#aka Dinahmite!

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

A Christmas Miracle, Part 1 - The Pursuit (Click to read on AO3)

Winter has arrived in earnest to Star City, a little late to the party but right on time for the main event. The holidays are right around the corner. Literally. Christmas Eve is already fading into history along with the setting sun.

After a benign autumn, meteorologists had predicted this season would be Northern California cold at worst, which is to say mild compared to the rest of the country with temperatures hovering between the high forties and fifties. Up til now, they'd been spot on with their forecasts. Unfortunately their crystal balls ran out of juice yesterday while today a never ending assembly line of huge gray clouds rolls is currently lazily by, announcing more of the same dreary, wintry weather. If Dinah didn't know better, she'd think it was about to snow. In Coastal California.

Teeth chattering, she tugs her coat tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill of an uncommonly cold afternoon. This is exactly the kind of shitty weather she thought she left behind when Central City was firmly in her rear view mirror. California was supposed to be sunny and warm, or so said the movies. Well, from where Dinah stands they were lying because she is a bundled up in several layers, a thick coat and scarf atop a sweater and tee with mittens on her hands and woolly socks on her feet, just like she always used to in Missouri.

Dammit. And I just had to wear jeans. Oh well, at least my boots are keeping my toes from freezing.

Cursing the weather and her own foolish choice to be out it in when she doesn't have to be, Dinah curls her shoulders in, stuffs her hands into her coat pockets, and soldiers on. She is on mission right now and has no time to feel sorry for herself.

The sidewalks of the Triangle are bustling with activity in spite of the cold and the waxing evening hour. Shoppers flitting about care little for the rules of polite etiquette in their single-minded pursuit of last minute gifts for their friends and loved ones. Others are meandering aimlessly about, stopping every now and then to gawk at the intrepid shops that bothered to put up decorations or lights or both. Others still have their heads down like Dinah, trying to blend in with the crowd and filter through on their way home or to their jobs. That Dinah's motive for laying low is far less innocuous is beside the point.

Earlier this afternoon she got a surprise call from the District Attorney's office informing her of a prosecutorial change for a current case. Not just any current case, either, but one involving a corrupt, insanely powerful chemical manufacturer based in Gotham which had spread its disease into Star City while the government was occupied preventing one disaster after another. For the better part of a month, Dinah has been grinding through evidence and conducting interview after interview with the one and only Laurel Lance. Since the beginning Laurel has been her partner in overseeing the Ace Chemical case and they were really just hitting their stride on it when the rug got pulled out from underneath her feet. Finally after months of tedious police work and highly stressful court appearances, the CEO and a bevy of her criminally corrupt lapdogs all guilty as sin of dumping toxic waste in the Triangle right on the outskirts of a school zone were fixing to go to jail. Dinah had thought Laurel would want to see it through seeing as she put as many grueling hours in than Dinah has, if not more, ensuring all the I's were dotted and ever T was crossed. With one call from A.D.A Martinez, Dinah was dispelled of that notion and it caught her completely off guard.

The case being pawned off to the longest tenured A.D.A. would not have sat so wrong with Dinah if it hadn't seemed to be as intensely personal to Laurel as it is to her. Normally Laurel Lance acted the prototype of a picture perfect D.A.: a bulldog who is always in control in the courtroom, professional to a fault in the office, and able to politic with the best of them. This case was different, though, even more so than when Laurel went to bat for Oliver while he was still stuck in Slabside. She was burning the midnight oil like never before and spent more hours with Dinah at SCPD going over investigative and arrest reports over and over again until they both had just about memorized them to the letter. Also Laurel's intensity levels were constantly through the roof, and that was saying something considering she is, in every avenue of her life, perpetually cut throat and high strung. Laurel often chastises her staff for no good reason, such as failure to include one minor detail in a relatively inconsequential report due for filing, which is par for the course for a hothead with a combative streak as wide as the Space Needle is tall. But she never did so publicly until working this case. Only last week when one of her paralegals forgot to pass on an innocuous enough message from a DAI, she berated him in front of half the office so badly the poor kid burst into tears, so traumatized that he fled work early and missed the entire next day as well. Once the outrage ebbed, Laurel actually confessed to Dinah that she felt intense guilt over her treatment of that employee.

Laurel Lance. Formerly of Black Siren notoriety. Felt guilty for hurting an underling's feelings. That alone told Dinah how important this case was to Laurel. That she went on to say that this was the first case she'd worked on since assuming Earth-Prime Laurel's life that she categorically refused to lose. Once she went on a bender working on the case, refusing any and all attempts by her employees to get her to go home. Finally after thirty-six hours they called in the cavalry.

"All those people that soulless, greedy bitch made sick deserve justice," Laurel had told Dinah upon being confronted about her obsessive, incredibly unhealthy behavior. "And I'm gonna get it for them. If that means I don't sleep until I get a guilty verdict, then so be it."

If Dinah hadn't put her foot down, she's pretty sure Laurel would have made good on that promise. As it was, she had to all but drag Laurel out of the Court House into the parking garage and then deposit the District Attorney in her shiny new Lexus with perhaps a little less gentleness than was called for.

The point of all this is that Dinah is worried – a lot – about Laurel shrugging off a responsibility she has been obsessing about so religiously over the past two months. Worried that something is wrong or worse, that Laurel has at last fallen off the reformation wagon. Dinah sort of hates herself for jumping to such a cynical conclusion, but there it is. Sometimes those old feelings of bitter acrimony crop up and taint the progress she has made with her former enemy.

Enemy. There's a word Dinah hasn't associated with Laurel in almost two years. Since they teamed up with Felicity to free Oliver from Slabside, she and Laurel have made such significant strides that she would consider Laurel her closest female friend. Which is still sort of shocking when she actually sits down and thinks about where they came from to arrive at what she would categorize as as intimate a friendship as she is capable of forming. No one could have predicted the turn their relationship would take thanks to Felicity's meddling, least of all Dinah, who had once believed the aptly utilized designation of frenemies would be the best she could ever attain with the woman who killed the man she loved. Yet here she is, wading through a sea of people on the streets in ass-clenching cold just to make sure Laurel is alright when she could be at home bundled up on the couch in her favorite blanket sipping on hot cocoa. And it's Christmas Eve for Christ's sake! That alone speaks volumes about how much she actually cares for Laurel.

What's even more amazing is that there is not a shred of doubt in her heart of mind that Laurel feels the same for her. Of course, there is some cause to call that into question, or at least to redefine what care means from Laurel's end. Of late, Dinah has been getting these weird vibes from Laurel, who has started looking at her and even treating her differently than she used to before they tackled this case together. Ordinarily that would be a bothersome development. Except the change is not in a negative direction. If anything, Laurel has been noticeably more attentive and considerate, which when combined with those vibes produce strange feelings and urges in Dinah she has yet to figure out the meaning behind. And that's not to mention what she is supposed to do about this sudden spike of awkward, nervous, excited energy that buzzes between them whenever they are in the same room together. There is a word for it, she is sure, though right now she is not prepared to break out her dictionary so that she can officially print the term on a label to slap upon the deeply complicated relationship she shares with Laurel Lance.

That said, not yet being ready to face what her subconscious has been screaming at her is going on but her conscious has been deliberately and stubbornly annoying does not preclude Dinah from springing into action whenever Laurel starts acting wonky. Such as today when she dropped a case they were both so passionate about for no reason this morning and then inexplicably cut out of work after lunch without so much as an explanation to her immediate subordinate beyond a clipped response, "Worry less about what I'm doing with my afternoon and more about closing this case. Your future here depends on it."

Since getting the call from A.D.A. Martinez, Dinah has been unable to shake a feeling in her gut that something is going on. Something she should be concerned about. So she did what she does best. Pulled rank at the precinct and decided to indulge her nosy side. Leaning upon all she has learned as a vigilante and as a cop, she stalked Laurel on the traffic cams to the street she is currently plodding down, having covered six blocks already, only to lose sight of her at the intersection of Weisinger and Papp. There is only one significant place of interest Dinah can think of at that location, and she cannot for the life of her figure out what Laurel would be doing there. Her gut feeling tells her to follow through, though, so she complies without further complaint other than some more grumbling about the weather.

Upon rounding the corner, Dinah spots the homeless shelter, the city's second largest, and trudges down the sidewalk towards the entrance. Foot traffic here has dwindled down to a negligible amount. Only the inhabitants of the shelter and what few individuals are willing to brave being seen among such a lowly, somewhat dangerous element. Such as Laurel. For whatever reason…

Once perpendicular from the shelter, Dinah quickly cuts across the street when the street traffic gives her a pause. She gives no thought to the fact she, a police captain, has just blatantly broken the law. Jaywalking isn't the first misdemeanor she's committed today and probably won't be the last. Now on the correct side of the street, she picks around the exterior of the shelter until she finds a bedraggled older man perched on a cinder block just inside the alleyway on the east side of the building. Prepared for just this opportunity, she pulls out her badge and then the stock photo of Laurel she'd snatched off her desk.

"Calm down," she says to the startled man warily eyeing her badge – former military judging by his close cropped hair, rigid posture, and army surplus jacket. "I'm not here to arrest you. Or anyone else. What's your name?"

He exhales, fiddling with an exotic, expensive looking watch on his wrist that seems off beyond it being worn by someone without means to purchase it. A second later he offers her a shaky nod, then responds, "Name's Marv."

"Nice to meet you, Marv. I'm Dinah." Dinah's eyes are again drawn to the strange watch, only to have it quickly hidden under a well worn jacket sleeve. For a split second she considers pressing about how a homeless vet came by such an extravagant piece of a bling, only to change her mind in favor of an expedient end to her mission to find out what the hell Laurel is doing here. Now that proper introductions are made, she doesn't feel bad about thrusting the photo of Laurel in his face. "Have you, by chance, seen this woman this afternoon?"

"Yep. That's Dinah. Been here every day this week. First time before eight, though."

Brows searching for her hairline, Dinah almost comments on the name Laurel gave out before she remembers that it actually is Laurel's name. Dinah Laurel Lance. Whose mother's maiden name was Dinah Drake. The synchronicity of those facts alone are enough to keep Dinah awake at night. When factoring in all that conspired to throw them into a collision course trajectory, which they somehow survived only to be caught up in a mutual orbit, she can't help but feel there is some unknown force at work. Call it fate, kismet, destiny or any other whimsical designation, something out there clearly wants her and Laurel close to each other, and Dinah isn't sure how she feels about that. Well, that's a lie. She knows how she feels, just doesn't want to admit it – even to herself.

"What's she doing coming here every night?" she asks around the lump in her throat that often forms when thinking about Laurel. When the man she's questioning shoots her a dryly outraged glare, she quickly amends herself. "Not that I'm judging. Just curious."

Marv accepts her apology with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "No sweat. I was a little skeptical too when she started comin' to help the staff and residents – ya know, pitchin' in where she can. Cookin' and cleanin' and all that domestic shit. Done some electrical repair work that needed doin'. Good at it, too. Also did most of the decorating for Christmas. Real talented gal."

Dinah's eyebrows shoot up into her hair line. Laurel Lance cooking and cleaning and fixing stuff and...decorating for Christmas? She fights the urge to pinch herself to make sure she isn't dreaming.

Marv laughs at her expression. "Don't blame ya lookin' that way. When she pulled up in that fancy car and came stridin' through the doors in that expensive suit, I figured she was some politician out for a photo op or somethin'. Only never was no cameras or reporters around and she outworked everybody the four hours she was here. And the next time she showed up, she dressed down for the occasion. To fit in better, ya know? Worn out tee, ripped jeans, nose ring, hair braided up nice and tight. Got down in the trenches without a single complaint. Nothin' like the high class bitch that strutted her fancy ass into a world she don't belong in. Nah. Figured out right quick she belonged alright. Just hides it real good out there." He indicates toward the wider world by a tip of the chin. "Good heart in that one, too. She don't know I know, but she's helped more'n a few us land jobs that start up after the Holidays. Like Jordie and Lew. I, uh, I'm one of 'em, too. Asked the guy who hired me why he did it. Wouldn't say anything except a pretty lady who has a way with words convinced him to give me a chance, that he wouldn't regret it. I knew who it was just like that." He snaps his fingers to accentuate the point.

