Chapter Text
Sara Lance is the best at what she does, and what she does is kill people.
It has always been that way, or, at least, that’s what it feels like. Sara hardly remembers a time before. It had been easier to forget. Easier to remember the only thing that matters: that her family had died and the League had found her.
The two things were, maybe, connected, but she had been a teenager, young and impressionable and wanting to believe the best, and so she'd never thought about it too much. Not when the League was teaching her how to be better and stronger and how to forget everything but what she needed to know to be a better asset.
In her, the League had found the perfect student. She was clever and she was a fast learner and, above all else, she was tough. Resilient. Strong.
Ra’s Al Ghul had taken her under his wing, trained her and taught her and raised her.
Gained her trust, and then blurred the lines between what was good and what was bad, broken her until she had been perfectly happy to kill.
Or, at least, willing. Happy isn’t the word for it. It is kill or be killed, and she doesn’t want to die.
But willing almost isn’t the right word, either. She doesn’t like what she does. She just does it. It’s her life, and she’s come to accept that, has learnt to push the feelings that rise up inside of her every time she kills down, deep down, until they’re hardly there anymore.
Part of the League training was not to feel, not to feel pain, physical or emotional, and she’d almost gotten there, but never quite.
They’d broken her, not enough to stop her from feeling something when she kills—but enough that she is too scared of what they would do to her if she tried to say no.
Her family had died, and she doesn't want to follow them, not yet.
And that is all the League needs—they need her to be able to kill, well, and they need her to be loyal.
She is the best at killing, and she has no reason not to be loyal, so she is all that they need.
She had been shaped into the perfect assassin, and she would've stayed that way if nothing had happened to change that. Because it’s all she know. Because she has no-one and nowhere else to go.
Because it’s easy.
It is easy to numb the pain with alcohol and one night stands and sessions in the gym that last until the screaming in her muscles drowns out the screaming in her head.
It is easy to pull the trigger on a gun, to move a knife just so, so that it kills in an instant.
All of that is easy. Letting herself feel—that’s what is hard.
So she doesn’t feel. Doesn’t let it in.
Sara knows it’s not healthy to ignore it all. Knows that her path is destructive, knows that it’s going to end with her dead if she doesn’t stray at some point, but she just doesn’t have the energy.
It is death either way, anyway. Death if she stays, and death if she doesn’t. She doesn’t have a choice.
She is drowning, paralysed, and she would’ve stayed that way if she’d never met anyone who made her think that maybe she does have a choice, that maybe she has a chance for a future that involves making it to thirty.
She would’ve stayed that way if she had never met Ava Sharpe.
The night that she does, Sara is tired. The drink she's been working on for an hour is cradled between her hands.
The job she had that day was harder than usual. The target didn't go quietly, and there's a bandaged wound under her sleeves to show for it.
Her phone pings. It's another job, for tonight. From the looks of it, it'll be easy. It should be. They rarely dare send her more than one job in a week, let alone two in one day. They'd only do this if they knew it would be easy for her. She downs her drink, and then orders another. She shouldn't need to leave for a while.
And then the door opens, and it's the beginning of the end.
(Not that she knows that, yet.)
A woman walks in. She's dressed up for the bar in a way that Sara isn't it. Sara is under-dressed, but she comes here often, spends a lot, and the security isn't the type to enforce the dress code.
The woman’s dress is short, tight, and red. Her hair, long and dark blonde, is loose around her shoulders, cascading over her skin in waves that look too good to be true. She doesn't look particularly comfortable in the dress, in the heels she is wearing, but is still walking with confidence.
Sara is immediately intrigued, immediately attracted, but there’s no point hoping, because, in all likelihood, Sara is not what the woman is looking for.
Sure, Sara’s slept with her fair share of straight women, but they're so much more effort, and she doesn’t have the energy tonight required to convince another woman that it’s not going to be the end of the world if she sleeps with Sara.
She doesn’t even have time for anything tonight, anyway.
So she doesn't turn, even when the woman makes her way to sit at the bar right next to her, but instead remains nonchalant, surreptitiously scanning the bar. Everyone is looking at the woman in red, including the man on the other side of her to Sara.
He doesn't waste any time. She’s barely sat down before he's offering to buy her a drink.
She refuses, politely. More politely than Sara would've.
He tries again, and her voice has more of an edge in it when she says, “No, thank you.”
Sara is ready to get up and fight the dude when he tries a third time.
“I'm a lesbian,” the woman says, slightly reluctantly, but still with force behind her voice.
