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foxofthedesert · 6 years ago

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Arrow FF | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

Part 3 – The Dance (Click for AO3 Link)

As Dinah trails Laurel down the familiar amber-lit hallway, she has to remind herself that this is not her first trip to this particular Oak Forest complex. Seeing as Laurel lives smack dab between Felicity and Dinah, the convenience of her apartment made sense to conduct meetings of the anti-Diaz club Felicity formed while Oliver was locked up and which thereafter morphed into what Felicity calls ‘an unconventionally awesome three way Womance.’ Dinah also drops in to check on Laurel after particularly rough days, a gesture that while not received with praise is at least silently appreciated judging by Laurel’s tacit acceptance of her continued unannounced visits. There is a modicum of resentment from Laurel that occasionally boils over due to feeling unfairly criticized or annoyingly henpecked due to the wanton villainy that characterized her recent, although Dinah has learned how to assuage those flare ups with honeyed reassurances that she is only concerned because she cares. Usually that works well enough, and it when it doesn’t they just bicker it out until one of them invariably apologizes. Lastly, during their collaboration on the Ace Chemical case, work twice spilled over into Laurel’s home and saw them laboring into the wee hours of the morning double and triple checking critical details tucked away inside the mountain of associated files.

All of this means that Dinah a stranger to this sharp, stylish corridor, nor is she unfamiliar with the cozy confines of the abode lurking behind the door just ahead. And yet the tingling in her extremities and the butterflies fluttering around in her tummy would suggest otherwise. In the wake of their bonding experience at the shelter, the sensations being produced by Laurel’s proximity and their pending nightcap are not unlike those she experienced the night before her junior prom. Only then her date was a six foot two, one hundred ninety-five pound star athlete with whom she was utterly smitten; whereas now...well, at least the last part is accurate if her slightly humiliating reaction is any reliable barometer.

Get ahold of yourself for God’s sake, she tells herself as they approach Laurel’s front door, which displays a lovely ornamented wreath. You’re not sixteen anymore and this isn’t a date. Then she recalls Laurel’s anxious shifting as the invitation was posed, and how clearly it was meant as much more than a friendly gesture of thanks for her help at the shelter. Or is it? Hmm. Laurel certainly was acting like maybe it is, which is probably why I’m as big a bundle of nerves as she seems to be. Holding her hand when we left the shelter didn’t help matters, either. As Dinah remembers how right it felt when their palms meshed and their fingers wove together, she watches Laurel fumble for the key to her apartment with shaky hands, swear under her breath, then glance back sheepishly before returning to her task. The unmistakable hint of an incredibly fragile hope that flared through Laurel’s green eyes hits Dinah square in the chest. Jesus. Is this really happening?

Dinah gets her answer when Laurel finally slides the correct key home and pushes the door open, then hesitates in the doorway before offering a shy invitation that sounds nothing like the arrogant, flamboyant, dangerous vixen she first encountered on Lian Yu. Unfortunately Laurel recovers her confidence too quickly for Dinah to comment upon that brief display of vulnerability then flicks on the light and enters to reveal a sight no one who knows this Laurel Lance could have ever adequately prepared for.

Inside the apartment is a scene that would not be horribly out of place in one of the Hallmark Christmas movies Dinah enjoys indulging in during the Holidays. Festive trinkets adorn virtually every piece of furniture from little knickknacks like porcelain elves upon the bookshelf to dual poinsettias with ribbons attached to the wrapping on the vase on the entertainment stand next to the door all the way up to an exquisite nativity scene upon the coffee table that appears as old as it is gorgeous. Meanwhile a modest Christmas tree is tucked into the corner of the living room, neatly and conservatively trimmed featuring plain white lights and mostly silver ornamentation.

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” she says as she mimics Laurel in shrugging off her coat then depositing it, as well as her other unnecessary garments, upon the coat rack to the left of the door.

Laurel smiles over her shoulder, an attractive blush coloring her cheeks. “Thanks. I might have gone a bit overboard. This is the first year I’ve decorated since...” she trails off then, brows drawing in, an oppressive sadness dimming the light in her eyes as she is transported somewhere in her mind, to another time and place Dinah is not yet privy to. But as abruptly as the gloom descends, Laurel brushes it away with a shake of her shoulders and reattaches a wry smile to her face. “Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time.”

Wanting to ask about what went through Laurel’s head just a second ago and whether or not it has to do with Quentin, Dinah opts instead for a safer track. Some day she will get Laurel to open up to her about all she’s been hiding for so long under those impressive facades meant to distract from a secret anguish no one else seems interested in. Except for Dinah, that is, and not just due to the cop instincts that make her want to dissect criminals and villains to determine what makes them tick. She wants to know because it has been evident to her since she bothered to look past the jagged sarcasm, edgy goth wardrobe, and penchant for violence, she realized there was something significant there screaming to the heavens to be uncovered. Once she knew what she was looking for, it didn’t take a genius to figure out there is so much hurt being bottled up inside Laurel that needs to be vented if she’s to maintain this positive course correction she’s made. The problem is Laurel’s problematic lack of a support system makes any definitive progress unlikely in the near term. Who in her life would she deem trustworthy enough to permit voyage beyond the as of yet impenetrable facade? The answer is self-evident to Dinah. No one. Or not yet anyway. Dinah is trying her damnedest to be that someone since no one else seems interested.