Dinah hardly knows what to say to what she's heard. Never has she been given a less Laurel-like description, and yet she can sense beyond all doubt that she is being told the truth. The paradox being presented to her is confusing as all hell, and it only incites her curiosity into irresistible fascination. Another layer of the Laurel onion is being peeled away right before her very eyes and she is a captive audience spellbound at the unraveling.

"Wow. Uh...I have to say that surprises me," she says after a brief moment of speechlessness. "That doesn't sound like the Lau -" she stops herself short of giving out Laurel's name out of respect for her privacy, "Dinah I know."

"Guess that means you don't know her like you thought," Marv says, eyeing her wryly. "You showed up looking for her, though, which means she's awful important to you. What're you her girl or somethin'?"

"No!"

The denial comes a little too quickly and too defensively and too disingenuous underneath the abrasiveness for Dinah's liking. Her poor reaction only serves as an additional reminder that she is all too aware of her feelings for Laurel and is in that stage where she just can't accept them. Their ugly past is the main obstacle, and that should be enough, right? There is enough baggage between them to fill up the terminal in the O'Hare Airport claim center.

And then there is the fact that Dinah is pretty sure Laurel is straight. She has caught Laurel checking a few ladies out here and there, but chalked those smoldering glances up to either zealous admiration or incendiary envy. Most of the ogling Dinah has caught Laurel doing has been directed toward one particularly unavailable man who just so happens to be married to her closest friend on this earth and who treats her like shit most of the time – the latter of which seems aligned with Laurel's history of being attracted to men who treat her like shit, which is another subject Dinah would rather not dwell on to keep her blood pressure in check. Not that Dinah can use any of this evidence as definitive proof that Laurel is, in fact, straight seeing as the same could be said of her.

In so far as her friends-slash-teammates know, she has only dated men when that is not quite the truth. In college she had several experimental hook ups with hot coeds from other sororities, one of whom was a steady girlfriend for nearly a year whose name was Lynne. It was Lynne who helped Dinah sort through the mess of her emerging identity to figure out she was actually bisexual and not simply going through a phase. Since then she has primarily dated men since that is her preference, but she has slept with a few women in between boyfriends, the most recent a one night stand in Hub City right before Oliver Queen interrupted her misguided quest for vengeance. That said, Laurel has been the first she's thought of the way she did Lynne, and even then the comparison is lacking. What she feels for Laurel rivals how she felt about Vince when he stopped being her undercover partner and became her lover. And that frightens Dinah so badly that every time the thought crosses her mind she panics and quickly stuffs down all of those complicated feelings Laurel provokes.

Sucking in a breath through her teeth, she lets it out slowly to compose herself before giving a more rational response. "I mean...I know her, yes. We work together. We're also friends. Of a sort. I just..." she trails off into a sigh. "Look, it's complicated. And not that it's any of your business but I was worried about her. She took off from work early, which she never does, and then abandoned a case really important us both. Seeing as she has a penchant for self-destruction, here I am."

After a contemplative hum, Marv nods to himself. "So she is some sort of bigwig politician."

"How do you figure that?"

Marv chuckles drolly. "Ain't hard to figure out. To be workin' with a police captain – got that from your badge by the way – she has to either be a cop or someone real important. And she ain't no cop. Heard her let loose some salty language about some of y'all. Don't leave much else possible. Lawyer, I'm guessin'. No, wait." He snaps his fingers again, eyes alighting. "Now I know why I though she looked so damn familiar. She's the D.A. ain't she? What's her name? Laura? Laurel! That's it. Laurel Lance. Well. I'll be damned."

The expression of utter amazement upon Marv's face is mirrored in Dinah's. "You and me both buddy," she says, taking a pause to process all she's learned. That Laurel has been volunteering at a homeless shelter for the past two weeks. That while still her sassy self, the Laurel that threaded in so seamlessly into the upper echelons of Star City society just as fluidly accommodated to the acclaim-repellent, elbow-grease-required strata of the most humble of the most humble that the mass production and low human value culture of America can produce. Laurel has also made another and even more drastic transformation in shedding the cold, calculating, vicious skin of Black Siren only to casually adopt the fully functional, productive citizen persona of the woman so beloved by so many a statue was built in her honor as if it were no big deal at all. All taken together, her series of adaptations is in Dinah's estimation an accomplishment of which few aside from the most elite social chameleons can boast.

All of that begs the question: who is the real Laurel Lance? And that is a question to which Dinah has no answer except to say she is dying to find out. Laurel is a jigsaw puzzle with a million jumbled up, radically disparate pieces spilled out before her as if to taunt that part of her brain that craves a challenge. Solving the unsolvable was one of many reasons she decided to become a cop after serving her enlistment in the Marine Corps, and there aren't many she's encountered that have her more vexed – and more invested – than Laurel.

As much as she would love to say that was the only reason she's out here in the tit-freezing cold talking to a complete stranger, her heart is not absent of engagement in the mystery of Laurel, either. Something about Laurel has tugged at Dinah's heartstrings for a long time now, since far earlier than their detente to aid Felicity's quest to exact vengeance upon the Dragon and the subsequent cooperation to free Oliver from prison. Maybe it was watching a shell-shocked daughter silently grieve when Quentin died while maintaining a facade of strength in support of a sister she didn't even know. Or maybe it was watching her, with Quentin's devoted fatherly guidance, slowly but surely step out of the inky blackness she inhabited out into the light of a nascent dawn and prove one day, one act, one speech at a time that there really was a fleshly, beating heart in her chest capable of great warmth that courses with red blood that bleeds like every one else upon the infliction of a wound. Or maybe, just maybe, it was getting to know the woman behind the innumerable masks and finding her to be as infinitely interesting, and surprisingly funny and charming on top of that, as the projections she offers up to the world to protect a heart that is far more fragile than she could ever bear to admit. Whatever the cause, there is no denying that Laurel has – probably without even trying – slipped past Dinah's own inner defenses and taken up residence in a place precious few have ever occupied.

"So, is she still here?" Dinah asks after deciding she best not think too much longer about this lest she become unnerved and tuck tail to run for the hills. Which is distinct possibility as scary as these unfurling feelings for Laurel are.

As if ignorant of her internal turmoil, Marv nods sharply, then indicates back toward the building with his head. "Yep. You'll find her inside. In the kitchen probably. Or out serving. Dinner ran over 'cause she got here a little late. All she did, wasn't right to start without her. Worth the wait though. Prime eatin' in there."

"Glad to hear it." Dinah means that in more than one way, though she declines commenting along those lines out of curiosity as to why Marv here is out in the cold with her instead inside and warm tucking into some dessert or something. "By the way, why aren't you inside? Gotta be better than freezing your ass off out here, especially if the food is as good as you said it was."

In response, Marv grins as he gives his belly a satisfied rub. "Already been through the line. I'm stuffed, and it can get loud in there, so I came out for some peace and quiet. Besides, it's a nice evenin'. I'm from New York, ya know. This cold reminds me of home."

"Missouri here by way of St. Louis." Select few outside of Team Arrow know that about Dinah, and that prompts her to wonder why she feels so comfortable sharing it with a total stranger. There is just something about Marv that she can't quite put her finger on. Something familiar. Hmm. "Gotta say, I don't miss the winters down there and they're a far cry from what y'all get in New York," she then adds as she studies the older gentlemen, noting his features remind her a bit of her grandfather, which satisfies that pique of curiosity for the time being.

"Yeah," says Marv, one corner of his lips quirking up just like Laurel's do – a ridiculous comparison that comes out of left field and is swiftly dismissed by Dinah. "But it ain't Christmas less it's cold, you've been fed like a prince, and you're with family. Guess two outta three ain't too bad for a washed up old vet."

Dinah's heart goes out to Marv. She knows the loneliness of having no roots left to speak of worth contacting this time of year. An only child of two only children, her mother's death the year she enlisted signaled the end of any familial obligations. So she cut clean after her discharge, moved to Central and never looked back. Thankfully she has since discovered a new family in Star City, one she did not inherit but chose of her own volition. Also known as the best kind of family.

"Not bad at all. I don't have any family left either. Gotta take what you can get around the holidays, right? Also, you're not all washed up. You figured my rank out with a single glance at my shield."

"My eyes still work. It's the rest of me that don't. And no offense, Cap, but that question you asked me earlier can apply to you, too. What the hell're you doin' standin' out here in the cold yappin' with an old geezer like me? Didn't you come here for a reason?"

Brow raised at his cheek, Dinah nonetheless shifts nervously from side to side. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did. Just..."

"Not what you expected to find, eh?" Marv interjects, rich green eyes twinkling in amusement. "Looks like your girl's got some surprises up her thousand buck sleeves."

"That she does. And I told you, she's not my girl."

Marv chuckles amiably at the denial that rings hollow to them both despite it being the truth. Laurel may not be her girl, but Dinah is increasingly becoming aware of the fact that she wants her to be.

"Yea, sure," he says. "Keep tellin' yourself that, Cap, maybe some day you'll convince yourself." Abruptly he shifts on his cinder block throne, clears his throat, and just like that Dinah knows the conversation is about to be over. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to enjoy a few minutes of that peace and quiet I came out here to get before I go back in and rejoin the rabble."

Dinah holds her hands up in surrender, recognizing the dismissal not as a suggestion but as the command that it is. "Alright. Message received." Unwilling to depart just yet for the fondness for this man she has so swiftly developed, she hesitates for a second as her analytic brain sifts through various potential scenarios in which they might meet again. For a variety of reason, not the least of which is statistical probability, most of them aren't good. "Listen," she says after the silence stretches out too long, causing Marv to arch a brow impatiently. "Stay out of trouble, you hear? I don't wanna see you in my station for any reason. Got it?"

Her reply is a mock salute and an equally sardonic, "Sure, boss. No need to worry, though. I don't got any plans to get locked up until at least the New Year. But I'll be sure to target your precinct if I change my mind just for the repeat pleasure of your company."

Recognizing the joke at her expense, Dinah rolls her eyes and quips, "In that case I'll keep the cell warm I reserve for unrepentant smart asses," before swirling to beat a hasty retreat. Back at the alley entry, she veers in the wrong direction only to be course corrected by Marv's consequent shout of, "Hey, Cap? That's the wrong way to the door, ya know." Dinah does know. She was just too damn nervous and uncertain all of a sudden to go through with confronting Laurel about her unexpected injection of the Christmas Spirit. Apparently being called out for her cowardice by a down-on-his-luck vet is the cure for that malady. Straightening her shoulders, she nods her appreciation at a man who in such a small span of time made such a large impression upon her.

"My bad," she calls back. "Thanks!"

She can see Marv's cheesy, smug grin even in the low light afforded by the street lamps and the single outside fixture attached to the outer wall of the shelter. And she certainly has no problem hearing his reply.

"You're welcome! Now, stop lyin' to yourself, march inside there and do what you gotta do to get your girl and make this a Christmas to remember."

To her astonishment and a degree of elation she has not experience since she in High School, Dinah does not bother to correct him this time. In light of all the revelations she experienced tonight about herself and Laurel, along with Marv's timely encouragement just now, clarity descends upon her with an intensity that cannot be denied. For far too long she has been too terrified – albeit for oh-so-many very good reasons – to directly confront the undeniable reality that she is falling in love with Laurel. And instead of inciting a panic that will derail the astounding progress she has made in the process of a single conversation with a man with whom she has only just become acquainted, instead of making her want to run away as fast as her legs will carry her, it does the exact opposite.

Against all rational explanation, and wildly contrary to how she felt on seconds ago, all Dinah wants to do right now is run straight to Laurel. So that's precisely what she does.

#dctv #fanfic #arrow fanfic #arrow #dinah drake #laurel lance #dinah x laurel #laurel x dinah #aka Dinahmite! #or: #dinahsiren #christmas #i may or may not throw together cover art for this #probably not tho cause I'd have to hurry and I am not good with manips #see my post history for proof

[sonicanary]

10 Underused Character Questions

Introduction -

Name:   Dinah Laurel Lance. Age:   16 -  39, verse dependent. Your favorite picture of your muse’s FC:

Questions -

What would be their Twitter name? What sorts of Tweets would they tweet?

