if the pain comes, you'll hide those tears
Title: i will always love thee
Fandom: arrow (cw)
Characters: huntress/helena bertinelli, green arrow/oliver queen
Warnings: post 1x17
Summary: introspective of the huntress, aka why cw butchers all of its female characters
There's blood underneath her fingernails. It takes her a long time to realise, long after she's taken off her gloves and the uniform, she's washing her hands underneath the tap, waiting for it to turn clear when she sees the splotches. She doesn't actually have an obscenity at hand, doesn't think a protracted son of a bitch will do it. She frowns and bites down on her shudder,
(stiffens her lower lip, because she remembers, vaguely, something about a time when she didn't know too much,)
digs her index finger underneath the nail and watches as an innocent man's blood runs from her fingertips.
The grit swirls at the bottom, twisting around the drain and she thinks of Michael. For a moment, she swears she hears the curtains flutter before she reminds herself not to be too optimistic. The Hood is done with her and Oliver, well, he was never interested in her, really.
She hunches over the basin, fingers curled over the rim and wonders what Michael would think of her now. What would she look like to him, this caricature of the woman he had fallen in love with. Bits of her shrouded by all the revenge, the lust for her own brand of justice. She tips her head up and stares into the eyes shrouded by the slits of the mask.
'Rome sounds nice round about now,' she says quietly before she walks out.
The glove is shredded, the palm opened to a slit where the arrow cut through the leather as she caught it and the fingertips worn away. It is sticky and she lets out a huff of air. Aren't murderers made of stronger stuff? She puts it back down and wipes the blood on her jeans.
He was going to kill her. That was the most likely conclusion to the nights events. He was going to put an arrow straight through her heart,
(she is romantic sometimes, wistful even, that this could've meant something. his modus operandi is the throat,)
protect the good cop and watch her blood drain into the grass. That was, well, it was-
Typical. Because how much that hurts is relative. And she never indulged in bitter irony.
Sometimes she slips into the warehouse beneath the nightclub, early in the morning, when she knows all of the trio is out indulging in theatricalities that are required of them in their real lives. It is quiet, cold. Just the hum of the server's fan to keep her company and a dripping tap that she knows Oliver doesn't fix so that there is a never a silent void. A dangerous quiet that he fills with thoughts of the island.
She sometimes hears the door open and takes a protracted breath, hopes to some God that he looks up and sees her there and that he says something.
Anything.
She imagines he would get to his bow before she could get down from the rafter and that he would have it poised at her heart within seconds, that his eyes would be cold and guarded and that he would wait for her to speak, offer up some sort of terms he can't evade.
Instead, she disappears before the door is fully opened.
She often spares people these days, not enough for anyone to notice but perhaps, she thinks, enough for Oliver to notice.
One or two people left bruised and shocked but otherwise unharmed that can tell the story of the purple-donned villain that told them a story about a little girl wrapped in a spider's web that learnt to weave her own.
Someday, maybe, he'll string together the dots and figure it out.
For now, however, there is Rome.
Fandom: arrow (cw)
Characters: huntress/helena bertinelli, green arrow/oliver queen
Warnings: post 1x17
Summary: introspective of the huntress, aka why cw butchers all of its female characters
There's blood underneath her fingernails. It takes her a long time to realise, long after she's taken off her gloves and the uniform, she's washing her hands underneath the tap, waiting for it to turn clear when she sees the splotches. She doesn't actually have an obscenity at hand, doesn't think a protracted son of a bitch will do it. She frowns and bites down on her shudder,
(stiffens her lower lip, because she remembers, vaguely, something about a time when she didn't know too much,)
digs her index finger underneath the nail and watches as an innocent man's blood runs from her fingertips.
The grit swirls at the bottom, twisting around the drain and she thinks of Michael. For a moment, she swears she hears the curtains flutter before she reminds herself not to be too optimistic. The Hood is done with her and Oliver, well, he was never interested in her, really.
She hunches over the basin, fingers curled over the rim and wonders what Michael would think of her now. What would she look like to him, this caricature of the woman he had fallen in love with. Bits of her shrouded by all the revenge, the lust for her own brand of justice. She tips her head up and stares into the eyes shrouded by the slits of the mask.
'Rome sounds nice round about now,' she says quietly before she walks out.
The glove is shredded, the palm opened to a slit where the arrow cut through the leather as she caught it and the fingertips worn away. It is sticky and she lets out a huff of air. Aren't murderers made of stronger stuff? She puts it back down and wipes the blood on her jeans.
He was going to kill her. That was the most likely conclusion to the nights events. He was going to put an arrow straight through her heart,
(she is romantic sometimes, wistful even, that this could've meant something. his modus operandi is the throat,)
protect the good cop and watch her blood drain into the grass. That was, well, it was-
Typical. Because how much that hurts is relative. And she never indulged in bitter irony.
Sometimes she slips into the warehouse beneath the nightclub, early in the morning, when she knows all of the trio is out indulging in theatricalities that are required of them in their real lives. It is quiet, cold. Just the hum of the server's fan to keep her company and a dripping tap that she knows Oliver doesn't fix so that there is a never a silent void. A dangerous quiet that he fills with thoughts of the island.
She sometimes hears the door open and takes a protracted breath, hopes to some God that he looks up and sees her there and that he says something.
Anything.
She imagines he would get to his bow before she could get down from the rafter and that he would have it poised at her heart within seconds, that his eyes would be cold and guarded and that he would wait for her to speak, offer up some sort of terms he can't evade.
Instead, she disappears before the door is fully opened.
She often spares people these days, not enough for anyone to notice but perhaps, she thinks, enough for Oliver to notice.
One or two people left bruised and shocked but otherwise unharmed that can tell the story of the purple-donned villain that told them a story about a little girl wrapped in a spider's web that learnt to weave her own.
Someday, maybe, he'll string together the dots and figure it out.
For now, however, there is Rome.