With every one else important to Laurel life occupied with their own problems, such as Felicity and Oliver with their family and Team Arrow and all the peripheral shit that comes along with being the central figures of a Superhero outfit that spans multiple cities and Earth, or simply unconcerned about her welfare because they can’t let go of the past – ahem Rene and John – the burden of caring about and for Laurel Lance has fallen to Dinah alone. And that’s okay. She’s happy to shoulder it. Dinah has always been a caregiver. It’s one of many factors that drove her to focus her military training into a meaningful civilian service. That and Laurel, at least to her, is worth it. If no one else can see that? Their loss. She’ll take this exceptional, infinitely interesting woman over the banal choices for company daily served up to her on a silver platter.

“What got you in the holiday spirit if you don’t mind me prying?” she asks, following Laurel into the living room where her svelte hostess gestures for her to sit.

“Hold that thought and go ahead and make yourself at home while I go get the snacks,” Laurel says in lieu of answering immediately, then glides off toward the kitchen with her typical grace.

Dinah obeys like a good guest, and to keep from fidgeting occupies her hands by trailing her fingers over the smooth lacquered finish of the figurines composing the nativity scene neatly arranged upon the coffee table. The craftsmanship really is amazing, the precision unlike anything she has come across from her limited exposure to Christmas decorations. As a kid her parents opted to celebrate the holidays in a non-religious manner seeing as both were lapsed in the faith they were born into, her father the son of Southern Baptist preacher and her mother’s family ensconced firmly within Reform Judaism. But she had friends who made big to-dos about Christmas and often visited their houses to get a glimpse into a portion of modern life she was denied. She used to marvel at the ornamentation on display and wish she was brave enough to ask her parents to make some allowances. None of her friends had anything like this, though.

The manger is so intricate that she can feel imperfections in it as if it were real wood, the hay hundreds of individually constructed strings upon which a marvelously detailed baby Jesus lay, with ten tiny olive-tinted fingers clutching at the threadbare shawl wrapped round him. Mary and Joseph are almost as meticulous, in their period clothing with accurate complexions and features, as are the equally diverse wise men and the astonishingly life-like miniature lambs tucked in round the manger.

“My great-great-great-something grandfather made that in the 1850’s, I think,” Laurel says, having snuck back in while Dinah was entranced studying the figurines. A bit startled, she looks up to see Laurel rounding the couch with a tray in hand and tracks her progress as she continues on to deposit the tray carefully upon an unoccupied portion of the coffee table. “It’s also the answer to your earlier question. I mean, volunteering at the shelter this year got me thinking about when I was a kid and my parents would go crazy around Christmas. Nostalgia hit me hard, so I started browsing through some of the boxes of Christmas stuff Quentin never got around to unpacking and found this nativity scene carefully tucked away in bundles of padding. It’s exactly the same as the one my Quentin inherited, one of a handful of items that survived the family move from Germany after the war. Incidentally, apparently family origin is one thing that doesn’t really change between Earths where we have doppelgangers.” She pauses for a breath. “Anyway, I wanted to put it out to remember both Quentins by but it seemed silly to have just that, so I put up a few more. Which turned into a few more. Eventually...I looked around and this had happened. Oopsie.” To prove her point, she gestures around the apartment, its festive décor providing a merry backdrop to what Dinah hopes will be just as merry a night.

“Well, it’s absolutely gorgeous so I don’t blame you one bit for wanting to show it off. Or for going overboard on the rest,” Dinah says, savoring the information she has just gleaned. Not only does she now know that they share in a heritage that traces back to Germany before the Second World War and that family histories remain largely intact between multiple Earths when a person exists in each of them, but the most intriguing tidbit is that Laurel had a happy childhood at one point. So what went so terribly wrong to make her into Black Siren? Curiosity surges through her mind that she quickly tempers with a dose of reality by reminding herself why she’s here. “The whole apartment is really nice. I’m very impressed,” she adds, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. “Now that I know you have a knack for interior decorating, I’ll be blackmailing you into sprucing my place up for Hanukkah next year.”

Just because her late parents chose the path of unbelief does not mean Dinah has. There was a time she abandoned her faith, but since moving to Star City she has slowly been building up to the loosely-observant Reformist she is today. That means among other things that she attends synagogue whenever she can, which isn’t as often as she’d like due to her job, and eats as kosher as convenience and finance will allow. She has never been big on tradition, so she prefers to practice her faith in a casual way that appeals to her modern, practical, and privacy-oriented sensibilities. That said, her belief is as strong as it has ever been, strangely enough thanks to the woman from whom she just washed dishes and mopped floors until her fingers pruned up and her back ached like a bitch. If there was ever a sign from God that love and forgiveness possess a singular power to heal the heart, it has come in the form of her constantly evolving relationship with Laurel.

