#dimash is life y'all

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | DinahSiren | Dears

Blame this on me recently discovering a certain singer from Kazahkstan who abso-fucking-lutely blew me away.  Like, seriously.  I wanted to stop singing forever when I heard him for the first time.  And then I just wanted more and more and more.  He is...transcendent.  And I love him.  And if you are a fan of singing in general, do yourself a favor and dive down the rabbit hole that is Dimash Kudaibergen videos on YouTube.  You can thank me later.

Now, onto the DinahSiren goodness....

Lower back aching from a long day hunched over her desk, Dinah trudges up the hallway toward her apartment upon leaden feet.  

With quarterly reports due in less than three days, she spent the better part of eight hours slaving over them to prevent disaster.  She cannot afford to turn them in late.  To make matters worse, she had spent the previous four hours attending to one crisis after another at the precinct, including a potentially explosive personnel issue that required direct intervention.  Slogging through mounds of paperwork after such an exciting morning made for a tedious, boring, aggravating, seemingly endless afternoon.  

Sadly she really didn’t have any other choice but to grit her way through it.  Can’t give the Brass any more reason to ride her ass over relatively inconsequential issues just because they don’t approve of her affiliation with certain independent policing elements that dared skip out on earning their badges through the soul-crushing mill that is the Star City Police Academy.  So while dotting every I and crossing every T to appease her imperious, condescending, intolerant overlords is not her ideal of efficient law enforcement, she put her nose to the grinder like the good soldier the Marine Corps so methodically produced and got the damn job done.  Or at least enough so that she could cut in time to at least spend five minutes with her fiancee before flopping face first into bed.

It was nearly a quarter past ten when Dinah finally peeled out of the parking lot.  Irritation warred with anticipation as she pushed the pristine, all matching numbers, 427 cubic inch motor on her precious baby girl – a glossy black ‘68 Stingray Coupe Laurel helped her finance as an engagement present – as hard as she could while maintaining safe control.  As it tends to, the gorgeous purr of the engine in fourth gear soothes away some of her frustration.  Some being the operative word since she can’t help but dwell on what she will have to forgo due to the late hour.  A nice, relaxing evening binging Killjoys with her other half would have been far preferable to the scant half hour of snuggling on the couch they would be afforded between Dinah needing to eat something, take a shower, and then decompress from the stress of the day with a bit of meditation.  But...any time with Laurel is better than nothing, so she pressed the gas pedal down a little harder and resolved to make the best of her circumstances just like her Nana taught her.  

Back in the present, thoughts of Laurel cause a crooked smile to slowly light up Dinah’s weary features.  Talk about a wonderful handful of seductive danger, bossy attitude, and limitless passion wrapped in a lithe frame and alluringly decorated with shimmering green eyes and irresistible dimples.  There isn’t much Dinah doesn’t love about the whole package that is Laurel Lance, which goes a long way toward explaining why she puts up with so much trouble and sass on a daily basis.  Sure, she doesn’t take any shit without standing up for herself, but she has never been under any illusion as to who wears the pants in their relationship.  Which is perfectly fine with her. For Laurel, she is happy to slip on the daisy dukes, so to speak.    

Several of their friends think it’s hilarious, and a bit confusing, that she can be such an assertive hardass at work then immediately turn into an enormous gooey marshmallow the second she gets home.  To be honest, Dinah would be a bit confused as well at the diametric shift in her attitude between her public and private personas if she could be bothered to care.  Ten years ago she probably would never have allowed herself to be so soft for any romantic partner, let alone someone as abrasive as Laurel can be, but ten years ago she was a different person altogether.  Instead of hardening her heart, the many losses she has suffered in the interim have taught her to appreciate the fragility of life and to never take for granted how precious love is.  

If there is one thing in her life she is absolutely sure of, it is that she loves Laurel Lance with all that she is and all that she has. And that she can say with equal confidence that sentiment is fully reciprocated only strengthens her resolve to not give a damn what anyone else thinks about the peculiar dynamics of their relationship. So what if she is teasingly referred to as a bottom for the rest of her life?  If that means she’s still with Laurel when she’s old and gray, she’ll wear that label with pride.  External opinions are irrelevant when no one has ever made her feel as safe and happy and fulfilled – and perpetually challenged – as Laurel has and does.        

Ready to melt into strong arms that never fail to soothe away the troubles of a long day, Dinah makes fast work both of fetching her keys from the outer pocket of her suit jacket and unlocking the door.  Once inside the apartment she has shared with Laurel for almost three years now, she tosses the keys in the little ceramic bowl kept on top of a coat wrack just inside for that exact purpose.  Upon surveying the living room, she expects to find Laurel on the couch reading a book while nursing a glass of red wine or watching MMA or British Soap Operas.  Her brows furrow in disappointment upon finding the living room conspicuously vacant.  A cursory glance around the rest of the apartment reveals their bedroom door is open, lights off inside, with a soft blue light flickering in the darkness indicating the room is occupied.  