Dinah is technophobe, meaning that at first she would be pretty reluctant to use it. She knows what is it though, it’s VERY popular so she knows. I don’t think she would have one in my opinion, or maybe one as chairwoman of the JLA, like for business purpose & I’m not even sure she would be the one updating it, aka my eyes look at Babs Gordon. 

but also her name ? if it was for fun, it would be @/dinahmite ! & if it was JLA business, @/BlackCanary, very simple, because it has to be official. 

What’s their favorite genre of movies? Of music?

Dinah is big on tv & cinema. She enjoys it a lot. She likes good thrillers, action & paranormal stuff, so Black Mirror is definitely on the list, Stranger Things too. Also she doesn’t mind cheesy stuff. 

As for her taste in music, it’s safe to say she’s someone who enjoys Rock & Metal & vintage songs. For example she’s a huge fan of AC/DC, Rolling Stones, Metallica... but she loves the Beatles too. She’s not very picky but that’s her jam. 

What’s on their top queue on Netflix?

Alias, because Sydney Bristow is literally her own life. Like I said, Black Mirror, Stranger Things, but also Star Wars, big fan, also Witcher. 

What’s their favorite scent? Do they smell like that?

Vanilla. It smells like food. & no, she definitely smells like a mix of flowers because she lives upstairs her flower shop.

Apple or Android?

I think she has a flip phone. 

Favorite Season? Least favorite season?

Dinah loves summer. She finally can wear her pretty floral dresses & don’t freeze while wearing her fishnets. 

Are they a bottom or top or versatile?

A top versatile. Meaning that she will top 90% of the time, but she also really likes when her partner shows how much they love her. 

Describe their morning routine. Do they wake up early or sleep in? Do they press the snooze button a bunch of times or do they immediately get up?

Dinah is NOT a morning person. First, for the simple reason that she goes to bed very very late, or early in the morning.& yes, if she set an alarm, she would smash that thing. However she never does it because she sleeps in through the day & starts breakfast around 5pm. 

Finish this sentence, muse : “What would ____ do ____ ”

“ What would Babs do ? Yeah let’s to the opposite.” 

tagged by : @musecrimes​

tagging : whoever wants to do it ! 

#♪ headcanon ↭ let me think of something better

[foxofthedesert]

A Dinahmite Collection, Pt. 2

A Dinahmite Time of Day: Morning (AO3 LINK)

Laurel loves morning. Always has. When she was a kid, she would bounce out of bed, giddy and brimming with excitement for another day of instructive adventure with her Mom or for the many silly and fun activities of little to no redeeming value her Dad preferred. Her parents used to call her Morning Glory because they couldn't remember her ever waking up without a smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eye. Throughout school ages, she would wake up full of anticipation to learn something new, which made her Mom so proud to have inculcated such a passion for knowledge in her daughter. When her Mom died, and even at her lowest point after her Dad's death, she would still arise full of energy until realization of her losses drained it all away.

The joy of a new day returned in earnest upon reinventing herself as Black Siren. There was an addictive quality to waking to the dangerous thrill of the world being one's playground singing through her veins. Only the euphoria of actually enacting her fantasies of violent revenge and inciting mayhem could equal the high of them being the very first thing that popped into her mind upon being roused by the rising of the sun. Breakfast was infinitely more savory and her morning shower more refreshing while plotting out nefarious schemes that normally involved mass destruction or indiscriminate killing or a tasty mix of both. And the morning after a successful venture? Well, that was an occasion arousing enough to start the day of the absolute best way possible.

Though life is very different for Laurel now in the wake of her reemergence into civilization and she is encumbered by weighty responsibilities that she could not have handled less than a year ago, her love for morning has never wavered. In fact, it is stronger than ever before seeing as her job, while stressful as all hell on a good day, fulfills and challenges her in unexpected ways every single day. Serving as District Attorney for an area the size of Star City affords her ample opportunity to finally put that passion for learning her mother instilled in her to good use. And while the joy of a productive and profoundly meaningful career is incomparable to the titillation of evil deeds, the distinction has no negative connotation. Strangely enough, putting bad people like she used to be behind bars has healed a lot of the scarring left behind from her father being murdered for trying to do the same.

More than anything else, though, Laurel loves mornings because of Dinah. Used to when she had a lover sleep over, she immediately left them in bed upon waking – she is always the first up – and went on about her daily rituals until they roused. At which time she would thank them with a complimentary kiss or maybe breakfast depending on how well they performed, or if they did not quite measure up to her high standards be promptly shown the door. With Dinah, she has started up a new, far more pleasant and entertaining routine.

You see, Dinah is an unpredictable creature whose reaction to waking can never be accurately gauged before the event occurs. Some mornings she'll jerk awake with a gasp, eyes huge and flitting frantically about their bedroom, chest heaving as she recovers from a nightmare that quickly evaporates into the ether as her senses reactivate. There are sadly a lot of nightmares. Dinah has seen a lot of heinous shit in her life – that some of it was perpetrated by Laurel herself certainly puts a temporary damper on her morning enthusiasm. Other mornings Dinah will growl angrily and get incrementally combative as Laurel persistently pats at her hip, tickles the shell of her ear, or lightly scratches at her back or shoulder to irritate her awake since she's slept through the alarm again. Invariably, that amusing tendency of Dinah's to sleep like the dead will be blamed on Laurel as they rush out the door – both of them late for work because for whatever reason Laurel has all sorts of trouble forcing herself out of their apartment so long as Dinah is still inside – for either 'deviously manipulating' her to stay up too late watching TV or for having exhausted her the night before during naked fun time. Laurel just grins, making sure her dimples are really prominent, and wears Dinah's grumpiness like a badge of honor.

The best mornings of all are when Dinah comes awake slow and easy. On their sides facing one another, with a drowsy smile turning up those luscious lips, she'll just lie there gazing at Laurel through hooded eyes for the longest time, all languid and content, in no rush to leave the cocoon of warmth and comfort that is their bed. Once the haze of sleepiness has dissipated enough to formulate thoughts that can then be expressed intelligibly, she'll greet Laurel with a huskily whispered, "Hi," and then prove unable to resist temptation to indulge her affectionately tactile nature. Soft hands will start to wander then, growing braver by the second. Laurel only ever lies still, studying Dinah's face as fingertips trace her jawline and nose and lips, or a smooth palm slides down her bare arm only to change course and then snake beneath the hem of her tank top where it dances over her abs or caresses the small of her back. When Dinah is feeling especially frisky, she'll start her hand on Laurel's knee, work it slowly up her thigh massaging and stroking a path to the threshold of her boxers, only to then sneak under into dangerous territory. On mornings like that when they're invariably running late by the time they're ready for work, Laurel leaves the apartment looking like the Siren that ate the Canary, which doesn't even bother Dinah because she floats all the way downstairs to her government issued sedan.

Whether there is hanky panky or not, Laurel wouldn't trade a single morning with Dinah for a thousand with anyone else. There is not a single soul who better understands her than Dinah and is yet able to love her in spite of her innumerable and acute flaws. Nobody except Dinah can make her heart flutter and flood with delicious warmth from just holding her hand or kissing her forehead or saying those three little words just because. Only Dinah can, with a single coy glance or a breathy utterance of her name, cause her brain to furiously flick the fight or fuck switch to the down position. And Dinah alone inspires her to be a better person by simply being herself. There is only one Dinah Miriam Drake, which makes Dinah Laurel Lance the luckiest bitch on the entire planet. Hell, on any planet – including the insane number of alternate Earths.

So yeah. Laurel loves mornings. Who wouldn't in her position?

#dctv #fanfiction #arrow #arrow fanfiction #laurel lance #dinah drake #laurel x dinah #dinah x laurel #aka Dinahmite! #or if you insist: #dinahsiren #laurel likes mornings #don't blame her!

[foxofthedesert]

A DinahSiren (aka Dinahmite!) comics manip inspired by this post by @johnsconstantine.  Set some indeterminate time in the future.

Laurel is obsessing over the Star City Slasher case and needs to get her hands on an old case file to track down a hunch.  Only she can’t ask Dinah seeing as they’re married and that would not only mean abusing her wife’s trust but putting Dinah in a potentially dangerous position.  All the other Precinct captains have been stonewalling her, which leads her to suspect they are either corrupt or terrified of someone far more powerful than they are.  Involving Dinah is a no-go, so in typical Laurel fashion she decides she’s going to take matters into her own hands and hijack what she needs directly from the SCPD evidence locker.

#dctv #arrow #laurel lance #dinah drake #laurel x dinah #dinah x laurel #aka dinahmite! #or: #dinahsiren #inspired by a comics panel post by johnsconstantine #link provided above

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

Part 2 – The Approach (click to read on AO3)

After wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, Laurel unties the bandanna keeping her hair back, folds it up, then uses it to dry off her face.  She takes a deep breath to collect her composure having just served a particularly ungrateful misanthrope.  It’s hot as hell in the kitchen and now she is irritated beyond belief, so to curtail an early exit stage left requires internally reciting the reason she is here at all.  A promise is a promise, after all.

Two weeks ago she was driving through the Triangle on her way home for a change of scenery when she passed one of Star City’s many homeless shelters.  Only it wasn’t just any homeless shelter to her but a thorny reminder of a bygone era in her life she rarely reminisces about.  Unable to curtail the onrush of memories, she maneuvered her car into the lot on autopilot, got out, and was through the front doors before she realized what she was doing.  By the time she regained any sense of control, she had been spotted by a staff member, a tiny black lady whose stature belied an enormous character, and could not beat a hasty retreat without making herself look like a damned fool.  So she stuck around a while to chat with the nice lady, Brenda, whom she assumed was in charge of intake but turned out to be the director of the shelter.  Big mistake.  Within five minutes Brenda had unraveled the phony story she hastily cooked up to explain her presence and had her confessing the real reason she was unable to resist visiting.  She kept her identity a secret, of course, but that did not prevent her from regurgitating some excruciating parts of her history and volunteering half an hour later to drop by every evening after work to help prepare the place for Christmas.

That first night, Laurel was nothing more than a frenetic ball of anxiety as she helped organize supplies and pick out which of the gaudy decorations were fit to put on display.  Being in the shelter brought back a lot of good memories, but it also unearthed a lot of bad ones.  It was nigh on impossible to avoid the ghosts of yesteryear lurking in every nook and cranny of a building that so resembled one she once temporarily called home.  She almost bolted for the door several times after getting spooked by a nasty neurological memento only for a resident to trundle by, toss her a friendly or gruff greeting, and in doing so remind her who she was doing this for and what it might mean to them.  Through sheer will and determination, she made it the whole night without saying or doing anything unforgivably stupid, which she counted as a major victory.  The satisfied smile present on her face as she exited the building around midnight was still there when she breezed into her relatively lavish apartment, only to fade upon realizing how fucking lucky she is to have so much when she deserves so little.  That night, curled up on her couch with a quarter-filled tumbler of whiskey and a heart laden with self-loathing, she made a promise to herself, and to one specific ghost of her past, that she would retroactively earn some of that good luck bestowed upon her by being selfless for once in her miserable life.

After that, going back to the shelter got much easier.  All the motivation she needed could be derived from one simple fact: if it weren’t for one woman’s compassion and a father’s love she would be dead twice over.  So she made good on her promise, by God, and strode into the shelter with her head held high, her back straight, and her hands ready to work.  By the third night, the staff all treated her as if she were one of them while the residents often regarded her with a gratitude that resonated down into her bones.  Ever since, she’s arrived exactly at 6:30 pm with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, ready to labor in the hope of making this Christmas the best yet for these unfortunate, downtrodden, and disregarded citizens of Star City.  Honestly, she’s enjoyed it so much she has promised to keep dropping by when she can to help out and has also already pledged to work both Thanksgiving and Christmas next year.  Being here, doing something magnanimous for people with little hope and poor prospects for the future during the season they need it most, has given her a renewed purpose outside of her day job; it has also inspired her to want better things for herself than the lonely, perfunctory existence she has occupied since assuming her deceased doppelganger’s identity.