Ignorant of Dinah’s thoughts, Laurel chuckles at the jest she just made, which causes those amazing dimples of hers to peak out. “Can’t wait to see what material you break out to get me to do your bidding. I’m not easily blackmailed, you know.”

“I know. I happen to like a good challenge, which you most certainly are,” Dinah says with a wink that causes Laurel to blush for what seems like the hundredth time tonight.

“I’ve been called many things, but none with ‘good’ attached as a modifier. Eggnog?” Laurel returns as she gently picks up a mug of eggnog and offers it to Dinah, who accepts it with a grateful smile.

Powerless to resist the creamy goodness cradled in her hands, Dinah takes an experimental sip and cannot stop a moan of pure delight from purring through her chest. “Well, get used to it if this stuff is any indication of your talents.” She then breaks off the arm of one of the gingerbread men, snaps the hand off, then samples the dismembered appendage. Eyes sliding shut in rapture, a similar sound erupts from the depths of her chest. The cookie is more like something out of a professional bakery than an amateur oven. It is soft, perfectly chewy with a cinnamony and gingery flavor that coats her tongue with wonderfulness. “Christ alive, Laurel! This is divine.”

Not half as divine as those noises you just made, Laurel thinks, then chastises herself for what feels like the thousandth time tonight. She has always been hyper-aware of Dinah’s casual sensuality and absurd level of hotness, but lately her inability to curb that awareness has proven quite the irritant.

“Where’d you learn to make this?”

Dinah’s question causes Laurel to reemerge abruptly from the haze induced by that sinful moan. “I found it in my dad’s recipe book,” she answers, hastily to avoid any intensive scrutiny of her embarrassing biological response. “I mean, Quentin’s. Not that my Quentin wasn’t…that he didn’t...err, that he wasn’t...” A soft hand touches her to mercifully prevent any further verbal flailing.

Dinah’s gentle smile eases the mortification, but only just. “It’s okay. I know how much he meant to you. It’s not wrong of you to see him as your dad. He was. If any man ever loved his daughter, that’s the way Quentin loved you.”

Tears prick at Laurel’s eyes unbidden and she clamps down on her lower lip to keep from whimpering like some pathetic little girl. That age old cliché that time heals all wounds is nothing but a bunch of bullshit to Laurel when it’s yet to get any easier for her to hear how deeply this Earth’s Quentin Lance cared for her. The gaping, oozing sore his entirely preventable death left behind is a constant reminder of her unforgivable failures as a daughter upon two worlds. When her mother died in an auto accident and took her Sara to the grave with her, Laurel selfishly and foolishly blamed it all upon her father, who was behind the wheel, even though it was not his fault. A truck driver strung out on amphetamines to stay awake ran a light and plowed right into the passenger’s side. There was nothing anybody could have done, but that didn’t stop Laurel from berating her father at every turn until their relationship was in tatters and he could barely stand to look at her for fear of what she might say. When he was gunned down two weeks after her sixteenth birthday, six months after her Ollie died in the Gambit, she blamed him for that, too. Or at least she did until realization set in that all of the tragedies were ultimately her fault. Her parents had been on their way to pick up her from a silly after school program for advanced readers when that accident occurred, Ollie went on that trip with his dad because she was putting too much pressure on him to move away with her for college, and her father was killed interrupting a robbery while out buying ice cream for her because she emerged from the dreary foxhole of depression to actually interact with him for the first time in weeks.

Guilt over her role in those events ate her alive over the subsequent years. Haunted in nightmares, she was stalked from the shadows of her mind every waking hour of the day until she was reduced to little more than a deviant drug addict living on the streets, willing to do anything for a fix so the voice inside her head that sounded suspiciously like her dad would stop blaming her for their family’s demise. Becoming Black Siren cauterized that wound fairly well up til being Black Siren cost her the exceedingly precious second chance at deserving her father’s unconditional love. That day in the hospital, hearing Sara’s plaintive cries, feeling the blood rushing in her ears, unable to curtail the tears rolling down her face, tore it right back open again, as it has remained ever since. And the only person who has seemed to notice her silent suffering is Dinah Drake.

Miracle of all miracles….

As if sensing Laurel’s internal distress over her terrible comportment and her reticence to continue down this line of discussion, Dinah again proves her aptitude with regard to Laurel’s emotional and mental state. A pat of Laurel’s hand precedes returning her own to her mug, and she then adopts a more neutral posture and tone as she indulges in another healthy sip of the eggnog. After a satisfied little sigh, she asks, “So, what brought you to the shelter?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Laurel says, tone a bit clipped.

