry for the morning.” It was bullshit and they both knew it. Helena’s smile spread wider as she gave one of Vic’s belt-loops a playful tug before pulling back to sashay towards the stupidly big bathroom, pulling her shirt off as she went. “And when we have such nice cushy robes, too...”
She’d bet a solid thousand dollars that Vic would agree as she tossed him a coy look over her bare shoulder, bra strap nearly brushing her chin as she tossed her shirt towards the bed.
noansweratall:
Oh, that got a smirk. He was sure she’d hear it, through the magic and all, warming the hum that followed after. “Hrm. Careful. Not my style.” Especially with Helena, really. On the subject of whiles and wiles alike. He’d lost time so easily, over the last few years; lately, it’d been more like he gave it away. Willingly. Happily. No. Didn’t feel quite the right way to put it, actually. Maybe… shared. Since Helena helped herself to his desk, he’d started to get used to sharing his time. So much so that even a quick trip to Rome had left him over-aware of all the spaces she’d left empty.
He hadn’t been afraid for her. Obviously. Helena was the Huntress, and neither Gotham nor Luthor’s fucking Task Force had managed to keep her down. Still. Didn’t mean she never got knocked over. (Or shot, three times, standing between some kind of evil and those who couldn’t hope to defend themselves.) His brow furrowed, just a little. Heavy. Took a few tons of emotional weight to make a thing heavy, for their kind of people; vigilantes, with their over-burdened shoulders, they were used to bearing up. Too used, probably. Helena as much as any of them. A heavy mob hit, in Rome. For her whole life, not just the mask or the mafia heiress. Nasty…
Vic had snuck a hand over one of hers, running slow - soothing, he’d hope - up the back of her knuckles, the bend of her wrist. “Probably.” He could guess. “But. If you want to tell me. Your way, not the report’s…”
Those neat little forms were convenient, efficient. Encouraged detachment, though. Which, as he knew only too well, wasn’t always what your heart, head, or guts needed. Sometimes. But not always. He’d be here if Helena felt the need to spill any of the above. And he’d be there, in his office, reading whatever her and Bruce filled those blanks with. She knew that. So - Vic gave that hand in his a gentle squeeze, that crooked grin starting to sneak back up. “If you don’t. Could talk dinner plans. I had a thought.”
Vic’s hands had a way of distracting Helena, which he clearly had no qualms over taking advantage of. Big and warm and calloused, they could just about engulf her own—and Helena couldn’t help but slacken her grip on the coat she was supposed to be sewing, nudging her wrist towards his traveling fingertips. Let him take her hand, turning her palm into his with a loosening of her shoulders.
“Oh?” she asked, a slow smile unfurling over her mouth. “Maybe I’ll tell you over this dinner you had a thought about. Care to share with the class?”
spoilingstephanie:
…
“– I’m here!” Stephanie practically skidded around the corner, knocking on Helena’s doorframe as she announced herself and entered without waiting for an answer. “I’m here and I am ready to ….do whatever I can do to help speed this along. Thank you, by the way. You are saving the day. I owe you big time.” There would be a big ol’ bottle of wine in Helena’s future, and that would just be the start. “I can sew, so maybe we should start with pinning up the dress and I’ll sew while you do….whatever it is you do with my hair.” True to her promise, Stephanie’s hair was newly washed and thoroughly conditioned, still damp and beginning to dry in its usual curls. “I can also kinda do make-up. We’ll see when we get there. Tag team, by our powers combined, blah blah.”
“Yeah, you do,” Helena replied with a laugh as the door closed behind Steph, “and don’t you forget it.” She nodded to the dress draped over her arm at Steph’s suggestion, holding it out. “And yeah, I was thinking we start with pinning the dress up so that we can do our separate little tasks. Put this on,” she said, collecting her pins, “and let’s get to it.”
--
“... would be elegant, but I think it’d look good to keep half your hair down. It’s thick enough that it’ll work, and might also distract from your earring being a comm unit,” Helena noted, curling sections of hair while Steph sewed by lamplight. “How’s it going, almost done?”