If only Quentin could see me now.  I think he might actually be proud.  The thought creates equal measures of warmth and pain in Laurel’s heart.  

Except for her Ollie, her father – both of them – was the only person who ever unconditionally believed in her.  Her pregnant mother died in an auto accident when she was young and everyone else judged her for her many glaring flaws.  Herself included, since it was her fault her father was shot to death interrupting a robbery in progress while out late at a 7/11.  He’d been out late buying her a carton of ice cream after much extravagant pleading from a daughter that couldn’t see past the end of her own nose and whose only concern was that her craving for mint chocolate chip be immediately gratified.  She was a fifteen-going-on-sixteen year old Daddy’s girl and used that to her advantage to ply him into submission, fully aware that he was tired and probably shouldn’t have even been driving.  She has never forgiven herself for the role she played in that senseless tragedy.

Since then, Laurel has not held much concern for the opinions of others.  In the wake her father and Ollie dying within six months of one another, every single day for her was a fight for survival.  With no other family to speak of, she was sent to live in a state facility for a while, then bounced around foster families who had little patience for a rebellious teenager who was always angry at everything and everyone.  By the time she graduated high school at seventeen, which was more due to her intellectual capacity than her studious ethic, she was so done with the system and humanity in general.  Her GPA got her into college on a scholarship, but a year later she was living in the streets and fighting every chance she got.  Not long after that, he sunk his gnarly claws into her, and within a matter of weeks she was hooked on heroin and all but a slave to a deranged, depraved, maniacal druglord who systematically broke her in body, mind, and spirit.  When she got free of him and got clean, she proceeded to burn every last bridge on her home Earth in a wave of fantastic violence that crescendoed with the emergence of Black Siren.  With nothing left to live for at home, she jumped at the chance to start over on this Earth when Zoom invaded.

Unlike most of the people Laurel knows on her Earth, she does not blame the people here for hating her.  She has more than earned their ire, even expected it and welcomed it for the most part.  From Dinah especially, and strangely enough her hatred had hurt the most – far more than enduring Ollie’s hypocritical derision.  She has only recently discovered why, though the reason matters little when the chances of anything coming of it are about the same as Felicity managing to resist filling silence with inane babble for more than ten seconds.

The only real surprise on this Earth was Quentin’s stubborn inability to let her slip through his grasp and his irrational faith that there was something inside of her worth saving.  He was the only one that saw a spark of decency still smoldering rebelliously within her, and that is counting her own opinion.  She had convinced herself she was essentially the walking dead, an empty shell of a woman flitting through life stealing and killing and fucking with casual indifference because her heart was nothing but a shriveled up knot seething with infinite pools of concentrated misery and incendiary hatred.  Quentin proved her wrong.  And he did it to the cries of foul play from those he cared about the most.  His investment in her woke something up that she honestly thought had been permanently extinguished.  He made her want to try to make something worthwhile of her life, even convinced her that it was possible she could be good again, ridiculous as that seemed.  It is for him that she turned her back on her old life.  For him...and for Dinah.

Laurel still has no idea how it happened that Dinah Drake was the first to venture into the newly reopened vaults of her heart.  There is every possibility it was because Dinah was able to forgive her for something unforgivable, something Laurel has yet to forgive herself for.  Vinnie’s death was so pointless and avoidable, so wrong that even as she was screaming his brains into mush, guilt began to take hold.  Sometimes when she’s lying in bed in the dark with her eyes closed, she can still hear Dinah’s helpless screams and see the immense love for her pouring out of Vinnie in a desperate bid to comfort the lover who would have to grieve him a second time having just got him back.  If Dinah had done that to Laurel’s Ollie, there is no chance she would have ditched the mission for vengeance without having achieved it or died in the process.  Yet for Quentin’s sake, that is exactly what Dinah did.  And she did not stop there.  Dinah has not only abandoned seeking retribution but has generously offered clemency for the highly personal crime committed against her that Laurel gratefully accepted.  But the greatest of all miracles in that fucked up situation is that Dinah actually cares about her as a person and that the feeling is fully reciprocated.  

Which brings up the other, even scarier, alternative explanation to Dinah’s taking up residence in Laurel’s every waking thought.  That she let Dinah in because of the impossible crush she’d been nursing for the Black Canary since their introduction.  

Outside of Sara, no one on this Earth is aware that she is bisexual.  Well, sort of. She has a hard time pinning down her sexuality, really, when she is mostly attracted to men and a limited subset of women.  Very limited. When she confessed that to Sara, her newly acquired sister just laughed and said the exact reverse was true for her, and that Laurel’s tastes jived with the memory of her beloved sibling, who apparently experimented in college – terribly cliché as that is – with the exact same rival sorority member Laurel had a two year long relationship with.

“Funny enough,” Sara added with a contemplative expression, “Josie had the same attitude, body type, hair color, skin tone, eerily similar facial features and voice timbre of someone we know.  Wanna guess who?”

Laurel hadn’t needed to guess since she knew.  The second the name Josie was uttered, she had made the same connection.  And though she found the comparison to Earth-Prime Laurel uncomfortable, more disconcerting was the revelation that they both harbored uncanny attractions for women that look and act exactly like Dinah Drake.  For Sara’s sake she smiled and cut a joke that fell a little flat, and then was oh-so-thankful when she was not called out for ducking the obvious inference.  But that isn’t Sara’s way.  No, no.  Sara’s way is sending snail mail from 1969.  And 1971.  And ‘84.  And ‘91.  And ‘93.  And ‘97.  And ‘01.  And ‘04.  All of the packages feature a different photo of Laurel gazing at Dinah with moon eyes that Laurel cannot figure out how Sara is getting.  And that’s not all.  Along with the clandestine snaps are included selfies of Sara – and sometimes Ava – making exaggerated kissy faces and, last but not least, an annoying, hastily scrawled note taunting her about a certain bodacious police captain.  One of the notes rather charmingly read: When u gonna woman the fuck up & make a move? Not gettin’ younger here & I need nieces & nephews 2 spoil rotten.  Get busy already dumbass!  

“When, indeed, Sara,” Laurel had replied to her empty apartment just last night. The answer, sadly, is likely never.  What she and Dinah have is far too fragile for her to risk it on such a bold move, even if she does want to as badly as she wanted to ask Ollie to run away with her to Vegas when they turned eighteen.  Also, she is fairly certain Dinah doesn’t swing that way.  Which is tragic all on it’s own, because that is a woman who deserves to be worshiped and Laurel can’t think of any man who would be suitable to the task.

So, instead of upsetting the apple cart, Laurel contents herself with the status quo.  Bantering with Dinah may be as close as she ever gets to a lover’s quarrel and a tentative touch of their hands as near as she’ll ever be to a kiss, but she’ll take it.  For her, just having the privilege of being in Dinah’s life is enough.

“Yo, Dinah, lookin’ hot back there, and I don’t just mean the outfit.”

The wry grin of one of Laurel’s favorite residents, a jokester named Lewis, catches her coming out of her thoughts.  Unperturbed his usage of her given name, which she uses here for privacy, she wipes her moist hands off on her black jeans, smooths down her red blouse, and gives him a cheeky grin.  

“You don’t say,” she says.  “Tell you what, I’ll trade sides.  You can have the heat and I’ll eat the food.  From what I heard, the sweet potato casserole is on point this year.”

“True that,” says Lewis.  “Jordie was singin’ its praises to Larissa when I passed by.  Which is why I’ll have to decline your generous offer.”

Jordie and Larissa are Lewis’s friends, or as close to that as anyone can get in a shelter.  They are always found in each other’s company when present within the facility, as beyond being friends they are all the same twenty-six years of age and all recently recovering addicts who are staying at the shelter while they look for jobs.  While Lewis is the resident comedian, Jordie is a talented musician who often sings and tickles the ivories of the upright piano donated to the shelter or plays his beat up acoustic guitar while Larissa – a sweetheart who fell into the wrong crowd and suffered dearly for her mistake – accompanies him with angelic pipes that belong in some saintly choir. Strangely enough Laurel took an instant liking to the three, which is why she stuck her neck out to get them all work.  Larissa was due to start her new job at a little mom and pop Laundromat down the street in February while Jordie and Lewis have yet to hear from the public construction foreman Laurel spoke to on their behalf.  

“Aww. That’s too bad,” she replies to Lewish, then pauses to lean in conspiratorially.  “Say.  Did Jordie ever hear back from that foreman about the job he applied for?”

Lewis’s entire countenance lights up as if he were the Christmas tree she helped decorate.  “Sure did.  He got it.  I got on there, too, actually. We start week after New Years.”

Laurel cannot contain a genuine smile.  “That’s great, Lew!  I’m really happy for you both.  Larissa, too”

“Thanks, D.” Lewis shrugs bashfully, toeing the linoleum flooring.  “I, uh, I also wanted to say thanks for puttin’ in a word for us.”

Rather than fess up to her role in getting three people jobs who actually deserve them, Laurel playfully narrows her eyes at Lewis and adopts her official District Attorney pose.  “Who said I did any such thing?”

“A little birdie.”

“Does that little birdie happen to have a name?”

“Sure does. Funny thing, that.  Her name’s Dinah, too.”

Quite unexpectedly, Laurel’s heart skips a beat just like it does just about every time she hears that name.  And while she knows it’s unlikely he is referring to her Dinah – when did Dinah become hers for that matter? – all the same she hopes against hope that he is.  Dinah being here would make an already damn good evening a perfect one.

“Oh?” she asks, brow quirked inquisitively to hide her sudden bout of nerves. “When did you talk to this other Dinah?”

“Tonight,” says Lewis, causing Laurel’s heart to stutter once more.  He then goes on to point in the opposite direction from where they are standing.  “Actually, she’s right over there.”

When Laurel follows his extended arm and index finger out of the kitchen and across the cafeteria, her breath catches and her muscles seize up and her high brain functions momentarily cease.  There, leaning nonchalantly against a bare metal support post, is Dinah Drake in all of her standard work attire glory, looking like a perfect ten model torn out of some professional chic magazine with her hair in tumbling curls and wearing a snazzy charcoal gray pantsuit with a red Oxford buttoned almost to the top.  As if drawn to one another by invisible strings, their eyes lock across the distance.  And as Dinah’s gaze bores into Laurel’s very soul, heat begins to rise through her chest, up through the column of her throat, and then spreads into her cheeks, turning them a similar shade to the cranberry sauce she was should have placed on Lewis’s plate two minutes ago.

“I’ll, uh, make myself scarce,” Lewis says after a moment, chuckling a bit at her star-struck expression.  “Thanks again, D.  And, uh, word of advice?  Don’t keep the lady waitin’.  Dinner’s almost done bein’ served, so I think the fine folks here can handle things.”

“Listen at Lewis, all wise and shit for a change,” chimes in Brenda, a mid-fifties former bank manager whose brother found life-saving refuge in this very shelter.  When Laurel doesn’t respond, Brenda gives her an encouraging nudge.  “He’s right, though.  Go on, girl.  Go say hello to your woman.”

Laurel cannot summon the words to correct the assumption, nor would she lend them voice if she could.  Like the scene from some sappy Holiday movie one would watch on Hallmark Movie Channel, the Spirit of Christmas has, in that one visual exchange between herself and Dinah, invaded her brain and her heart and conveniently erased every reason she’s ever come up with to remain in denial about how she feels for the stubborn, compassionate, brilliant woman who has given her so many new reasons to strive for becoming the best version of herself possible.  All she can think right now is how beautiful Dinah is, how her eyes glitter even in the bland lighting of the shelter, and how her smile makes Laurel’s heart start to gallop like Secretariat turned loose at the Belmont.

So she nods, wordlessly passes off Lewis’s tray to Brenda, then makes her way over to Dinah on legs that seem far less sturdy than they did a few seconds ago.  The thirty yards separating them feel more like a mile as she weaves through the crowded cafeteria.  No one dares speak to her, as if they also are cognizant of whatever mystical forces are at play tonight to bring Dinah here of all places and are thus unwilling to break the spell that has descended on them.