And, oh, that changes things. Sara didn’t even have to ask. Maybe she has time for… something, if she’s not going to have to waste time figuring out whether or not this woman even has the potential to be into her.
The man looks her up and down, then finally turns away.
The woman turns away from him, sighing. She tugs at the hem of her dress, her confidence clearing waning. She looks like she wishes she was anywhere but here. Sara finds herself staring. The dress has a neckline that makes it hard to concentrate. Sara looks up, right into her eyes.
“Did you want something?” the woman asks, her voice sounding close to a breaking point. “Or were you just going to keep staring at my boobs?”
Behind the stress that is evident on her face, there is a snap, a bite to her that Sara likes. The woman is obviously not afraid to fight back.
“No, I—” Sara stops, because she’s almost stammering, and it’s ridiculous. She starts again. “Are you actually gay?” It's not the best opener, by any measure. She winces internally, and, as the seconds pass, Sara realises that far from it not being the best opener, it's actually an utterly, utterly terrible opener. Maybe the worst.
She's got no excuse, except for the fact that the mere presence of this woman is putting her more than a little off of her usual, flawless game. She can’t explain it because they’ve only exchanged a couple of words, but suddenly she wants more than just something. Suddenly she wants everything, and it hits her like a ton of bricks.
“Why would I lie about that?” the woman replies, shaking her head in disbelief. She turns away, as if the conversation is over. Sara is determined that it isn't. The woman is ordering a drink and she catches a glimpse of the name on her ID: Ava.
“Sorry. Sorry. That was rude. I've just met some girls who use that as that get-out-of-jail-free card for annoying guys,” Sara says. “Not that I blame them, really,” she adds, hastily. “It just makes it hard to tell for the rest of us.”
Ava is clearly only half listening. She gets her drink, and immediately downs it. Her expression, along with the stress, is sad, tired, slightly defeated. Sara wants to change that. She changes tack.
“What's got you dressed up all nice like that?”
Ava turns back to look at her, her eyes narrowed.
“Isn't this the dress code?” Ava looks down at her clothes, then at Sara’s ripped jeans and worn leather jacket.
“It is. But I'm good at reading people.” So I can be better at killing them, Sara doesn't add. “I can tell you don't normally dress like that.” She pauses. “Not that you shouldn't. It looks great.”
Ava smiles a bit, glancing downwards. “Oh. Well. Thanks, I guess.” Then her face shifts. “Wait a second. Are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“What were you expecting? Rocking up looking like that and then announcing your sexual proclivities to the entire bar?”
Ava pauses, then says, “I was rather hoping… I wouldn't find anything, and could say I tried.” Her words are slow, as if she is choosing them carefully.
Sara raises an eyebrow.
“I don't believe you. No-one is hoping that looking like that.” Sara tilts her head, pursing her lips.
Ava makes a sound that is almost a giggle, soft and inviting and obviously nervous. Her eyes sweep over Sara’s body, and then she bites her lip.
Sara holds her breath. She never usually cares what people think of her, but now this woman has Sara craving her approval. Ava’s eyes are still flicking over Sara’s face, over her body, and then her mouth falls open a tiny bit. She licks her lower lip. It’s definitely a tell. Sara grins.
Something clicks. Ava’s body relaxes a bit, her sharp edges rounding. She introduces herself, and Sara pretends she hasn't already figured her name out.
Ava holds out her hand at the introduction, and Sara takes it, then doesn’t let go, her fingers moving up the bare skin of Ava’s arm, slow, and hardly even a conscious movement.
Ava lets her, leaning in closer, and it’s definitely a good sign.
They drift away from the bar, settling in a booth a little way away. Sara shrugs off her jacket, the leather suddenly too restricting.
It’s also a sign, a sign that she’s planning on being here for a while, and Ava seems to pick this up, her eyes following Sara’s hands as she puts the jacket down beside her. Ava’s eyes go into her own lap, where she’s still clutching her purse as if her life depended on it.
Ava seems to realise this, seems to see the tension in her fingers at the same time that Sara does, and she hastily sets the purse aside. When she looks back up at Sara, there is a nervous smile on her face, and she looks utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.
Sara can't stop herself from staring. She hasn't felt like this since Nyssa, hasn't felt herself falling quite as quickly in years.
It's dangerous, because she's dangerous, but that’s pushed to the back of her mind.
They talk, and it’s easy. Hours pass and Sara hardly even notices, because Ava just feels right. Her voice is like music to Sara’s ears. Everything she says, every word, is somehow exactly what Sara wants to hear.
She laughs, that same wonderful, wonderful laugh, and Sara wants to hear it over and over again.