One day she will tell Dinah about the months she spent living at place just like the Carmine Kanigher Emergency Shelter. If her wildest dreams come true, she’ll finally be safe enough in a relationship with a woman who can handle the harrowing tale of a broken nineteen year old sexual abuse victim and heroin junkie who escaped her personal hell when S.T.A.R. Labs explosion bathed her battered body in Dark Matter in the midst of an agonized banshee wail. Beaten half to death, face a bloody mess, violated beyond reckoning, angry cigar-shaped burns seared into the small of her back and the back of her neck, in tattered clothes that hadn’t been washed in a month, she stumbled eight blocks in the dead of night until she spotted the little facility tucked in between a decrepit old apartment building and an anachronistic Catholic church that looked more like it belonged in Gotham than Central City.

As she stumbled across the empty intersection, her heart started beating uncontrollably. Two steps out a cold sensation corkscrewed up her spine and she stopped right in the middle of the street, paralyzed. Out of the blue she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head, could smell the stink of vodka on his breath, and feel a grimy hand clamping down on her hips whilst the other snatched great handfuls of her hair with all the tenderness of a rabid grizzly. Panic descended upon her like a runaway train. Unable to think, reduced to pure adrenaline and fear, she used every last ounce of willpower to force her feet to move and raced as fast as her unsteady legs would take her toward sanctuary, heedless of the cars barreling down upon her from both lanes, horns screaming at the crazy unkempt lady on a suicide mission to figure out the chicken’s motives for journeying to the other side of the road. Only instead of a triumphant arrival, her toe got hooked on the sidewalk, causing her to face plant within a stone’s throw from what would soon become her only safe haven in life, fracturing her cheek and reopening the jagged cut on her lip.

Laurel can remember so vividly how she literally crawled those last five yards to the front door on her hands and knees, panting for breath and keening in manic desperation, can remember how her bare knees were shredded on the unforgiving concrete leaving behind erratic streaks of blood that took the staff four hours to scrub out the next day. How she got up the stairs and through the front door is not so clear, but she does recall smelling fresh popcorn the second she staggered inside, a scent to this day she associates with safety. She also remembers being greeted by the unbearably kind face of a woman not much older than she is right now, and how that same woman nursed her through the night so patiently and with such gentle care that she wept in her arms until she passed out.

That is why she was at the shelter tonight. To at long last pay it forward in honor of Emma Morrison and all of the other men and women who filtered through her shattered life during her brief stay at Central Covenant Emergency Shelter. After all they did to piece her back together into some semblance of a human being, a herculean feat Laurel still doesn’t understand how they accomplished, the least she can do is help out around the holidays at a place that is doing the same thing for people just like she used to be. People who have been chewed up and spat out by the world, whose loved ones have left them by choice or via the grave, who have nothing and no one to care for them during the one season per year everyone should have someone. Even a wretch like her.

One day she will tell Dinah all of this, because there hasn’t been any one else in her life since Emma that made her want to talk about her past, to air out her anguish, to vent her immeasurable pain. Dinah makes her want to, though, and not just because Dinah has proven herself trustworthy but because Dinah had the audacity to get to know Laurel for no other reason than for Laurel’s sake. Against all objective logic, Dinah chose Laurel, and continues to over and over again. Nobody else has done that since her Ollie and her Daddy died. So there will come a day she will sit Dinah down and divulge the ugly truth behind her radically abrupt spurt of holiday volunteerism. But not today. Especially not on Christmas. Talking about those dark days would sully something precious that has been building between them tonight. Something Laurel can already feel slipping away from her, which causes her to react with her typical knee-jerk abrasiveness.

Lids narrowing in accusation, she pins Dinah down with a cold stare. “You were the one who followed me there. Worried I was about to dive head first into the evil end of the pool again?” Still on the defensive, she squeezes the mug between her hands more tightly to rein in her flaring temper. She hadn’t meant to jump down Dinah’s throat, it’s just lashing out is her default response to emotional upset. Once she told Felicity empathy was a work in progress – well, it is one of many works in progress in her life, coping mechanisms included.

To her credit, Dinah does not take the bait other than to calmly reply, “Of course not.” A pointed look from Laurel, replete with an arched brow, inspires Dinah to amend herself with a shy shrug and cute shrug of her shoulders. “Okay. Maybe a little. Mostly I was curious. You pawned a very important case off on an A.D.A. at the last minute, so I thought I’d find out why.”

Laurel does not understand the reasoning. At all. “You have history with Martinez. I thought you’d be fine working with him while I took some evenings for myself during the holidays.”

For the first time all night, Dinah becomes visibly upset. Her nostrils flare, the muscles in her arms and shoulders tense, and her eyes narrow sharply. “Well, you figured wrong. We worked that case together for over two months, Laurel. You should have seen it through instead bailing on me!”

Taken aback, Laurel returns her mug to the tray. Of all the things for Dinah to get her panties in a wad about, it’s this? As far as Laurel knows, Dinah and Martinez get along swimmingly. They have worked several cases together since Laurel assumed her doppelganger’s duties as District Attorney and have only returned glowing praises about the other in both verbal and hard copy reports. Hell, they’ve even gone out for casual drinks a time or two and had a swell time, which irritated Laurel more than it should have considering she only recently retrieved her attraction to Dinah from the realm of impossible dreams.