Stopping short of Dinah’s position, Laurel loiters uncertainly, a bit confused as to Dinah’s presence but mostly enthralled by it.  This has been happening more and more often whenever she spends time with Dinah.  A moment will happen between them sort of like this, and Laurel will just go dumb, like a kid called on by her teacher for an answer the first minute of the first class of the first day back at school after summer vacation.  It’s like her brain turns into goo or something, rendering her unable to interact like a normal human being. Actually...it sort of reminds of her of how she used to get around Ollie after puberty hit and she realized her best friend was seriously hot.

“Well, are you just gonna stand there staring or what?” Dinah asks, looking terribly amused by Laurel’s inability to speak.

“Huh?” Startled out of her stupor, Laurel quickly stuffs her hands into her pockets to conceal their trembling.

Rather than take pity upon her, Dinah smirks.  “I thought you might be coming over here to invite me to join the festivities.  You know, since I came all the way down here.”

That last bit provokes a question Laurel’s restored brain cannot pass up vocalizing.  “Why are you here?”

Frowning, Dinah glances around the cafeteria at the many people enjoying a relative feast.  “You really wanna get into that here and now?”

Laurel mentally chastises herself for being an idiot.  “No.  No, you’re right.  Sorry.  Still working on that whole manners thing.  Please, come back to the kitchen and I’ll have Brenda fix you a plate.” As she expects, Dinah politely turns her down.

“Nah, I’m good.  Don’t wanna take away from anyone here when I got plenty back home in my fridge.  That said...” she starts to shuck her jacket as she goes on, “I am handy around a kitchen.  Wouldn’t mind pitching in to clean up.  Whatever I can do, just point me in a direction.”

That is an offer Laurel is not about to refuse.  Clean up at an even like this is an ordeal, and they are already one short since Jeremy’s daughter got sick and his wife had a prior commitment at an office party.  Poor thing begged him to stay home with her instead of foisting her off on a nanny.  Laurel overheard Brenda tell him on the phone that if he left that baby for one minute she would beat his ass with a rolling pin.  The threat was only half-joking, so Jeremy obviously stayed home.

“Well, in that case, follow me,” Laurel says.  “Let me warn you, though. You might have just made five lifelong fans ‘cause of the job that’s ahead.”

Dinah returns a secretive smile.  “One fan’s all I need, and I have a feeling I already hooked her...”

The comment slams into Laurel like a sledgehammer, and she all but welcomes the delightful pain.  Is it possible I was wrong about her?  Could she really feel the same as I do?  The possibility is so thrilling she feels her extremities begin to tingle in anticipation. 

“Someone’s confident.  I like it,” she says, rising to the occasion.  Laurel has never been one to back down, especially with Dinah.

“Enough to land me a nifty Christmas present?” Dinah replies, her pretty green eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light.

Laurel will never be able to explain the surge of bravery that hits her at this specific instant, only that it inspires her to take a chance that she is fully aware might blow up in her face in spectacular fashion.  But in the moment, all she can think is that Dinah is worth the risk. 

“Maybe. Guess you’ll have to find out later.  If you’re willing to drop by my place afterwards, that is.  Clean up around here can be stressful to say the least, so I won’t blame you if you wanna go home afterward.  But, I did make eggnog and ginger bread cookies. Old family recipes, too.”

To Laurel’s immense delight, Dinah does not reject the advance. Instead as she nods her assent, her cheeks bloom with color and she tucks a full bottom lip between her teeth.  They are the first visible signs that what is happening between them is affecting her as deeply as it is Laurel. 

“Plying me with sweets is known to be an effective tactic,” Dinah then says, “so I wouldn’t worry too much about having to bend my arm. Plus, I love eggnog.  Especially if it has alcohol.”

“It’s traditional Eirlikör, so it has rum in it.  Pretty damn tasty if I do say so myself.”

Truth be told it was the first time Laurel had made it, so she hadn’t expected much.  But she found the aged recipe in one of Quentin’s collections a couple days ago and recognized it as one that her father used to make their eggnog every year.  Nostalgia mixed with heartfelt sentimentality for a man whose love for her does not vary from world to world provided a cocktail she could not turn down.  To her delight, it turned out exactly as she remembered: creamy, thick, with a flavor sort of like custard with a hint of the rum’s vanilla and molasses notes.  In other words, it was fucking delicious and she has downed more than half of it already.  

Dinah hums appreciatively.  “Never had that before, but I like rum and as I said I love eggnog, so...”

“You won’t be disappointed then.  I promise.”  

Taking another chance, Laurel reaches out to touch Dinah’s arm right above the elbow and is pleased that the gesture is accepted and even reciprocated when Dinah lays her own hand atop Laurel’s.

Staring into Laurel’s eyes as intensely as she ever has, Dinah leans in a touch closer.  So close that Laurel can smell her coconut shampoo and the hint of hazelnut coffee on her breath.  

“I’ll hold you to that, Counselor,” Dinah says, voice little more than a whisper.  

A companionable silence falls between them then that they settle into with matching smiles, lips achingly close to touching, mesmerized by the tension of an attraction that has suddenly taken control of them both.  For the longest stretch they stand there, mutually enveloped in a warm aura that drowns out the noise of a crowded cafeteria and erases the bitter hurts between them and makes it seem like the two of them becoming an us is not as impossible as it originally seemed.

Sharp whistling and a few shouted encouragements for her to do what her heart is screaming at her to finally snaps them out of whatever spell just ensnared them and caused them to almost make a scene in public.

Flushing beet red, Laurel clears her throat before doing what she actually approached Dinah to do.  “So...how about I take you back to the kitchen and introduce you?”

Dinah nods, nibbles the corner of her lip, blushing as furiously as Laurel is.  “Sounds good.  Lead the way.”

Without further commentary, Laurel spins and begins weaving her way back through the cafeteria.  Once back inside the kitchen, she is greeted by a row of Cheshire grins.  In order from left to right there is: Lisa, a perpetually peppy twenty-something of Korean descent straight out of university; Wayne, a hulking slab of muscle with the biggest, softest heart around; Don, a silver-haired ex-Disc Jockey who; and Enrique, the epitome of Hispanic charm with his olive skin, luxurious black hair, suave smile, and panty-melting accent; and last but not least, the leader of this diverse pack of fascinating people, Brenda the fearless and the overprotective mother of forty-eight broken children.  All of these people look totally normal on the outside, while on the inside they each harbor hurts – either directly or indirectly – that lead them to dedicate their lives to others. Perhaps that is why Laurel felt so safe with them; they all know what it’s like to hide pain too acute to be expressed and have it marginalized or ignored altogether by family.  Don, for instance, retired to social work when his daughter went through a rough patch not terribly unlike Laurel’s.  Lisa’s father is still living on the streets of San Francisco; she visits him once every three months. Wayne was homeless for four years after he got out of the military, his PTSD having prevented him from holding down a job and his pride from seeking the help he so desperately needed.  Enrique’s story traces back to his native Spain, where he lost a brother to drugs, has a sister in jail for illegally prostituting herself, and whose mother exposed him to things no child ought to ever witness.  Laurel knows both sides of the coin, both the personal and familial battle with such demons.  While she was a victim, her father – like the Quentin of this Earth – was an alcoholic.  There are not many places she fits in the way she does here, which is why she has no intention of abandoning them once the Holidays are over.

That said, sharing a common background, they know how to push her buttons and get a way with it.  Like they are right now, when she can’t really retaliate.  She groans at the well meaning ribbing she is about to endure, knowing they will not cut her any slack due to their solid rapport – and their never having been introduced to Black Siren.  The only Laurel they know is the one who jokes around with them while doing laundry, gets filthy crawling through a tight utility space to rewire a faulty circuit, and sings off key along with Jordie and Larissa whenever they break out early era Dashboard Confessional tunes.  She cannot express in words how amazing it feels to be treated like a person and not a public persona, a degenerate monster, or a pale imitation of the deified woman whose life she now inhabits.  And for that, Laurel is eternally grateful.  Also, it buys the Happy Fun Time Gang – Wayne’s moniker for the staff that has now been extended to include Laurel – a lot of leeway with their teasing that pretty much no one else enjoys.

“I don’t want to hear a peep out of any of you miscreants!  I expect you all to be nice while our guest is around,” she says, eyeing them each in turn as if they are children.  They all ignore her, long used to her attitude.

“We’re always nice, sugar,” Brenda says with a wink, then turns her big brown eyes onto Dinah as she points a thumb in Laurel’s direction. “This one over here has convinced herself no matter where she goes she’s large and in charge.  But around these parts, we just think she’s a cute-pie.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dinah replies, unable to stifle a little giggle at their treatment of a woman who once inspired terror in the hearts of millions as Black Siren and commands power that few can rival as District Attorney of a city as large as theirs.  

It’s frankly a bit belittling and incredibly annoying for Laurel to have her fearsome reputation shredded in less than five seconds by five foot three inch distinguished looking lady with salt and pepper hair and a cherubic visage that could fool St. Peter into granting a mischievous imp entry past the pearly gates.  And she would be really upset if she wasn’t so enchanted by Dinah’s adorable giggling. And a little flabbergasted that Dinah might actually think it’s cute when she’s being bossy.  

“Oh, God, Brenda.  Please stop before I have zero credibility left,” Laurel groans again, which incites another round of giggles from Dinah.

“Settle down now, little miss thang,” retorts Brenda with a wave of her hand.  “Why don’t you introduce us to this lovely young lady who came to visit.”

Laurel jumps at the chance to end the affectionate harassment.  For someone so physically unassuming, Brenda has an eerie way of getting her to do whatever she wants.  

Taking in a deep breath, she lets it out with a whoosh.  “That is an excellent idea.”  She turns to Dinah, then gestures one at a time toward her new friends and colleague.  “Dinah, this is Brenda, Lisa, Wayne, Don, and Enrique.  They’re all full time employees here at the shelter.  Everyone, this is Dinah Drake, Captain of the SCPD’s distinguished Fifth Precinct.”

Lisa whistles loudly in astonishment, though not for the reason Laurel assumes.  “Another Dinah.  What are the odds?”

In the periphery, Laurel catches Dinah eyeing her sharply and freezes, and not so much out of fear of her secret getting out so much as she is worried Dinah will judge her for lying.  The quirky crew that have official adopted her have all been read in to her actual who she really is.  By her own choice.  Brenda knew from the outset, of course, but after a week of the rest of the gang making her feel so welcome and accepted, the thought continuing the charade, innocuous as it was, any longer made her sick to her stomach.  To their credit, finding out her true identity did not change their opinion of her in the slightest.  If anything, it only made them respect her more because they recognized the subterfuge as proof she was not acting on some ulterior motive to promote her career by volunteering her time and effort to the needy.  Whether or not Dinah sees things the same way is another matter entirely...  

“Apparently very good,” Dinah says after a second of staring a hole into the side of Laurel’s head.  The northward tilt that turns up the corner of her sinful lips indicates she is not displeased by the deception, which is a relief to Laurel, who lets out the breath she didn’t know she’s been holding.   “It’s good to meet you all,” Dinah continues, offering each of them her hand for a quick but firm shake.   She then points idly toward the front entrance.  “I talked to Marv a bit before I came in.  According to him, Laur – er, Dinah – here has been a real lifesaver these past two weeks.”

“Oh, honey.  You don’t know the half of it,” Brenda crows, ever quick to sing the praises of one of her people.  “That girl saved our hide so many times.  Saved it, I tell ya!”  Animated as always, she springs into action, corralling Dinah by the shoulder then guiding her deeper into the kitchen as she launches into a comical version of their coordinated planning of this event.

Brenda has this theatrical method of telling a story that either has everyone in stitches or in tears depending on the subject matter. Tonight is no different.  Within seconds she has Dinah eating out of the palm of her hand as she describes Laurel’s many contributions and a few misadventures that occurred along the way.  Laurel merely watches, bashfully amused by Brenda’s embellishments and besotted by Dinah’s carefree reactions to them.  