Worry blossoms unbidden in the back of Dinah’s mind.  Why hadn’t Laurel waited up on her as she normally would?  And why was she sequestered in their bedroom with the lights off doing God knows what?  All sorts of scenarios to explain the oddities fill the void of uncertainty. Is she sick?  Did something bad happen today?  Is she in one of her depressive spells?  Unable to curtail her anxiety, especially over the last possibility, Dinah hastily toes her heels off, removes her jacket and belt, then loosens her tie enough that she can easily slip it over her head without having to retie it.  Freed of those restrictive items, she untucks her button up shirt and deposits the jacket, belt, and tie on the back of the couch on her way to the bedroom.  She’ll tidy up in the morning.  Right now, checking on Laurel is her number one priority.

Arriving at the door, Dinah pauses, bracing for the worst.  Muffled, hiccuping sobs from within send her heart plummeting directly into her boots. Few things in this world are capable of making Laurel Lance cry, most of which are not good at all.  

Oh, God.  Something is actually wrong.      

Rather than burst in and risk scaring and further upsetting Laurel, she first peeks around the door frame only to be surprised, and immensely relieved, to find her worries were completely unfounded.  Instead of being curled up in a ball under the covers and an oppressive cloud of sadness, Laurel is propped against the headboard in her pajamas with her MacBook resting upon a pillow in her lap.  Dinah can tell from the reflection in her black-framed glasses that she is watching a video that is evidently the cause of her currently overflowing emotions.  Annoyingly, Laurel is wearing headphones or else Dinah might be able to ascertain the root of Laurel’s abnormal weepiness.

It is to the backdrop of Laurel sniffling around a plaintive almost mewling cry that she finally steps into the bedroom.  Bloodshot green eyes dart in her direction that tell the tale of a woman whose heart has not been touched by anguish but by something beautiful, something magical, something angelic.  Or rather someone.

Realization dawns on Dinah within seconds and she heaves a dramatic sigh.  

“Are you watching Dimash videos again?” she asks, unable to hide the hint of humor in her voice.  

Ever since Laurel discovered the astounding Kazahk singer, she has been spiraling down a rabbit hole of obsession that is predominantly adorable.  She even joined the official fan club!  And bought them tickets to a concert in LA next three months from now.  Hell, she even ordered a Dears coffee mug and an “I Heart Dimash” t-shirt that she wears in public! Often!  

Frankly Dinah would have been worried about the fanaticism if Laurel wasn’t singing around the house more than she ever has, the sound of which fills Dinah with indescribable joy.  Or if she wasn’t halfway on the bandwagon herself.  Popera is not her cup of tea, but hot damn that kid can sing.  And his stage presence…?  Jesus.  Simply unreal.  

Eyes still streaming tears, hand covering her mouth to contain the cutest little squeaks, Laurel can only nod in response to the question.  The sight of her so affected by the purity and passion behind the music melts away any remaining tension from Dinah’s frame.  

Needing to be close to Laurel, she pushes away from the door and pads in the direction of their bed.  After making her way over, she perches on the side close enough to easily reach Laurel.  

“Babe,” she says, reaching out to brush the tears from Laurel’s damp, flushed cheeks.  “I know you love him.  But why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I can’t help it.  Just look at him, Dinah,” Laurel replies, pointing animatedly at the screen.  Dropping her hand between them, Dinah follows a slender finger to the screen where Dimash, resplendent in a sharp tuxedo, is totally owning the stage and the crowd like he was born for it.  She recognizes the performance instantly as one of her personal favorites.  “He’s an angel.  An actual fucking real life angel come down to earth.  And then he opens his mouth and the literal sounds of heaven come out.  I just...I just can’t….”  

In her peripheral vision, Dinah catches the moment Dimash explodes into a segment where he belts with all the gusto and passion of Pavarotti. Almost immediately Laurel dissolves into another round of overwhelmed tears.

Dinah chuckles, slightly amused and entirely besotted.  To offer some comfort she knows will be appreciated, she slides further up on the bed and arranges herself so that Laurel can tuck into her side.  

“C’mere,” she says, patting her lap to give an invitation that is not refused. After pausing the video, Laurel scoots over until she is halfway in Dinah’s lap, reclining against her chest, head resting against Dinah’s shoulder.  Once she is all settled in and both of them are comfy, Dinah nabs one of the earbuds from Laurel’s ear and sticks it into hers before looping an arm around her trembling fiancee.  She pulls Laurel tight against her for good measure and then presses a kiss into her hair.

“Now then.  We can watch the rest together.  And maybe a few more after if that’s alright with you?”  A dimpled smile is her reward.

“More than okay.  Love you,” Laurel says, then tilts her head to press a sweet kiss to Dinah’s lips before returning her attention to the MacBook and Dimash.

A press of a button later, rich baritone crooning in Russian tickles Dinah’s ears.  Her eyes slide shut involuntarily as the melody washes over her and the otherworldly tone of Dimash’s singing transports her into a realm of pure aural bliss.  All too soon she becomes lost in a haze of profound musical magnificence that reminds her there is beauty in the world worth appreciating, worth savoring, worth sharing with the person she loves above all else.  So that’s precisely what she does.

And what do you know.  By the time the song is over, Dinah is crying, too.