Strangely enough, it was working on this case so closely that made her reconsider whether her assessment of Dinah’s sexuality was as reliable as she initially assumed. Maybe that’s why she’s so perturbed. Maybe she thought the same about me? I mean, I wasn’t exactly waving my bi flag for all to see. What if working this case together has opened her eyes the same way it has mine? What if…

Going any further down that road without context is so dangerous Laurel veers a sharp turn on the nearest on-ramp leading to attaining what she needs with a sudden desperation that is as terrifying as it is exciting.

“Okay...what’s this really about?” she poses, daring Dinah to try and finagle herself out of giving an honest answer.

“I just told you...” Laurel waves off Dinah’s sad attempt at deflection as if batting away a pesky fly. “Yeah, yeah. You told me why you were curious as to my so-called pawning off of the Ace Chemical case. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that you’re truly upset about it. And not for the specified reason. This has nothing to do with your investment in this case. Or mine for that matter.”

“Is that so?”

Dinah’s brows shoot up so sharply it feels as if they’re about to clash with her hairline. How did this conversation turn on her so quickly? She’d meant to get Laurel to confess that she dropped the case because her work at the shelter during the holidays had become too important for her to abandon, that she has finally found a purpose for that heart she’s kept so safely guarded with a charming misanthropy she wields like a sword and shield to repel any who seek entry. Only halfway through the sentence it turned into accusation as the abandonment Dinah felt – and yes, she knows that’s irrational; but Laurel makes her irrational, okay! – superseded that initial noble goal. Deep down, she knows Laurel stepping away from the case only hurt her because it meant they wouldn’t be spending any more late nights in each other’s offices or in Laurel’s apartment working into the wee hours of the morning. There would be no more sipping on coffee and chatting about sports during short breaks, no more furtive glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking, no more of their shoulders and hips brushing together as they huddled over a report they’ve both read a dozen times looking for potential weaknesses or loopholes in the prosecution the defense might exploit, and no more excuses to touch Laurel because she’s right there and available and one hundred percent engaged in their hypnotizing dynamic.

Dinah was aggrieved because she wants more of all that, craves it like a drug, yearns for it like a forlorn lover whose partner has been out of reach for far too long. She is afraid that without a legitimate professional excuse to continue this closeness they’ve developed it will wither on the vine and die before ever bearing fruit. And that hurts her, makes her chest and throat physically constrict and her heart ache painfully to the point she feels tears of sheer despair well up from within her very soul. If she cared to examine that phenomenon with any degree of conviction, she knows she would invariably uncover the root cause to be a four letter word that she simply cannot be the one to say first. There is far too much on the line for that, and not just for her but for Laurel, who has probably been hurt more than Dinah has.

And of course Laurel took the opportunity to, in a matter of heartbeats, dissect Dinah’s outburst and arrive at the same conclusion she has. Sometimes the woman’s perceptiveness is downright infuriating.

“From my point of view it is,” Laurel replies with complete confidence. All of the sudden, those spectacular green eyes lose all hints of vulnerability and instead resemble those of a hawk who has zeroed in on her prey. That prey being Dinah. Which sends a jolt of excitement through Dinah’s veins.

Refusing to back down an inch, Dinah harrumphs. “Well, then, since you’re such an expert in the subject of my motives, why don’t you enlighten me as to what they were?”

Laurel shoots her a warning glance that is not so much threatening as out of concern. Dinah doesn’t quite know what to make of it until Laurel responds, then she understands that the concern is for them both.

“You sure you wanna go down this path? ‘Cause there’s no going back once we do.”

Dinah has never been more sure of anything. Four hours ago she would have taken the out being dangled so tempting in front of her. But four hours ago she hadn’t seen Laurel disarmed of the sword that is her double-edged tongue and disrobed of the impenetrable armor that protects a soft underbelly Dinah would wager has been exposed for none asides from Quentin in a very long time. Four hours ago she hadn’t seen Laurel glowing under the adulation of people who clearly care for her as much as she does them. Four hours ago she hadn’t witnessed Laurel giving heartfelt hugs to homeless folks who weren’t the cleanest or the best smelling and engaging them with a mega-watt dimpled smile that actually reached her eyes as she wished them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and meant every last word. Four hours ago she hadn’t held Laurel’s hand and realized it felt more right in hers than anyone’s ever has – and that includes Vince. Four hours ago she was not ready to trust Laurel with her heart, because believe it or not she is not as strong as everyone makes her out to be.

But that was four hours ago. Now, things are different. Much different. In such an astonishingly brief window of observation she has seen Laurel express attributes she knew were there along just waiting for the right moment to be unfurled and has at the same time been given a glimpse at a potential future that is so beautiful it takes her breath away. All she needs is for Laurel to make the first move. And if that happens, Dinah is ready and willing to meet her halfway.