Sara has to be careful about what she says, but her cover story has been so carefully crafted that almost nothing is a lie. The League had even found her a real job, private security, to be hired out on contract. She's in high demand, and it keeps her busy.
So she doesn't have to lie, not that much, and she's glad. She doesn't want to be lying.
“Private security, huh?” Ava says, leaning in, her voice light, and there is something behind her eyes, something that Sara can’t quite read. “You good in a fight?”
“I am excellent in a fight,” Sara says. On the offense as well as defense, though, but Ava doesn’t need to know that.
She’s a little bit smug, but she can’t help it. For a second, Ava doesn’t react, and Sara wonders if she should wipe the expression on her face away. Then Ava bites her lip again, and Sara is pretty sure she gets goosebumps, a shiver running up her spine.
When Ava’s hand finds her arm, fingers running purposefully over Sara’s skin, everything feels inevitable.
When Sara kisses her, pressing Ava hard up against the leather of the booth, it doesn't feel like it's the first time, it feels like settling into something familiar. Her hands are on Ava’s waist, red material under her fingers like blood.
Ava pulls away for a second, a hand going to her neck, her head ducking.
“Is this okay?”
Somehow, this woman is still nervous, and it’s the most adorable thing Sara has ever seen.
“I kissed you,” Sara reminds her, “so I think I should be asking that question.”
“Oh,” Ava says, and her voice is soft. “Right.”
Her eyes are flicking around Sara’s face like crazy, and she’s tensing up, and all Sara wants to do is pull her back in, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she echoes Ava’s question, in earnest, because, even after a couple of hours, she is more protective of this woman than she thought she could be of anyone, ever again, and the thought of doing something that might hurt her is almost painful. “Is this okay?”
Ava’s eyes, which had fallen back down, flick upwards, and she doesn’t say anything, just nods, a small smile on her face that has Sara melting, because it’s adorable. She really is adorable, and, even in that dress that should have Sara thinking about nothing but getting it off her, almost all Sara can think about is making her smile like that, over and over again.
(Only almost, though, because, of course, part of her is thinking about getting the dress off of Ava’s shoulders. Just not all of her. Not as much of her as would usually be thinking it. Not as much as her as would usually be wanting that while she was kissing a stranger in a bar.)
And then Ava reaches out a thumb, dragging it over Sara’s lips, and she goes from adorable to driving Sara crazy in one motion. It’s like someone has flipped a switch. The feeling of Ava’s finger on her mouth is enough to move Sara’s thoughts back towards her body. Towards her body, and Ava’s body, and both of them together.
She’s suddenly imagining what Ava might be like, and she can feel need pooling, building up, just at the thought. Ava’s thumb skates over her skin of her cheek, her hand snaking around to find the back of Sara’s head, pulling Sara back in, her movements assured.
Ava’s mouth is eager, hard. Sara’s mouth falls open, and Ava wastes no time taking advantage of this, licking in deeper.
When Sara finally pulls away, she is gasping. She takes a breath, then leans back in, because she needs more.
And then, abruptly, before Sara's lips can reach Ava's, Ava pulls back again, her eyes wide.
Sara almost whines. Almost. She doesn't, though, manages to control herself, and just follows Ava’s receding mouth with her own, trying and failing to capture her back. She wonders briefly if this is Ava’s game. To build her up and pull away over and over again until it’s more than Sara can take.
But Ava doesn’t seem like the sort of person to play games. Her face is too open, too honest, too utterly devoid of duplicity.
Sara looks at her, and falls deeper. It’s dangerous, because if Ava is an open book, Sara is anything but.
Ava glances at something over Sara’s shoulder, and when Sara turns to look, to follow her gaze, Ava drags her face back to look at her.
“I want you,” Ava says, her eyes flashing.
Sara knows at that second that Ava feels it too, feels whatever this is.
“I'm not going anywhere.” Sara is lying. She knows she’ll have to leave later. But, despite her best intentions, she can't stop herself. Lies fall off her tongue, honeyed words doing whatever they can to keep Ava in her grip. “We can stay here as long as you want.”
Another lie.
Ava’s hand moves up Sara’s leg. “No. I want you. Right now.” Her voice wavers just the smallest amount, and there is a hint of worry—hesitancy about what she is saying—underneath the desire clear in her tone, the desire that makes it clear how exactly it is that she wants Sara.
Sara blinks. She hadn’t been expecting that. Obviously, she’d already been having fantasies about Ava coming undone under her hands, but Ava has been so coy, so tentative even while driving Sara crazy, that Sara hadn’t thought Ava would want to move that quickly. And she hadn’t even minded. She would’ve been happy to stay doing what they were doing, to leave that for another night, if that had been what Ava had wanted.