TOP 25 DC COMICS LADIES: as voted by our followers #16, Helena Bertinelli / Huntress ↳ My life is different. My life is a means to an end. I have dedicated it to a real cause. I do not mind losing it… if I can achieve an end.
noansweratall:
Helena wasn’t done with this. Vic could tell that much, hear it, clearly, in the particular note she’d just hit. Made sense. She’d held those illusions, felt for them, looked into what she had supposed, fairly, were the soft stares of children, and been deceived. Like everyone else. Except the Question, clinging to every instinct that told him to suspect. If only he’d been wrong. Would’ve preferred that, actually: a case that was no case at all, over-cautious paranoia. Not the first time he’d thought that. Far from.
Unlikely to be the last.
But she’d summon the subject back, when she wanted to. And he’d do his best to be ready to answer better, then. In the meantime, Vic settled into those gentle, soothing touches, drifting through the magic he was wearing. He simply shrugged that flicker of surprise off, about the photographs; just another of those throwbacks, to some life or other. Not a skill he’d learned, exactly, so much as discovered he had, and updated, over and over, one generation of technology to the next. Daguerreotypes to digital. Back to the SLR he’d carried around Sicily, the weight of it familiar in his hands, the camera older than he was. Another piece of his history that he’d trust to Helena, without hesitation. The way she’d trusted those jasmine-sweet streets she loved, that hidden-away home of hers, and Sal, the last of her family, to him. As they made some history of their own, together. Ain’t that something.
“Absolutely. All the while you want.” For Helena, he had every moment of whiling he - had. Really. Vic tucked another kiss against the long, swan-elegant side of her neck, then leaned out of her way, her light, so she could work. Even as his head cocked, tilting towards concern. Not headlong into worry, just… in that general direction, curiosity piqued. “Nights off?” The next couple. “Actually off? For what? You alright?” She seemed to be, from his quick-eyed assessment, and had been, last he’d seen her; only a couple hours back. But things changed fast. In their world, especially…
.
“I promise not to tell Diana how easily I steal her favorite data guy’s attention,” Helena teased as Vic kissed her neck, made her shiver and bloom with a smile. Always so eager. “Careful, or I’ll steal all your whiles.” It was stupid, how pleased that made her, still. Always so happy every time he unselfconsciously showed her how much he loved her, how much he liked her.
Helena’s lingering smile did fade at Vic’s questions, though. She turned the coat over in her hands, shaking her head slowly. “Actually off. I’m alright,” she assured, then sighed as she settled back in at the broad workbench. “Just thought I’d like to spend a couple nights in after the mission. It was...” Helena paused, testing the words on her tongue. “Heavy. I don’t want to think about what a disaster it would’ve been if not for Bruce.” She dropped her eyes back down to the leather and worked her jaw, reaching out to rifle through her tools.
“There was a mob hit out on me,” she explained, feeling oddly calm about it all. “As both Helena Bertinelli and the Huntress. It’s always nice not to be forgotten.” Alright, sarcasm wasn’t helpful. “We went to Rome to investigate. You can guess now nasty things got.”
grimfacedknight:
-
He regarded her closely as she approached. He had a similar assortment of equipment, though characteristically less lethal. “Correct.” His own equipment was already properly packed. From the corner of his eye, Bruce noticed Alfred coming forward to collect Helena’s things from her to add them to Bruce’s. Bruce intercepted and did himself, saying nothing to the scowl on Alfred’s face as he saved the older man’s back the trouble.
“Over here.” He led the way to the holding area of the new Batwing, which gleamed sleekly under the unnatural lighting of the subterranean cave. This new prototype of the vehicle was cleaner and sharper, prepared to cut through the air and reduce travel time by significant increments. Bruce had devoted hours of his time here in the early years of Sokovia to its creation. Hauling open the door, he gestured Helena inside. Buttons illuminated the cockpit, giving off a sharp yellow light.