Not for the first time, as Dinah rolls up her sleeves to start washing dishes all the while laughing along with Laurel’s motley crew of lovable misfits, she gets the sense that this place is truly magical. That it isn’t just her who has experienced a renewed connection to life by stepping crossing the threshold into a building that is the definition of mundane to the naked eye but is teeming with the gritty, noble, tragic, and resilient essence of humanity and infused the full gamut of extreme emotions that the human condition has to offer.  That perhaps this Christmas is a portent of things to come, an announcement that the suffocating darkness that enshrouds Star City on a daily basis is not a permanent climate but merely a prolonged weather front that is at last about to recede to the majestic reappearance of a fresh springtime morning.  And maybe, just maybe, the joy that floods her heart, spills over, then suffuses her entire being is indicative that what is happening between this group of disparate individuals unified under a single purpose – and most importantly whatever wonderful sorcery is brewing between her and Dinah – doesn’t have to end when they all depart these monotone halls that have housed the best and the worst of mankind.  Something truly remarkable is binding them together, giving Laurel a feeling she can’t shake that whatever force is at play in this place is far from finished with the altruistic enterprise it began this otherwise ordinary Christmas.  And that’s just fine with her.

As the business of cleaning up after forty-eight famished souls kicks off in earnest, many other tales are told about her contributions to the shelter over the past few weeks.  Laurel blushes pretty much the entire time her coworkers gush, and when Dinah looks at her as if torn between wanting to hug or kiss her, it takes all of Laurel’s willpower not take matters into her own hands, which doesn’t help with the blushing one bit.  But she makes it through via sheer determination not to ruin her utterly reputation with Dinah.  Though, it might be a little late for that after each of the gang chime in with an embarrassing story.  As if she wasn’t already mortified enough by the time Enrique is done with his yarn about her accidentally repainting a section of the facility that was just done less than a year before, Don then delivers the coup de grâce with the story of the mouse crawling up her pant leg while she was in the attic working on repairing some faulty wiring.  If the twenty or so corroborating reports are to be believed, she may have screeched so loud she was heard two floors down.  As insensibly panicked as she was, it was a minor miracle she didn’t slip between rafters and fall through the sheet rock or activate her meta powers which would have caved in the roof.  Yeah.  That was not her most dignified moment.  Dinah eats the story up, though, and laughs at Don’s reenactment of the infamous shriek dancing until she is clutching her stomach as tears of merriment wet her cheeks.  Laurel gets the distinct impression that unfortunate if not objectively humorous incident will not be forgotten any time soon.  Not that she minds too much.  It’s nice to see Dinah so happy, even if it is at her expense.

Eventually, as with all things, the fun comes to an end.  It was fun, though, doing this with Dinah.  And sort of domestic, as if they were a couple who did stuff like this in their spare time because they could and should seeing as both of them have, to admittedly different degrees, trod the valleys of life then began the long toil back up the foreboding mountain of redemption.  As far as Laurel can tell, Dinah enjoys herself every bit as much if not more since she is the star of the day and is showered with copious amounts of attention she does appear unhappy to receive.  More than the break it gives Laurel not to be the new kid on the block, she truly enjoys watching Dinah blossom before her eyes.  Or maybe not blossom so much as rejuvenate having been exposed to the well fertilized soil of people who have zero political correctness, are utterly devoid of pretense, and are as real and receptive and forgiving and compassionate as any Laurel has ever met.  Whatever terminology would be most adequate, the effect is truly marvelous to behold.  Dinah at her most disheveled is the most beautiful creature she has ever laid eyes upon.  But tonight?  Oh, tonight she is more radiant than a Harvest Moon, more august than a blanket of stars on a clear summer night, and more brilliant than the southern equatorial Perihelion sun at midday.  For that reason alone, Laurel basically floats through the grueling process of returning the facility to proper working order.

It is nearly half past ten when the final table is swiped down and the last folding chair stacked up and returned to the storage closet in the east end of the building.  By then, Laurel is exhausted to the bone but happy down to the marrow.  How can she not be?  When they bid adieu to the Happy Fun Time Gang and start down the single flight of bricked stairs, Dinah – adorably wrapped up in her coat and scarf and mittens – holds her hand.

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

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FanFic | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

Part 4 – The Miracle (AO3 Link)

A vicious chill threads through the alleyway outside the Carmine Kanigher Shelter, sending waste detritus of modern civilization skittering in every direction.  Mice and rats flee for cover as fat flakes of snow begin to fall.  Soon the entire area will be blanketed in a carpet of fluffy white powder.  A Christmas Miracle for Star City courtesy of a recently reunited father and daughter duo of certain...arctic talents who are in town for the first of what will become the annual Team Flarrowgirl – a universally reviled portmanteau courtesy of one Ralph Dibney – Christmas extravaganza.  

Pushing off the cinder block he’s occupied for the second time tonight over the past few minutes, Marv adopts a toothy grin.  He already worked his seasonal miracle, which if his best friend Nora’s spotty accounting of history unrelated to her dad can be trusted is taking place right about...now.  Nervously, he lifts the sleeve of his jacket to check the vitals monitor on the modular biometrically keyed device wrapped around his wrist, finding all readings back within ideal parameters whereas only hours before they were fluctuating wildly.  Just to be sure his efforts were indeed successful, he pinches himself in several places to ensure his central nervous system is still functioning correctly that he is still corporeal and has not disintegrated due to a seismic shift within the causal domino chain that will eventually result in his birth less than six years from his present location in spacetime.  

As a reward for a mission accomplished, he sifts through the menus on what Nora calls their Vibe-rators – bless the innocent, adorable, perpetual child that she is, Nora has yet to grasp why nicknaming the gadgets that in honor of their esteemed inventor, their beloved Uncle Cisco, was not quite the honor she thought it was – and quickly deactivates the artificial aging matrix produced by some seriously shway tech that, savvy as he is, even he doesn’t fully understand.  He also unilaterally decides to never adopt the pseudonym Marv ever again.  

Honestly, what was I thinking going with that? Quen shakes his head, chuckling ruefully as the answer dawns on him. There is a longstanding Christmas Eve tradition in his house of watching Christmas movies all evening until everyone is too tired to keep going, and this year they are breaking out amongst other titles both of Macaulay Culkin’s Home Alone films.  Double-dipping those gems before bed is, in his opinion, just about the perfect way to cap off a perfect Christmas Day with his family.  Which is why he has to get a move on or he’ll be late and his Moms will not be happy.  Nor will Aunt Sara and Aunt Ava, who are actually supposed to drop by this year instead of ducking his Mom’s invite with some lame explanation of a temporal anomaly that needed fixing like, pronto.  Come to think of it, Maya, his older sister by a year and a half, is coming back home from a work thing in National City for the annual Lance family Christmas and will almost certainly use his tardiness as another excuse to hit him.  And Quen can’t have that.  She has enough reasons as is without adding valid cause. Plus, his damn shoulder has been abused enough by his sibling’s iron fists, thank you very much!

Glancing back toward the street he’d watched a younger, more hardened version of his softer mother approach him from, the familiar tug of welcome memory pulls him under its sway. His Ma is still a knock-out according to all his friends, who often break out an ancient acronym he chooses to ignore so as to not require a bleaching of his brain, so the age difference was not that jarring.  But it was beyond weird to see her so restrained and world weary.  

Of his parents, his Ma is the positive one, the tactile huggy, kissy, slightly smothery mom who sings while she cooks, dances as she cleans, and who cried – on camera! – at his graduation...every last one of the four so far.  So many wonderful memories of her flash by that he can hardly sort through them all. Her singing him to sleep while he was little and really, really sick while his Mom cradled him close to her chest and rocked him in her favorite rocking chair.  The absurd, bonkers, overboard, birthday bashes she organized for both him and his sister every friggin’ year until they were old enough to insist she dial back the adorable insanity.  The way she would stand to the side giggling uncontrollably at his ultra-competitive Mom once he got old enough to regularly beat her at basketball or soccer or video games.  How a few stern words from her spoke volumes more than a profuse tirade from his Mom ever could amongst one of the many lectures he endured regarding the vital importance of taking responsibility for one’s own actions.  How she always smells like an amazing blend of vanilla and cinnamon and can with a single enveloping hug and a lingering forehead kiss banish every iota of hurt, confusion, pain, and fear plaguing her children, even when they are fully grown adults.  His Ma is a lionhearted woman who loves with every last ounce of her strength, and it was more than a little disconcerting to witness her holding that ferociousness ransom in the obviously fading hope that a rescuer might appear to set it free.  Thankfully, he is a devoted son who is willing to brave her wrath to secure her happiness, which he did by pushing her toward a certain irritatingly complicated blonde.  

The various images of his Ma, heartwarming as they are, mingle with one of his other mom as he watched her first set foot in the shelter.  Looking for all the world like she didn’t know what the hell she was doing there, all the while unwilling to surrender an inch to fear or doubt, she was yet so fragile he was afraid to even breath in her general direction lest she shatter into a million pieces.  He had to get to know her first before he risked ingratiating himself to the point she would grant him permission for one stilted hug.  

He’d like to say that it shocked him to see her so walled off, the woman who carried and nourished him inside her body for nine months and then endured unspeakable pain to deliver him safely into the world, but it didn’t.  His Mom has always had trouble letting people in, which in combination with her frightening dark side could make her a foreboding person to approach.  From his first memories, he can recall glimpsing fleeting specters of what he’d witnessed in earnest while on this escapade in the past: a simmering rage and innate cynicism fueled by pain that only his Ma can assuage.  Once or twice he was the unlucky target to bear the brunt of an outburst that scared him witless, and scared his Mom even more – so much so that she would sequester herself in the bedroom or the spare bathroom until she calmed down or his Ma intervened to soothe the offended beast back into her thick iron mental cage.  He never really understood why his Mom got that way sometimes until just last year, about five months after his eighteenth birthday, when he learned about Black Siren.  That wasn’t a happy time for him, or for his Mom.  He had always known she had a troubled past, but that...that shook the foundations of his essential being, made him doubt his own moral and ethic core, and worst of all caused him to doubt his Mom’s ability to love.  It took both his Ma and his Uncle Ollie teaming up to knock some sense into him for him to get his head out of his ass and to stop avoiding and start talking to his Mom again.  

And now?  Well, now he’s glad he knows about Black Siren, because if nothing else, this trip into the past has given him a reality check as to just how awful his Mom’s life was to have molded her into the hateful person she was before his Grandpa took a chance on her that his Ma later picked up and ran with.  Once, and fortuitously, she got to the shelter early enough to join in a group session with the therapist that visits the facility once per week.  He had to sit there silently and listen as she got roped into sharing, then grit his teeth through the empathetic agony of her divulging a lot more than she had originally intended.  The things she went through before she met his Ma...Quen shudders at the very thought.  The silver lining to that intolerable experience is that at least he has a reference to work with dealing with her occasional mood swings.  

Also, this foray has given him a new, unique perspective into how much his parents love each other.  To have overcome so much adversity just to be together is, quite frankly, astonishing.  Nora has told him so many times that his Moms’ love story rivals that of any epic parental romance within the group of kids belonging to the venerated members of the Justice League, but he never quite believed her.  How could he when they were competing with the likes of Superman and Lois Lane, the Green Arrow and his Overwatch, the Flash and Iris West, and Supergirl and her mysteriously broody governmental handler all the kids simply know as their favorite Aunt Alex.  But those precious hours surreptitiously watching them interact in the kitchen and during the post-dinner clean up operation afforded him a view that, while slightly biased, was able to recognize that same divine spark between them that he sensed whenever he was around his friends’ folks.  It was nice, so nice that his heart is still soaring high in the clouds above, to be given the immense privilege of bearing witness to the event that will begin an inevitable spiral into his – and his sister’s – future conception upon a recovered Kryptonian Genesis ship.  And come what may, be it unavoidable tragedy like Nora’s Uncle Wally getting imprisoned outside the timeline by Abra Kadabra, or some catastrophic event like Darkseid himself descending upon his Earth tomorrow, he won’t be forgetting this adventure any time soon.  It has ignited in him a flame of hope that cannot be quenched and solidified a belief that will endure until his death that love really can conquer all.

“Well, I guess you guys will see me in five years and twelve months on the dot” he says, his gaze turning instinctively to the apartment in which he knows his parents to be making the first baby steps toward a future they have both risked life and limb to protect multiple times.  “Good thing it’ll be sooner for me.  Just hope you guys don’t kill me when I tell you where I’ve been for the past month...”