But now that the possibility of having Ava right now is on the table, it’s all Sara can think about. She can’t stop a sound from escaping from her mouth.
Sara considers, for a second, running it through her mind.
It's not something she usually has to think about, because she never plans to see people again after she sleeps with them, so she doesn't usually have to worry about how her job and her life—about how who she is and what she does—might affect them.
But with Ava… something is different, and she somehow knows that if she gives in to Ava’s request—her demand—then this is going to go further.
And that's not fair on Ava, not when Sara is who is she is.
So, Sara concludes, she shouldn't take her up on the offer. She really shouldn't. She shouldn’t have even let it get this far, shouldn't have let Ava kiss her. She should've backed away when she felt feelings begin to arise.
But she hadn't, and Ava is looking at her, wide-eyed and looking so ridiculously tempting that it becomes obvious very quickly that there's no point trying to stop herself at this point. She's too far gone, the point of no return an hour in the rear-view mirror.
Sara pulls Ava up, hands on her waist.
Ava leans in, and having all of her so close quells any final doubts Sara might have; there is no way they're stopping.
She will deal with the consequences later.
As they move, it’s hard to keep her hands from moving places that are inappropriate in public.
Of course, the restroom that they end up in is still strictly public, but the lock gives some semblance of privacy.
The bar has not skimped on decorating. The large room is plush, almost classy. There are flowers that almost look real, and soft music is playing in the background. Sara briefly notices this, before Ava is pulling her back towards her, their mouths crashing together. Her hands settle in the small of Sara’s back, pulling her waist in towards her own.
Ava is flush against the door, but, God, stood up and in heels she's far too tall. Sara is pressing up and Ava is leaning down but it's not going to work for what Sara wants—needs to do next.
She pulls away from Ava’s mouth to say, “Shoes. Take your shoes off,” her voice coming out like a gasp.
Ava does, without question, stepping out of them and down to Sara’s level. She winces slightly as bare feet hit the cold floor.
Sara sees this, sees Ava's face contort briefly at the sensation. “You okay?”
Ava nods.
Now, she's only got a couple of inches on Sara, and it's much better.
Sara smiles in approval, kisses Ava, hard, and then she's fighting with Ava’s dress to get it out of the way, feeling needy in a way she never normally does. There's a deep want inside of Sara. When her fingers finally find the spot, pushing past Ava’s underwear, Ava's head tips back in pleasure, and everything feels right.
She captures Ava back in a kiss. When Ava pulls away, she's breathing heavily.
Sara’s fingers press deeper, applying pressure that she knows should feel amazing.
“I don't usually do this.” Ava pauses. “I never do this,” she says, correcting herself. Sara curls her fingers, and Ava gasps. “I'm an— accountant, for fuck’s sake,” she manages to spit out, between breaths of air.
“Who says accountants can't get fucked in public restrooms?”
Ava groans, burying her face in Sara’s shoulder.
“Me, usually,” she says, her voice muffled by Sara’s shirt.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Ava shakes her head.
“There's a first time for everything, then,” Sara says, her voice cheerful, trying to disguise real emotion behind a playful facade.
Ava opens her mouth to say something, but it is lost in the choked off sound that escapes from her lips when Sara adds another finger.
"Fuck," Ava manages to gasp out. "Fuck."
Sounds fall out of Ava's mouth, sounds that are hardly words, as Sara keeps going, working deeper into her, her hand moving in a steady rhythm. At some point, Ava goes almost silent, and then she's gripping tight onto Sara's waist. "Fuck," Ava says again, her breathing speeding up.
"Nearly there," Sara says, her voice quiet, soothing. She is never usually like this, never usually this soft, especially not when she's screwing people in public, but Ava has her wanting to be gentle.
Or gentle with her words, at least, because then Ava nods to confirm that, yes, she's close, closes her eyes, and breathes out something that sounds like, "More. Please." So maybe Sara doesn't have to be gentle with how she's doing this.
Ava might be delicate in her demeanor, in the anxiety evident beneath her words and the confidence she puts on, but she isn't delicate in the lines of her body. Not only does she have a good couple of inches on Sara, but there is hard muscle under Sara's hand where it grips onto Ava's arm. When Sara had briefly skimmed her fingers over Ava's stomach, there had been muscle there as well.
So she's not exactly fragile, and Sara is pretty sure she could take whatever Sara wanted to give her, but she's going to ask what Ava needs, because she wants this to be perfect.