“I have skimming programs in place within the code of the Dark Web. Barbara hacked the mainframes of the most trafficked sites so I could have eyes there,” he explained. “This morning I received a ping for one of my keyword phrases. Helena Bertinelli. A simultaneous ping for Huntress had my full attention.” Despite Helena’s jaded belief in Bruce’s lack of regard for her and her wellbeing, he considered her perspective and impact on the Gotham underground an asset worthy of preserving. She was a loose cannon when she was compromised, but her work with the Birds of Prey demonstrated her capacity for balance. Black Canary surely aligned more with Bruce on the concept of death and justice, and she tempered the other two. Oracle respected Bruce. She’d worked with Batman for years and had earned his respect in return. They could offer Helena the support he couldn’t and contain the anger she allowed to drive her. What resulted was someone Batman could work with. She’d been removed from the Justice League once, but he believed there was a place for this Huntress who had grown into her role. “An assassin by the name of Marcus Malone has taken a contract on you.”
Bruce inserted a drive into one of the waiting ports on a small console behind the pilot and co-pilot’s chair. “Marcus Malone is an assassin claiming competency with a few fabricated details on his resume. Fortunately for him, he’s the cousin of a well-known Gotham mob affiliate who could confirm the rap sheet Marcus provided. He managed to win the contract before it was sent into the hands of anyone else, I suspect to test the waters before any more well-known and more expensive hires. If this new blood is capable of assassinating Huntress, he makes a name for himself. If he isn’t, they know they need heavier guns. They underestimate you.”
He might have smirked were the situation less precarious. “Marcus is one of my alia. As is his cousin. Both have been infiltrating different sectors of the Underground for years. Very few people know about them.” He had made the mistake of withholding information like this from his family before. He thought of Stephanie and jabbed his thumb against a button on the console with copious force. A projected image of Helena pixelated into place above the console and stared out at them, along with a page of her personal details. He scrolled through the file with purpose, stopping on a grainy image of Huntress on a rooftop in Gotham. “They know who you are. I don’t know how they found out, but I believe we can contain this. They’ve provided us with a rendez-vous point. Marcus will meet the employer’s representative. You will be nearby running facial recognition from a pair of contacts in my eyes feeding you everything I see. We’ll leave there with a lead to follow.”
.
If nothing else, it was always nice to see Alfred. Helena chatted him up about the basil plant they were trying to keep alive in the second kitchen as Bruce took her bag; she couldn’t help a dimpled grin at the old man’s clear displeasure. And at the proof of Bruce’s tender, squishy feelings for his family. It was always nice to see him being human.
But they had a debrief to get to, and she followed him dutifully into the new Batwing with a curious eye around. At least, until he explained what, exactly, had made him seek her out. A dangerous skitter traveled down Helena’s spine, a whisper of danger in a familiar voice she regularly tried to forget. She forced herself to focus, even as gratefulness at Bruce’s care twisted with the inevitable dread of why someone could have put out a hit on her. (And, yeah, a spark of irritation. They had underestimated her, hiring some random gun to take down the Huntress. Rat bastards.)
She swallowed down her feelings, with some difficulty, as she looked at her face projected on the screen, her silhouette on the rooftop, her personal information laid out so plainly.
“I suppose I owe you a thank you,” Helena noted, though she was feeling a little too jarred by the new information to muster the proper gratefulness. “Saving my skin when you don’t have to.” Helena could recognize that her bitterness clouded her vision sometimes. (Often.) Bruce was a lot of things, but he wasn’t cruel. Of course he would help if he knew she was in danger. It just—felt surprising, probably more than it should, and that was Helena’s own fault. “Do you think the information leak has anything to do with the ISA hit?” Helena asked with a furrowed brow as she settled in. “I haven’t been in Gotham for six months, can’t imagine I’ve offended anyone enough since then to put a hit out on me.”
That feeling prickled up her spine again, at the thought of who could’ve cared enough about the Huntress, specifically, to unmask her.