And with the press of a button upon his Vibe-rator – he snickers at the thought of the name – Quentin Nicholas Lance disappears from view to join his best friend for their return trip to the future.  He is not seen again until many years later. Twenty-four years,  ten days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes to be precise, which is two minutes late and of no consequence to anyone but Maya, who uses that as an excuse to hit him.  

Damn that punchy brat.  

Quen rubs his sore arm, but the smile on his face remains until he is engulfed by two pairs of arms that officially ring in another Merry Christmas for the Lances.  To his unending delight, in addition to a new Quantum Tablet, his Moms pulled some really big strings to get him into the Air Force Academy.  He can’t wait to tell Nora!  And as he rushes to dial his bestie up on his Vibe-device, he gives them both the biggest hugs he can muster up.  He doesn’t see how their eyes catch over his shoulder, glowing with love for each other and pride for their child and happiness over his happiness, but then again he doesn’t really need to.  He sees it every single day.  Nor would it have registered even if he had caught it.  He is far too excited to think of little else than realizing his dream of becoming a pilot.

Merry Christmas to me! He thinks as he hears Nora’s voice chime through the tiny, nearly impervious subdermal implants designed by his Uncle Cisco that were wired into his ears after a childhood accident his Mom still hasn’t forgiven herself for rendered him deaf.

“Hey!  You’ll never guess what I got for Christmas!”

Nora does guess, the know-it-all brat, but his enthusiasm doesn’t diminish one iota. This is, after all, the best Christmas ever.  And not just because he got everything he wanted, but because he got to watch his parents take the final steps in their journey falling in love.  How many kids get to make that boast?  Not any he knows of besides Nora.  

Quen has an extended family that loves him, a bright future ahead of him, a sister that would fight the world for him, and Moms who love him – and each other – more than he could ever begin to describe.  And that makes him the luckiest kid alive.

THE END 

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

[foxofthedesert]

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

[foxofthedesert]

‘Tis the Season for Dinahmite!

So...I’m kinda hooked on a new ship in the Arrowverse atm featuring Dinah Drake and Earth-2 Laurel Lance.  I couldn’t resist writing a holiday themed ficlet for them.  So here it is.  Also, this is 100% dedicated to my parents who watch Hallmark Christmas movies like nobody’s business.  Love y’all, but honestly....

'Tis the season and all that shit.

Honestly, Laurel harbors no fondness for the holidays. Never has, even when her family was still picture perfect Americana where football was watched on Sunday afternoons and homemade apple pie was eaten. Any deeper meaning to Christmas was totally lost on a kid who only cared about the shiny wrapped presents under the tree with her name on them. Her parents, though? That was another story.

Since the first Christmas she can remember up until she was twelve, the year her Mom died in childbirth, her parents went all out. Like...her Mom was almost manic about it. There were Christmas knickknacks in every fucking window sill of every stripe both religious and secular, festively colored drapes, reindeer and Santa Claus themed rugs and mats on the floors, bows and baubles and ribbons adorning the light fixtures, a fancy wreath on the front door, and the most exquisitely ornate tree in the entire neighborhood. And that isn't including the visible-from-space light show her father put on in the front yard that would rival Riverside's Festival of Lights.

All of her friends wanted to hang at her place during that time of year because none of their mothers did half as much decorating or seasonal cooking, especially since sugar cookies shaped as various ornaments or other sweet confections were usually available at all hours of the day. The neighbors seethed with envy at her father's handiwork in the yard and at how he could beat their asses to claim top prize for Christmas decorating from the HOA by transforming an ordinary six thousand square foot lot into Santa's Crib at the North Pole in a single weekend. None of that meant much to Laurel, though, who even as a child exhibited cynical, misanthropic tendencies. For her parents' sake, she pretended to be the prototypical kid ebullient with energy and joy for the holiday season all the while inside she was silently counting the days until it was over and things would go back to normal again.

As an adult, when the holidays would roll around she would often mope about whatever hellhole she happened to be crashing in at the time, reminiscing – against her will by the way – about the how wonderful life used to be in comparison with her present wretched circumstance. With a bottle of cheep booze and an impressive supply of drugs on hand, heroin was her personal favorite, she would celebrate by alternating getting piss drunk and totally blitzed until every last vision of an idyllic home at Christmas time was banished from her illicit substance-addled brain. Granted, it was not a productive coping mechanism, but it worked fairly well. Up until recently, Smack and Jack were the only friends she could rely on to get her through the pain that was her existence until the New Year rolled around.

My, how drastically things have changed in only four measly years.

"Oh, God! Laurel, no! How could you? How could you be so selfish, woman?"

Leaning back, brows in her hairline, eyes as wide as saucers, Laurel stares at her distressed girlfriend as if she's grown a second head. The hand Dinah is currently clamping onto with the force of an aluminum-extrusion press is rapidly starting to lose feeling, though Laurel is too mystified to do anything about it. This is an experience she could never have prepared herself for. If given a million guesses she would never have stumbled over the fascinating fact that Dinah Drake, hard ass detective and kick ass vigilante, was a secret fanatic over Hallmark Christmas movies.

"Stop! Don't do it! No no no no no!! Don't you dare walk away from him, Marci. Don't you fucking dare!"

Laurel is far too shocked by Dinah's outburst directed at the film's protagonist to respond audibly. Sadly her inner opinion does not share that difficulty.

Jesus Christ. How can she be so invested in this inane, soulless, assembly line romantic drivel? 'Aww, c'mon, baby...it'll be fun! Just the two of us snuggled up on the couch in our pajamas, sipping hot chocolate, watching two people fall in love to the background Spirit of Christmas? What could beat that?' Umm, how about watching Ollie endure watching Felicity try to cook a traditional Hanukkah meal for Team Arrow. Now that is what I call quality entertainment. This? Aside from the delicious hot chocolate and the gorgeous babe in my arms, this is...torture. Almost makes me regret saying yes.

Laurel chastises herself for the thought as soon as it crosses her mind because she knows it isn't true. For the largest part anyway.

It really was the highlight of her month last year when Ollie and Felicity had the entire team over to celebrate Hanukkah with them. She and Dinah got there hours early to help with the prep work since Dinah figured she could help with some of the cooking since her she spent a large portion of her childhood in the kitchen with either her mother or grandmother, especially around Hanukkah, learning the traditional recipes brought to the New World from Hungary by her maternal great-grandparents. And she totally could have since another one of Dinah's secrets is that she is a fan-fucking-tastic cook. Unfortunately, Felicity being Felicity meant the mostly lovable nerd was bound and determined to do it all on her own. And Ollie being Ollie meant the fireworks started before the party even got kicked off because Felicity set the frying pan on fire making the latkes. Dinah sprang into action, of course, heroically swooping in to save the day by rescuing dinner. Hell, she even managed to teach Felicity how to make authentic about sufganiyot and challah bread without turning the kitchen into a disaster zone.

Outside of the things she has grown to love not associated with the actual holidays, those things being Dinah and their friends, nothing will ever make Laurel enjoy them for their own sake. There is no amount of therapy or love that can transform that bottomless pit of bitterness into anything resembling holiday cheer. But! Dinah sure does make her want to. And that is reason enough for her to woman up and take one on the chin by watching a different Hallmark – or another equally saccharine – Christmas movie every...single...night. Besides it's only a four weeks a year. If it means Dinah will be sprawled halfway in her lap, sometimes laughing, sometimes sobbing, sometimes screaming at their humongous big screen…? Well, for that Laurel can sacrifice two hours a night for twenty-five days to watch the most disgustingly sappy programming in the history of television. If she's being completely honest she would probably do it just for the watery, moon-eyed smiles Dinah points her way at the end of each movie when the couple kisses under the mistletoe or in front of fully trimmed Christmas tree. 'Cause you know what? That means Laurel is about to a kiss, too. And she is the world's number one fan of Dinah's kisses.

Truth be told, there isn't much Laurel won't do for Dinah. So that's why she supportively rubs Dinah's back as the current couple in question miss their chance at their happily ever after. She holds Dinah tight as she cries when the spunky, intrepid blonde protagonist, Marci, gets a phone call late on Christmas Eve from a mutual friend informing her that the devastatingly charming and handsome and tenderhearted Kevin was in a tragic accident and is fighting for his life in emergency surgery. And when Marci visits him in his room on Christmas, a gift shop tree in hand, and the newly minted couple share their first kiss, Laurel's heart begins to race all of its own accord. She knows what's coming and can hardly wait for it to arrive.

As the credits roll, Dinah pulls away and readjusts so she can lean in closer, their faces drawing closer by the second. Her mesmerizing green eyes shimmer in the flickering candlelight from the lit menorah on the coffee table. A plump lower lip is tucked between pearly white teeth as their noses brush. Laurel's heart swells up in her chest and her lungs temporarily stop functioning in anticipation of the coming contact. But then, just as their lips are just about to brush together, Dinah halts her progress.

"Merry Christmas, baby," Dinah says in a breathy tone that makes Laurel warm and tingly all over.

"Happy Hanukkah, darlin'," Laurel returns in their now-habitual way, and then leans up to seal the kiss that she has been waiting two excruciating fucking hours for.

But, oh! It is oh so worth the wait. Seconds pass as they linger, enjoying the sensation of their lips joined together, neither in a rush to hurry things along. They have plenty of time after all, a whole night stretching out before them with no need to get up for work in the morning at the ass-crack of dawn. Needing to feel more than Dinah's lips, Laurel works a hand up the length of Dinah's bare arm, up a toned bicep, over a shapely shoulder without hooking the straps to a candy cane striped tank top, and then gently cups a strong jaw. Appreciative as always of little gestures like that, Dinah makes this sinful noise of pleasure that drives Laurel wild and then responds by tilting her head to change the angle. Time becomes irrelevant as Laurel breathes into their deepened kiss, her lips parting in enthusiastic welcome to Dinah's velvet tongue.

How long they sit there exchanging probing, worshipful kisses and indulging in some pretty heavy petting, Laurel can't really say. What she does know is that somewhere between that first intense kiss and when they finally separate, Dinah has maneuvered herself all the way onto Laurel's lap, where she is sitting right now with her hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed enticingly, and her lips all glistening and kiss-swollen. Silence stretches out between them, an infinite chasm that swallows up other concerns and plans and thoughts and intentions in a gravity well of blissful serenity. Nothing else exists in the here and now except them, together, tidally locked in the inescapable attraction of their mutual affection and devotion.

Unable to speak, Laurel simply stares at Dinah as Dinah stares back at her. Thing is, Dinah is looking at her like she is the most precious being in all of the universe, as if having entered that dream world comprised solely of a room full of nondescript doors and thrown one open at random only to have unexpectedly emerged into a reality that is the sum of her every heartfelt wish and desire which is incidentally embodied in the form of one person: Laurel. No one has ever looked at Laurel the way Dinah does. No one. Not even her father – either of them. And that one look right there? It is the epitome of Dinah's love: everything Dinah is and has and ever will be, condensed down into one pure incomprehensible moment where it is poured out with reckless abandon.

There are no words by which Laurel could express the immeasurable feeling of awe, or of unworthiness, that engulfs her entire body down to the quintessential essence of her existence at being the recipient of that love. And the most awesome part of it all is that she sees it at least once every single day.

"How did I get so fucking lucky?" she asks, meaning it rhetorically as there is no plausible explanation she would accept as to why Dinah loves her. That is the greatest mystery of her life and one she is content to leave unsolved forever.

"Not lucky," Dinah replies, smiling that smile that makes Laurel's world revolve on its axis, "Blessed. Both of us are. So, so blessed." Settling down fully onto Laurel's lap, she cups Laurel's face with both hands. "I never imagined I could be so happy..."

Laurel interrupts her with a wry grin. "Especially not with me. Betcha never would've pictured this scenario back when Quentin was the only thing standing between us and the final grisly showdown."

