#[ p: vic sage 1o ]

[helenahxnts]

bang, bang. | (vic&) helena

When: March 31st, evening. Where: The Mousehole; Helena’s room. Not Quite With: @noansweratall Warnings: Angst. Poor communication. Childhood trauma and insecurity that’s manifested into a crippling fear of commitment.  Plot: Sinatra sang on, low and mournful, and she felt—heartsick. Actually sick, her stomach roiling violently that she'd even considered being so callous. So cruel. So willing to crush that delicate spun-glass heart Vic had handed her, trusted her with, because she was scared of emotions that her own damn students could handle with more grace and maturity than her. 

Helena was being cruel. She knew it. 

It wasn't a word she had ever associated with herself. Not really. She might have been many awful things—impetuous, violent, even vicious—but she'd never been intentionally cruel. She'd never imagined that she would be, when she finally found a good man to love. Truly, Franco Bertinelli's daughter.

(Was it intentional, if she wasn't trying to hurt Vic? If she just couldn't help herself? And if she couldn't help herself, well. That was a whole different problem, wasn't it?) 

The night was heavy and Helena was alone, but he was still inescapable. The closed door of her room mocked her; the pillow that forever smelled of smoke and the herbal note of his aftershave was maddening. Her laptop was crooning Sinatra at her, and all she could hear was the curve of Vic's sweet-bruised smile. He was even where he wasn't, in the untouched winter-pale skin she spied when her eyes trailed to the mirror above her vanity, and—

And Helena missed him. She was halfheartedly trying to shut him out, but he was still there and she missed him. And she had no one to blame but herself, for... What, exactly? 

Helena closed her eyes, dipping her head against the book she'd been failing to translate, the busy work her mind didn't want. Frankie sang on. 

No one to blame but herself for shutting Vic out, little by little, hurting the both of them. For letting him in, in the first place. Into her bed and into her heart, she wanted to say, but that wasn't true, was it? It had been the other way around, before she'd even noticed. She'd been so frustrated after Gotham, so damn lonely, and he'd been so kind. It'd sparked something warm and needy inside her. She'd wanted that kindness for herself, had flashed her smile and batted her eyes to get it, had just about climbed Vic to force his attention where she wanted it, and now—

Now she had it, just like she'd wanted. Had him. 

Had all that passion and honesty and, yes, kindness laser-focused on her. Had asked him for it, had eased him into it. With whispered pillow-talk and lunchtime visits and smeared lipstick and the roll of her hips. Asked and eased, cajoled and soothed, until he gave more and more of himself to her. Until she had so much more than just what she'd coveted. Until she also had his secrets and his scars, had his soft spots and his insecurities. 

Had his love. 

(Yes, his love. Helena wasn't stupid. She knew what a man in love looked like; had to, since she avoided them like the plague.) 

What did it say, Helena wondered, that she'd basically strong-armed Vic into this relationship, knowingly plied a lonely man with all of her attention and affection to keep his focus... and that the moment things got difficult, she was ready to up and leave? 

Jesus Christ. Helena tossed her book away, reached up a hand to rake through her hair. 

Or: she was rewriting the narrative. Because she felt guilty. And it was easier to frame herself as the calculating seductress who'd gotten bored of her prey than to admit the truth of it. The truth she'd told Babs the other night before she'd gone back home to Vic, still-barely-warm crepes in hand from the late-night street vendor they'd discovered on their last patrol. 

She was in love with him. She'd been in love with him. And it scared the hell out of her. Because—and this was the part Helena hadn't told Babs, because it was just too pathetic—she was afraid of how it was going to end. 

It was easy to ignore that when they were curled up in her room or his, when he crept his way into the kitchen to stand at her back and rest his hands on her hips while she cooked. To live in the moment and enjoy it. But his bloodied eyes and the sick trauma-tremble of his limbs had reminded her, after the masquerade. The moments they were enjoying were nothing more than stolen snapshots, and—there was so much she couldn't protect him from. So much about him that she couldn't begin to understand. If he didn't leave her first (which was a distinct possibility, because, well, who wouldn't?) then she was going to lose him anyway. 

—Enough. Helena shoved herself off the bed, rubbed an angry hand under her nose to try to chase his aftershave away. God, she missed him. She'd been having these conversations with herself for days. Wasn't it enough? Hadn't she tortured the both of them enough with her incapability to be a normal goddamn person? She was sick of avoiding him because she couldn't seem to stop breaking her own heart, and even sicker of hurting Vic. He knew how brittle things were getting between them, with the way he watched her with those hangdog blue eyes and how his hands had grown hesitant when he touched her, and she—

She hated that he was probably right to think she was going to leave him. 

Helena swallowed. Exhaled. And walked to the door. 

The handle was cool under her palm. She wanted to open the door and cross the hall, drape her arms over Vic's shoulders and whisper for him to come to bed. She wanted to go back in time to December and never cross the hall in the first place. She wanted—and God, she hated herself for even thinking it, but it was such a seductive thought—to lock the door.

(Imagined the way Vic would freeze when the handle didn't turn in his grip. Imagined the way he'd reel, for a moment. Then turn around and go back to his own room. Didn't let herself imagine his face.)

She knew, in her heart, that if she locked the door Vic would never ask why. He'd never come by again. He'd tuck himself away, because he was kind, and because he'd seen it coming, and he would never make Helena feel guilty for breaking his heart. His love-marks would fade from her collar and his smell would wash out of her sheets, and it would be like they'd never been at all. And eventually, it'd stop hurting. It would be kinder than letting the feeling go on longer, letting it bloom between them until the roots were so deep in them both that their inevitable split would destroy them. 

Maybe...

 ... She didn't even say goodbye, she didn't take the time to lie...

Helena's hand jerked away from the door. She turned her stare on her laptop, blinking back into reality. Sinatra sang on, low and mournful, and she felt—heartsick. Actually sick, her stomach roiling violently that she'd even considered being so callous. So cruel. So willing to crush that delicate spun-glass heart Vic had handed her, trusted her with, because she was scared of emotions that her own damn students could handle with more grace and maturity than her. 

Helena swallowed past the lump in her throat, pressing her palms to her eyes. And breathed. (One. Two.) 

When the stars faded, Helena felt calmer. Not better, but calmer. Just enough. She walked back to bed and laid herself down on the sheets, breathing in deep. Let Vic's smoke and her perfume twine together in her chest. Tucked her hands under her chin and curled her legs up to herself, watching the hallway's light creeping in under her door. Settled in. And waited for her lover to come join her. 

When he did, she would wrap herself around him like a vine, same as she did every night. (That hadn't changed.) Tilt her face up for a kiss, press her ear to his heartbeat. It wasn't enough to get them through much longer, but it would be enough for another night. Just until she could unstick the words from her throat. And tell him.

One way or another.