Or, maybe, who could’ve cared enough about Helena Bertinelli to expose her.
oracleisonline:
…
“I’m not sure you’re going to want your name on this,” Barbara mused as she continued to sort through photos. There was a wide variety spread out across the surface of her desk, detailing decades of Barbara’s life through photographs and newspaper clippings that she intended to arrange on the premade scrapbooking pages in a way that at least showed she tried to make it look nice. “I’m concerned that my artistic talents haven’t progressed much past elementary school. This will fit right in next to the two-decade-old macaroni art he’s held onto.” But Barbara wanted to make an effort, always tried to make a big deal of her father’s birthday (especially now, when it was just the two of them - after the divorce, after JJ, after Sarah) and she hated that this would be the first one she wasn’t present for. A scrapbook sounded right up the secretly-soft Jim Gordon alley and it was a way to help bridge the physical distance between them. “Might be an embarrassment, but he’ll love it either way. Now are you cutting or are you glueing? I’ve already decided you’re doing the writing, we both know how my handwriting is.”
“She can probably transfer half of Jersey’s treasury into her dad’s bank account, but she chooses to make him birthday crafts,” Helena observed with a playful twist of her mouth, rolling her eyes fondly as she leafed through more photos. She lingered on one of her and Babs with Jim, a holiday picture, and wondered if that would be too self-serving to include. He looked happy, though. Probably because Helena was pretty sure that he’d thought she and Babs were an item and his little girl had found love again (etcetera, etcetera), but still... “I’ll cut, I don’t want to get glue residue on me. I have horrible memories from subbing for elementary schools,” Helena replied, plucking up the scissors before Babs could protest and reaching for some construction paper. She’d weasel in the holiday picture, screw it. And make some snowflakes to paste into the scrapbook.
"So,” Helena said as she started folding her first snowflake, crossing her ankles. “How’s tall, red, and murdery?”
Into The Breach With The Huntress; Azrael 63
riseofthewitch:
“You’re in luck,” she said happily. “It’s resting now. It should be all ready to eat. I also have a dough if you want to bake it so it’s warm when the pasta comes out.” She pulled open the refrigerator and pulled out the dough ball she had lovingly kneaded that morning. “Your choice! I love doing it in the morning so it doesn’t put me out either way.”
To be invited from the main kitchen where she’d taken up residence since she’d gotten there to Helena’s smaller kitchen in any capacity was absolutely worth it to Wanda and it made her chest warm. She knew that only a few got to enjoy Helena’s cooking but she had heard their thoughts about how full of love her food was. Wanda understood that. Every ingredient added to her own cooking was the same.
“Nah, I’ll take the ready bread—though I’ll bet it’s great baked fresh too,” Helena replied with a grin, shuffling her way over to where the pre-baked bread was, yes, resting. And smelling wonderful, when she got close enough to sniff it out. Christ, she couldn’t believe Wanda had the patience to do this every day.
“What do these little nuggets eat?” Helena asked curiously as she selected a loaf, smiling down at Billy and tucking the bread alongside him as she headed back to Wanda and nodded for her to follow down the hall. “I have no idea what kids eat before they’re up and walking around—I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to hang out with a baby for more than a few minutes at a time,” she noted as they headed towards the smaller kitchen a couple floors up.
spoilingstephanie:
…
[ TXT ] if you’re upset by that then i definitely won’t be telling you how often i wash it.
[ TXT ] i promise it’s clean right now. and conditioned. and it smells like lemons. Stephanie was already scurrying through the Mousehole, a duffle bag with what limited beauty supplies she had on-hand thrown over her shoulder unzipped with a pair of tights hanging out of the opening. [ TXT ] we’ve got a few hours [ TXT ] hopefully enough hours.
[ TXT ] Washing hair lest offing is healthier actually so you get a past [ TXT ] *less often **pass
God damn typing one-handed. Helena huffed as she tossed the dress on the bed, rounding around towards her desk to see if she could find pins. She’d borrowed it the other week so that she could get around to fixing her suit, finally, but she’d never—aha!
“Gotcha, little bastard,” Helena muttered triumphantly to the spool of thread, settling behind her desk.
[ TXT ] Alright I think I have most everything we need.
Alright, now to thread the needle before Steph got there...