Until then, however, she has to maintain the pretense of ignorance, and not just for her sake. Like a skittish dog who has been ritually abused only to be rescued by some compassionate soul, Laurel will need to feel like she is in control of the progression of their relationship or she might panic and bolt. Some might see that as an obstacle they could not overcome, but Dinah is not one of those types. Pride within intimacy has never been her problem. Adaptability is her strength. Take charge or be submissive, so long as she is being shown proper love and respect she can cut either direction depending on the mood. With Vince she liked being a little domineering because he could take it. He had this sixth sense for when she wanted to wear the pants and when she needed him to take the reins. It seems that with Laurel, the sixth sense belongs to her. Maybe time will bear out a different result, and if so she is eager to experience the journey, but if not she is just as happy to be for Laurel what Vince was for her. Hell, it might even be the change of pace she didn’t even know she needed.

For now, though, she can just tell that she’s going to have to give a little bit more than she’s used to, bend a little more readily so that this new, fragile, incredibly thrilling development between them doesn’t break right out of the box.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrows her eyes dubiously. “Pssh. You act as if your theory is going to blow my damn mind or something.”

“Maybe it is,” Laurel says matter-of-factly, then softens almost imperceptibly. “Maybe it’s already blown mine and I’m just trying to make sure you’re ready for the fallout.”

Internally, Dinah is squealing like a school girl whose crush is just about to make her dreams come true. She has honestly not felt this way in so long she can’t remember the last time. Externally she utilizes her many years of training, both from the military and the police academy, to maintain a neutral expression.

“Don’t go pulling punches on my account. Not now. One of the reasons I like spending time with you is because you give it to me straight. So if you have something to say, say it.”

Laurel nods, then does not hesitate to accommodate Dinah’s command. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Here she pauses briefly, inhales deeply, lets it out slowly, then squares her shoulders before launching into her speech. “So...I think that me handing the case off to Martinez means our collaboration ended earlier than scheduled. I think that hurt you, and way more than you could have predicted. I will concede that you might not understand why that is, exactly. Or if you do, you’re too scared to admit it.”

Getting hot. Keep going. Figuring Laurel might need a bit of encouragement to see this through all the way, Dinah decides to inject a bit of a challenge. Laurel always responds well to those…

“I’m not afraid of anything. Especially a loud-mouthed bean pole like you.”

Laurel’s grin tells Dinah her tactic worked like a fucking charm. She gets herself a well-deserved mental pat on the back as Laurel scoots closer rather than reeling away as most would.

“Getting defensive. I hit a nerve, I see. Don’t worry, you didn’t offend me with that cute little barb. In fact, you just proved my point.”

“Which is?” C’mon. You’ve come this far. Just a little further...

“That you like me.”

Score! 1-0 in favor of Drake. I’m liking the direction this is going more and more by the second.

To really sell her being utterly dense of what is going on here and that Laurel is the one in charge, Dinah furrows her brow in confusion. “Come again…?”

A daring hand hovers over Dinah’s arm, then a long finger begins trailing down the underside of her forearm, which is still bared due to her having neglected to roll her sleeves back down. The touch of tapered nail scores a line of fire into her flesh, leaving behind a trail of heat so intense Dinah would not be shocked to discover on the morning that the line has not faded. The thought draws her eyes down to the tattoo of a flock of birds on the outside of Laurel’s right index finger. The sight elicits an electric buzz low in Dinah’s belly.

Unbidden, she imagines lying on her side upon a reclined chair, Laurel sitting next to her and holding her hand as a carefully selected artist etches the finishing touches into a custom design upon the skin high up on her left rib cage – the side closest to her heart - that appears to be a laurel wreath bisected by a knight’s lance. The image does things to Dinah that cannot account for. Never before has she been stricken with the impulse to get such an intimately personal tattoo to join her Marine Corps insignia, as if she subconsciously is already harboring a desire to be branded as Laurel’s woman.

Shit! Dinah shudders as the image dissolves, leaving her excited and frightened and a little turned on all at once. Thankfully, her return to the present is timely, as she glances up just in time to receive Laurel’s languid response.

“You heard me. You like me. And not just because I keep it so real for you.” Lifting her finger from Dinah’s arm, Laurel slides her hand down until her palm slides into place against Dinah’s. Just like at the shelter, their fingers thread together as if designed to be mated. The expression on Laurel’s face then turns decidedly emotional. “You care about me. For me. Not just because I look like someone you used to love or am a useful ally because of my job, my kickass ninja skills, or my meta powers. In spite of all the hurt between us, you see something in me worthwhile.” She ducks her head, looks up at Dinah through her long lashes. “I can tell because it’s the same way that I care for you.”

Dinah exhales sharply as if punched, just without all the consequential pain. This is it. It’s really happening. All of the tension that has built up since their eyes met across the crowded cafeteria at the shelter has come to a percussive crescendo. On Christmas Eve of all days. Is this my present? Is this what I’ve waited all year for? All my fucking life for? And not even known it ‘til now? Hell yes it is! How she knows, she can’t say, nor would she at the risk of killing the magic. Some things are better left assigned to the mysterious and fickle hands of fate. And since said hands seem to be favoring her tonight, Dinah is more than happy to surrender this one without a fight.