Dinah shakes her head, not with disappointment or anger at Laurel's deflection, but with a sympathy only she can get away with scot-free. "Maybe not. To me that just means I have that much more to be thankful for. We could've killed each other. But we didn't. We could still hate each other. But we don't. And we could both be so damaged by what we've gone through and by what we've done to each other to ever have normal lives. But we aren't." Shoulders rolling matter-of-factly, she sucks in a deep breath and then releases it with a whoosh. "Life threw everything it could at us, tried to break us, tried to prevent this – us – from ever happening. It would be so easy to write that off as standard-fare cruelty of the world or them's just the breaks, kid. Instead of taking that route, I choose to believe that there was a purpose to it. That we were put through hell so we can not only say we earned this but so we can appreciate it as much as we should. You know? And I do. I thank God for you every day."

Laurel can attest to that. Every morning while Laurel gets ready for work, Dinah conducts a private service from the comfort of their dining room table. As she gazes out the window facing east toward her ancestral homeland and bathes in the nascent sunlight whilst sipping at her coffee and nibbling at her bagel, she silently converses with a deity Laurel does not believe in. When they got together, this was not a thing at all, as Dinah was as every bit as secular-oriented. But about a year later after they paid a visit to what remains of the Drake family in Missouri, Dinah began to reconnect with the roots she once thought she had forever left behind. Lapsed Catholic turned stringent atheist that Laurel is, for a while she begrudged her girlfriend's development of a nonconformist reverence toward a religion passed down to her through untold generations. Thankfully living with and sharing an intimate relationship with a believer has taught Laurel a lot about tolerance that she never could have learned from anyone else. Again, there isn't much she won't do for Dinah Drake, even choke down a near-rabid disdain for dogmatic traditions.

So that Dinah could remain free from judgment for and guilt over her slightly unorthodox Judaic ideology while at home, Laurel forced herself to search more diligently for some value intrinsic to it rather than openly show scorn as she would have were they to be suddenly displaced into the pre-Dinah past. Up until that point, she had regarded all Abrahamic religions as premium exemplars of the oppressive, authoritarian, prohibitive, retrograde forces such archaic systems exert upon humanity at large. Then again, at that time she would have also insisted that Dinah Drake was nothing but a nasty bitch that needed to be gifted six feet of earth heaped up over her rotting corpse. Isn't it ironic how life turns prideful beliefs upside down and then shoves them down the offender's throat? Laurel certainly thought so when she found herself in a romantic relationship with said Dinah Drake while also learning to tolerate the observance of a theology she once vehemently loathed.

As logic dictates, progress did not occur over night, but the more Laurel observed Dinah's humble and informal method of worship at home, the more the blinders of what she once believed to be a totally rational enmity were peeled away. An inch at a time they came down as time and again she witnessed how that lifestyle informed Dinah's moral and ethical core, and observed with no small amount of respect at how Dinah's quietly unassuming faith gave her courage and fortitude to persevere through trials that would have been much more difficult to survive otherwise. Little by little, the hatred burning in Laurel's heart for organized religion dimmed into a tiny, solitary, flickering flame. And then one day she woke up and it hit her all at once with the force of a hundred sledgehammers how bigoted she had been to wholesale dismiss the good that originates from clinging to religious convictions just so she could hold on to her prejudices at the expense of painful honesty.

Make no mistake, there is no conversion visible upon the undulating landscape of Laurel's future, but that does not mean she will ever ask Dinah to stop practicing her faith at home. The old Laurel probably would have insisted upon it as nonnegotiable terms of continuing their relationship as she had twice previously back on Earth-2. That Laurel was also alone and miserable for most of her life, in particular around the holidays. And since this Laurel does not miss those days, she has voluntarily adopted a few lifestyle changes that had relatively low impact, mundane stuff like shopping kosher as much as is feasible and not bitching about the smattering of thematic artwork that has appeared in the apartment since Dinah rented out her house and moved in. Every minute they are together makes those minor sacrifices worth it, a point of view Sara insisted reminds her very much of the sister she lost.

"You may act a lot different than she did," Sara once told Laurel during a visit to Star City on her most recent Legends hiatus, "but you both love the same way: with every last atom of your being. And that just so happens to be the one thing about my Laurel I envied most. Guess that means I envy you, too."

Laurel shivers at being found to have something in common with her deceased doppelganger. Loving Sara came pretty easily, but she has yet to derive any satisfaction from comparisons to a woman who is so revered as to have achieved an almost mythical status within the circle to which she now belongs. However much she has evolved and will continue to, there is no hope of competing with the memory of Saint Laurel the First. Frankly, Dinah never having met the Black Canary whose leather suit and heeled boots she was tasked to fill is a big reason Laurel was able to let herself really and truly fall in love again. She never has to wonder who Dinah is thinking about when calling her name in the throes of passion or which Laurel she is referring to when she mumbles in her sleep. And that is such an immense comfort to someone who spent several years at war with a ghost that wore her face, spoke with her voice, and moved her body in exactly the same way. Thanks to Dinah, Laurel is now mostly free of that struggle, and would very much like to keep it that way.

Concluding her brief internal contemplation before any more unwelcome associations arise, Laurel starts to think up an appropriate reply to Dinah's touching statement only to abruptly change tracks when a line of inquiry pops into head that she cannot resist following.

"Good little Jewish girl that you are, can I ask why you love corny Christmas movies so much?" she asks, still a bit spellbound over Dinah's stirring speech.

"Hah! I'm far from good. Just ask my Rabbi," says Dinah, who then rolls off Laurel's lap then promptly curls back into her side.

I have asked him, Laurel thinks. In fact, I told him a redacted version of our story and he agreed with my assessment that you're a fucking angel for putting up with all of my shit.  Although she wants to so badly to voice that thought, she bites her tongue to avoid inciting an argument.

"As for your question," Dinah continues without acknowledging Laurel's silent disapproval over her unnecessary self-deprecation, "all the blame for my addiction to Christmas movies can be laid at the feet of my Aunt Shara. I used to watch them with her when she'd visit for the holidays. She liked mocking them, more for the ridiculous hopefulness than for any Christian or Euro-Pagan themes, and I did too for a while. But somewhere along the way I developed a fascination that was stoked into a full blown obsession when I was in college. Remember Shelby?"

Laurel nods. Shelby was Dinah's best friend in high school before they lost touch. One moving to New York for college while the other went off and joined the Marine Corps will do that to a friendship. Laurel met Shelby this past July while they were on vacation in Hawaii. Dinah ran into the successful businesswoman on the beach of all things and promptly introduced her old friend, who at subsequent impromptu dinner reunion confessed to being the reason Dinah joined the Corps. Turns out Shelby's brother Andrew was a Marine who died in Afghanistan and Dinah met his unit at the funeral. The way those grieving Marines conducted themselves made such an impression that she decided a career in law enforcement could wait. The summer after graduation she enlisted. Dinah served eight years as an intelligence specialist in the Corps, including numerous deployments to Afghanistan, before being honorably discharged so she could return to her originally projected career path.

"Well," Dinah goes on, "the Christmas after Andrew was killed, Shelby was so depressed she didn't go home, was hardly eating or sleeping, and I was worried about her so I stayed with her at our dorm. We must have watched every Christmas movie ever made. 'It's a Wonderful Life' and 'The Muppet Christmas Carol' twice. Slowly but surely she started to smile and laugh again. By the second day, she was eating and looked more like herself than she had in months. I watched her transform with my very own eyes. And it wasn't the movies themselves, it was the spirit of them, what they represented. Hope. That yeah, life can be really shit, but it can also be beautiful, and we can't let the bad outweigh the good or all the suffering is pointless. The next year, we went our separate ways to visit family, but I watched the movies anyway. Been doing it ever since. Does that make me weird?"

"No," Laurel says, running a finger over the fluffy material of Dinah's pajama bottoms atop her thigh. "If anything, it just makes you more adorable, which I didn't think was possible."

A pointedly shy smile stretches across Dinah's bewitching lips. "Aww! That's sweet. Thanks, babe. I have to admit, though, to having another reason to love them now."

Brow arching, Laurel nudges Dinah's shoulder. "Oh, yeah? What's that, kedvesem?"

Dinah's smile intensifies. She was so proud when Laurel started learning Hungarian to fit in better at Drake family get-togethers that she took it upon herself to personally speed up the training. Every day Dinah added new terms and phrases the linguistic software did not cover then drilled Laurel on what she had learned up to the point. Finally after what seemed like years but was only five months they were speaking it casually around the house. Sometimes they still do, which is fine with Laurel because she likes the flow and sound. Plus she never gets tired of how animated Dinah becomes when slipping into her ancestral tongue.

The best part of the effort for Laurel was the insane amount of brownie points she won with Dinah. Damn she could get away with so much when she wielded Hungarian on Dinah and then deployed her famous weaponized pout. But there was also a secondary reward in that she at last burrowed into the graces of Dinah's aforementioned aunt Shana, who finally stopped referring to Laurel as 'that scrawny Aryan Shiksa' whenever Dinah wasn't listening. The first time Laurel heard that nasty epithet, she almost lost her shit. Tragically she was in no position to get away with berating her girlfriend's closest and most beloved living relative in front of the entire extended Drake family. So she bit her tongue, plastered on a fake ass smile, and did what she does best according to Dinah: politic like the morally challenged lawyer that she is. Not that it greatly helped her cause. Oh well. Let Shara or any of Dinah's other aunts, uncles, or cousins continue to call her whatever ugly names the perpetually snarky lady can conjure up. Dinah's happiness is all she has ever been concerned about, and that isn't going to change no matter who mocks her or disapproves of her.

Good thing Dinah puts up with my return fire at her cantankerous aunt. Laurel has never been one to back down from a challenge, which is probably the only reason why Shara mostly disparages her affectionately these days. If that's even a thing...

"I get to watch them with you." Dinah's softly spoken answer to Laurel's question wrenches her out of her head and returns her to the present.

And what a beautiful present it is, all wrapped up in candy cane pajamas yet essentially woven with invisible yet tangible threads of a strength that cannot be conquered and a love that surpasses the boundaries of the impossible. Leaning heavily into Laurel's side, Dinah slides her right hand down Laurel's left arm until their palms are flush and then cords their fingers together. When she again speaks, the emotion evident in her words and her every minute movement flows into and through Laurel as though gentle waves of acceptance and adoration she would not resist even if she could.

"You make everything in my life better, Laurel Lance. Even endearingly schmaltzy Christmas movies."

Laurel sucks in a breath, tears pooling rapidly at her eyelids. "You need to stop that kind of talk or I'm gonna cry."

"Can't have that, can we?" Dinah says, lips quirking up at one corner, understanding painted all over her ridiculously attractive features. "God forbid you tarnish that bad girl image."

"Bah. You love that I'm a bad girl." And if Dinah denies that, she's a liar.

As expected, Dinah doesn't deny it. What point is there anyway when during warm weather months she struts around the city once every couple of weeks wearing a t-shirt that proudly proclaims Good Girls Love Bad Girls. They get a lot of compliments about it that Dinah accepts with graceful blushes while Laurel owns them with a smugness born of over a decade of practice at being the latter.

"Guilty as charged, Counselor. What's my sentence?"

Laurel is only too thrilled to assume the role being requested of her. She does so love this game of theirs.

"A kiss for starters. We'll see where we go from there depending on how you behave."

An expression that impossible to misinterpret as anything but wicked stretches across Dinah's too-pretty visage as she leans in. "And if I'm very, very naughty? What will you do then, Miss Lance?" Never one to back down from a challenge or pass up an opportunity to get Dinah naked, Laurel hoods her eyes and adopts a smile that really emphasizes her dimples – aka Dinah's kryptonite.

"Guess you'll have to find out," she says in her best bedroom tone. "If you're brave enough, that is."

To Laurel's delight, Dinah rises to the occasion. And as she lays in bed several hours later with Dinah spooned snugly against her, she can't help but look forward to tomorrow night.

Another Hallmark movie. Another kiss. Another night with Dinah in my arms. What more could I ever ask for? Merry Christmas to me, indeed.

Neither for the first nor the last time this month, Laurel falls asleep with a smile on her face and a joy in her heart that has nothing to do with the season.

#dctv #arrowverse #dinah drake #laurel lance #aka Dinahmite! #though many refer to them as: #DinahSiren