She doesn't usually care about making things perfect. Usually she just cares about being effective, about getting them off as quickly as possible so that they can return the favor.
Sara leans in, her lips close to Ava's ear. "Harder? Or faster?" she asks, so quiet it is hardly more than a whisper.
Ava nods, eager.
"Which one?"
Ava is so far gone that it takes a second ask of the question before she answers.
"What do you need, Ava?"
Sara really is breaking all of her rules. She's usually totally in charge, but now she's almost letting Ava run this.
"Harder," Ava says, after a brief pause, her whole body shaking.
"Okay," Sara says, and she adds more force to her thrusts, all the while talking Ava through it, her voice sweet, low, encouraging her, coaxing her closer to the peak.
A few minutes later, Ava is tightening around her fingers, and Sara abandons the sweet-talk, just finds Ava's mouth and kisses her until neither of them have any air left.
When Ava comes, fluttering around her fingers, Sara feels, briefly, like she's flying.
Ava’s eyes are still closed. Her face is relaxed, almost blissful. Her chest is heaving. She has come utterly undone, and Sara had done that, had made that happen, and it feels better than anything. Ava's still leaning against the door, and Sara pulls her close, desperate to breathe in the same air, desperate to touch her, to feel her heartbeat where it is racing in her chest.
She has fallen, that is for sure. There’s no point denying that. Her fantasy of earlier flashes back behind her eyes, and she suddenly needs to be somewhere that isn't a bathroom, needs to be somewhere properly private, needs to lay Ava down on a bed and keep her there the entire night, keep her until the morning so she can wreck her again.
When Ava’s eyes flutter open, Sara says as much. Ava doesn't object. She grins as she pulls her dress back down, as she leans down to slip her heels back on, and follows Sara out of the bathroom and back through the bar.
On the street, Sara hails a taxi, pulling Ava back in for a kiss. The air is cold, and Ava’s mouth is warm. A life flashes on the backs of Sara’s eyelids, and she knows it's crazy, but she can't help it.
And then her phone buzzes in her back pocket and she is sent crashing back down into reality.
It was briefly far too easy to forget who she is and what she does. Too easy to stop lying and just forget. She had been drunk on a feeling, and her mind had gone blank.
Ava had done that to her. Made her forget, and the feeling of being free, even for a few minutes, was so much, and now that she remembers, all she wants is to be back in that bar, in that bathroom, thinking about nothing but the woman in front of her.
But she can’t go back.
Sara kisses her once more, Ava’s mouth searing hot, then pulls away, and whispers, “I have to go.”
Ava blinks.
“You're kidding, right?” Her voice is disbelieving, and Sara wishes she was kidding.
“No. I'm so sorry. It's a work emergency.”
(Someone needs to die.)
Ava’s arms wrap around her body, withdrawing into herself. Sara’s phone goes off again. She curses internally, and then externally.
“Can I get your number?” Sara asks.
Ava just stares at her, her mouth open, shaking her head slightly. Sara pleads with her silently, but it doesn't look like Ava is going to say anything.
So, instead, Sara finds a pen somewhere in her purse, taking care not to dislodge the gun hidden there, then pulls Ava’s hand away from her body, scribbling her number on her skin as quickly and clearly as she can.
That Ava doesn't pull her hand away has to be some sort of sign. Sara has to believe that.
“Call me, please,” she begs. Ava’s face is hard.
And then Sara is gone, turning away, and for the first time in years, she almost cries. But she's missed jobs before, and she's paid the price. And other people have the price.
Al Ghul might be okay with Ava. Any sort of legitimacy is good, every real connection a barrier to the authorities ever catching on. But if she were to get in the way, before he even knew about her... that wouldn’t be good.
Sara sits in the back of a taxi, her eyes closed.
Al Ghul married off his own daughter because she was getting in the way of Sara’s work. She hates to think what he'd do to someone who isn't his own flesh and blood.
The hit is easy. He doesn't see it coming. Most of the time, they don't. She wonders briefly who he is, and then leaves it. It's not her job to reason why, just to do.
She goes to bed sure that she's blown it, that she won't hear anything ever again, that she's let this woman slip through her fingers.
And yet, as she is on the edge of oblivion, she can't help picturing Ava in her house. It's too big. The League bought it for her, and she rattles around in it. She allows herself the brief luxury of wishing for someone to help fill the empty spaces, then falls asleep.
Sara dreams, of course, of a woman in red, her body putty under her hands. And, of course, the dream ends as a nightmare, red blood staining the material, because how could it ever end well, anyway?