“Laurel...are you saying what I think you are?” she asks after tipping up Laurel’s chin.

Knowing instinctively that this is the moment, the one that will define the rest of her life, Laurel braces herself and summons up every last ounce of her courage. For too long she has pined secretly over Dinah, often times secretly even to herself. There was ample reason, to be sure, but all of those seem to have been rendered moot by whatever Christmas magic is operating to give her the one thing she has wanted more than all else since an audacious, slightly self-righteous, lionhearted woman kept her from murdering a federal judge after she bared her heart on behalf of someone she will always love and was cruelly shot down.

That day Dinah saved more than the life of one heartless judge, she saved Laurel’s too. That was the singular event, the axial minute, the pivotal hour that made her believe she could actually make a go of this good guy shit the other Laurel draped around neck like a cloak of calling. Quentin had started her down this path and his death had kept her upon it by a thread most days. But if Dinah hadn’t gone out of her way when she didn’t have to and all but told Laurel she believed it was possible for her to be redeemed, none of this would be possible. Before then, a backslide was inevitable.

And so Laurel mentally buckles up and floors the gas pedal, if for no other reason than she owes Dinah the truth. Come what may.

“If you think I’m saying every time I’m close to you my heart starts racing like it’s going to jump out of my chest, then yes,” she says, investing her heart into her words as possible never before. She squeezes Dinah’s hand a bit harder, willing her to hear and understand that none of what she is hearing is bullshit, that every last syllable is being wrenched from the bottom of what’s left of her heart. “If you think I’m saying I think about you constantly, then yes. If you think I’m saying I’ve never met anyone like you who makes me feel all the crazy, amazing, scary things you make me feel, then yes. If you think I’m saying I daydream about what it would feel like to hold you, kiss you, and wake up with you in my arms, then hell yes to that, too. Truth is, I’ve felt this way for a while now. I think it started that day outside the Courthouse when you stopped me from doing something incredibly stupid. The way you looked at me…I couldn’t remember the last time anybody looked at me that way, and all I knew was I wanted more. These past few months, I’ve done everything I can to insinuate myself into your life because for whatever twisted reason, I’m drawn to you, and I just can’t seem to help myself.”

For an unbearable few seconds, Dinah says nothing, just sits there staring at Laurel while clenching her hand so hard that Laurel starts to lose feeling in her fingers. Dread rears its ugly head shortly thereafter.

Oh, God. Have I blown it? Have I scared her away? Did I read this all wrong? I’m gonna lose her. Fuck! No, no, no...

“Wow. I, uh...wow.”

When Dinah manages that breathless response, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in Laurel that the panic clawing at her chest and clogging her throat are an overreaction. At this point, addled as her brain is, all she can think of is that she needs to backtrack as quickly as possible and salvage their friendship.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“No!” Dinah’s interruption is a mini explosion that startles Laurel so badly she jumps. “Just...stop right there. That was a lot to take in at once, but not in a bad way.”

The sensation of relief that washes over Laurel is nothing short of blissful. All of that anxiety might have been for nothing after all. If so, that means Dinah does feel the same as her. And if that is true, it means they might actually make a go of this. There is so much on the line here, so much to lose, that the thought is almost terrifying. Almost. An overpowering urge to kiss those hypnotically plump lips of Dinah’s is overriding all other considerations.

With her heart in her throat all of a sudden, Laurel runs her thumb along the back of Dinah’s hand and is pleased to see Dinah shiver in response. “Really?”

“Really.” Dinah smiles crookedly. “Turns out you’re a pretty smart cookie, Lance. Your theory may be more of a fact. Working with you on this case has been amazing. You’ve been amazing. And I know I shouldn’t, but I want to be close to you, Laurel. Closer, even. So much closer.”

That last bit is hardly more than a whisper, which Laurel hears clearly due to their heady proximity. A frisson of pure joy runs down her body because that is the exact same thing she wants. And not just metaphorically. Right now she wants to be closer physically, too, which has some of her old spunk reappearing.

“How much closer, Dinah?” she asks, eyes hooded, nostrils flaring to indulge in the scent of coconut and jasmine that is uniquely Dinah. She inches forward, drawing their heads and upper torsos ever closer. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure there’s some mistletoe in the vicinity I could scrounge up if I need to. You know, if you need an excuse to ask for a kiss.”

Dinah taps her index finger against her chin a couple times, feigning pretending to weight the need for such measures. “Hmmm.” Then she shakes her head gently as her lips slide into an impish smile. “Nah. Direct is more my style.”

“A woman after my own heart. Which, incidentally, is one of the many reasons I love you.” Laurel gasps aloud the instant that very heavy phrase slides off her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say it. “I...I‘m so sorry. That just slipped out.”

But Dinah does not appear shocked or appalled or angry or anything negative really. Instead, she is still smiling as she leans in, her head tilting a fraction as their noses nearly come into contact. They are so close now Laurel can smell Dinah’s breath, sweet with hints of gingerbread and eggnog, as she speaks. “It’s okay. No need to apologize. I liked it.”

“You did?”

“Mmhmm. Say it again, please.” An emphasis is added when Dinah nuzzles the tips of their noses together.

Laurel has never felt so warm and alive. And there is no way in hell that she would refuse that request, even if she had a gun to her head. She can think no better way to die than professing her love for Dinah Drake.

“Dinah.” She pauses, breathes deep, then opens up her heart and lets all of the repressed affection for this incredible woman spill out in three little enormous words. “I love you.”

Heart in her eyes, Dinah responds with every bit as much emotion. “Laurel. I love you, too.” She then nibbles her lip affectedly, head tilting a bit further. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, you may. Any time you wish,” Laurel says, her heart thudding in her chest as though it has been replaced by a Pamplona bull.

Dinah does not waste any time. Holding Laurel’s gaze, she leans in until their lips are ever-so-lightly together, lets Laurel adjust and brushes them together from side-to-side until Laurel loses containment upon a high-pitched mewl that tears free from her throat, making her sound like a kitten being teased too long with the milk it so desperately craves. Lips curling into a smile, Dinah stops the teasing at last and seals their lips together. It’s their very first kiss, and it feel is so indescribable, so incredibly wonderful that Laurel’s brain short circuits. In that moment, she is reduced to pure sensation, from the tingling of her lips as Dinah gently sucks upon them to the fire coursing through her veins, burning away every last vestige of doubt, fear, and anxiety over whether or not they might be ruining something irreplaceably precious and over whether or not she will ever deserve however much love Dinah is willing to expend upon her. None of that matters when with one kiss

When Dinah pulls away a few seconds later, she hums in appreciation of what has just happened. And then her eyes begin dancing merrily. “Just for future reference, was that little Wesleyan promise you made my Christmas present? Infinite kisses?”

Laurel chuckles at the reference she actually understands. They don’t have The Princess Bride on Earth-2, which is a crime in and of itself, but thankfully Dinah was kind enough to introduce her to one of this world’s classic romantic comedies. Which was the reason she used that phrase. How Wesley felt about Buttercup is pretty much exactly how she feels about Dinah. Hopelessly devoted. Willing to do anything and everything for her. Willing to kill for her, and if she must, die for her. That said, now is not the time for such declarations.

“I actually was going to give you a Colt CQBP,” she says, smirking because she knows how much of a gun nut Dinah is. “But now I’m thinking I like your idea better.”

“Ooo! How did you know I wanted one of those? God, that’s so tempting. I think I agree with you, though. The kisses sound like a much better deal.”

Laurel reacts accordingly, hands going to her chest as if flattered. Because she is. Dinah turning down a gun for her kisses is a pretty big statement. Almost as big as Ollie rejecting a new, spiffier bow in favor of his wife’s smooches.

“Oh, my. I’ve got a sweet talker on my hands. Are you gonna make me regret...”

With a growl, Dinah interrupts the spiel Laurel was about to launch into about giving Dinah a brand new avenue of attack with which to get her way.

“Shut up, woman, and give me more of what I really want.”

“My God, you are so demanding.” Laurel caps off the comment with dimpled grin.

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” says Dinah, who then without warning surges forward to claim Laurel’s lips in a searing kiss with none of the tentative nature of the first.

After some indeterminate amount of time exploring one another on the couch with eager lips and combative tongues and adventurous hands, they draw apart reluctantly, their lips breaking contact with a satisfying smack. As she leans away from the sole source of her current inundation with unadulterated bliss, Laurel inadvertently glances up at the clock only to note that it is, in fact, five minutes past twelve. Christmas Eve is officially over, which can only mean one thing.

Reaching out with her left hand, she tenderly cups Dinah’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Dinah.”

Burrowing into the embrace, Dinah’s answering smile is one for the ages. “Merry Christmas, Laurel.”

Which it most certainly is. In fact, it will turn out to be the most Merry Christmas Laurel has ever had. Until next year, that is, when she wakes up with a gloriously naked and happily sated Dinah sleeping soundly sprawled atop her. Or the next year, where she awakens to a very frisky Dinah kissing and licking up the length of her inner thigh and doesn’t stop until arrival at the Promised Land. Or the year after that when they are engaged and spend an unbelievably awesome Christmas with Sara and Ava back in 18th century at the winter home of the legendary Carolus Rex of Sweden. Or the year after that, the best yet, when her present is little stick with two pink lines.

Some might say Merry Christmas as a perfunctory salutation to friends and family, but not Laurel. She means it every time she says it. And how can she not? Dinah makes every Christmas a merry one for her.

#dctv #arrow #arrow fanfic #fanfic #dinah drake #laurel lance #dinah x laurel #laurel x dinah #aka Dinahmite!#or:#dinahsiren #christmas

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