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She jerks her arms violently against the chains, whipping around to orient herself in the freezing cold cellar. Her heart clenches when she notices her father watching her in silence. She opens her mouth to say something, but the only thing that comes out is a low, seemingly inhuman growl. She freezes, cold cement sapping the warmth through her bare feet and goosebumps covering her arms.
The tight but flexible leather of her Black Canary outfit is the only thing between her and the oppressive cold. Her throat is raw, and her body aches as if it had been rotting from years of misuse. Rage claws at the back of her mind, hands bound by steel chain stocks. She’s crouching there on her hands and feet, staring into the eyes of her father as nothing more than a monster.
Quentin raises his gun, hands violently shaking, and she tries desperately to beg for her life as he points it square at her face. She rocks back onto her knees and hugs herself, waiting for him to pull the trigger. A bang echoes deafeningly around the room and she watches in horror as her father drops lifelessly to the ground, crimson flowing sluggishly from his head and pooling up on the dirty concrete.
She whimpers in shock, and when Ivo steps out of the shadows, the low growl that emits from her throat is of her own volition. She tugs futilely on the chains, forcing the metal to dig deep into the raw skin.
“Sara,” he says, voice a confusing mixture of fondness and cold rage.
He approaches slowly, and she tenses with each step he takes until she’s shaking and paralyzed, unable to do much more than let out a pathetic growl. Her heart beats violently, and she flinches when his hand comes towards her. She clenches her eyes shut when he softly cups her face.
“Look at me, you ungrateful bitch,” he says, voice low but hard.
It’s a command, not a request, and so she slowly opens her eyes to take in his features. His face was so close to hers, just like when they - she shakes her head, refusing to allow herself to even go there.
“It doesn’t matter how much you try to lay your past to rest, Sara. You’re mine. You can’t escape me, because I’m a part of you,” he presses the cold tip of the barrel against her forehead and whispers, “I’ll always be in here.”
All of a sudden it’s Bishop kneeling in front of her, busy drawing blood into a small syringe. She flinches away as he stores the vial, and she looks around in panic. She’s in the interrogation room on The Amazo, strapped down to the very chairs she had spent hours torturing people in. He looks up and offers a strikingly charismatic smile, and her skin crawls with revulsion at how achingly similar it is to Ivo’s.
“Ivo said you could help me save the world,” he sings like a jingle, eyes sparkling with enthusiastic excitement.
A crippling pressure builds in her chest and the room spins, agony ripping through her. Her chest is on fire and her heart clenches uselessly. She looks down to the syringe stuck in her arm, a trace of bright yellow liquid still left.
“But I already have what I need,” he says, eyes hardening as her heart explodes.
Sara gasps, hand flying up to check if her chest is still intact as her stomach twists violently. Vomit lurches to the back of her throat as she swallows a whimper, hand frantically in search of Ava’s, but unable to find it. Ava is still sleeping, and she can’t breathe, body so tense she thinks she might shatter; the pang of desperation mixes with her panic, choking her. She clenches her eyes shut, heaving deep breaths, forcing air into her lungs.
She blindly feels for the mattress, clenching the comforter in her hand, focusing on relaxing her muscles enough so that she can move again. She hates how familiar this is, hates that she can’t just get over it. It’s not even that bad. She’s already been abducted by a man with delusions of grandeur and dangerous charisma. Even the violation of her body was something she had dealt with a long time ago. She should be fine by now.
It’s frustratingly mild in comparison to what she’s already been through and yet somehow a million times worse. She can’t even calm down anymore like she used to, instead she’s been resorting to habits she’d been fighting for years to put to rest. And now the idea of asking Ava for help throws a wrench in her gut. She turns away from her sleeping wife, curling into herself as she chokes on tears that fade as quickly as they come.
Her stomach clenches painfully and her skin is on fire. She jolts off the bed, head spinning and gut twisting violently again, but she grits her teeth, quickly dressing before she heads towards her office to do...something. Anything to stop the crawling of her skin, the stabbing grief cutting into her heart, and the irresistible instinct to get away. She lurches blindly, hand shooting out to catch herself. Her chest shakes and she gasps in pain. It’s not fair. After years of pain and isolation, after walking the world as a dead woman with blood on her hands and fear in her heart, she had healed. She was just starting to be happy, more happy than she thought was even possible. More happy than she thought she deserved.
Now she can’t even go a day without pushing Ava away somehow, without running straight to the bathroom after missions to cry. She hasn’t had quality sleep in weeks and every moment of silence drags her mind back into the past. It’s pathetic how quickly all of her progress can be broken in an instant, how little it takes to shatter her lately. Maybe she deserves it. After getting hit over and over and over again, how hasn’t she learned to just lay down and take it already?
She wipes away hot tears as she makes it into her office, plopping into her desk chair, opening the bottom drawer. Carefully, almost reverentially, she removes two things: A crystal decanter filled with whiskey, and a shiny black box inscribed with beautiful, flowing Arabic. Her hands shake violently as she opens it to reveal an ornate, wickedly sharp ceremonial blade used in the League to give repentance. She hasn’t opened the box in ages, hasn’t actually used the blade in even longer, and she freezes at the sight of it.
At the moment, this feels like the biggest decision in her life. Quick, easy relief. The choking grief, her crawling skin, the painful clenching of her heart - it could all be over in an instant. She can feel safe, she can breathe and move without the world spinning around her. All she has to do is let go and she can stop shaking with fear, trembling from a threat that prowls only in her own mind. A quick slice, a bandage, and a couple shots to drown the shame so she can crawl back into bed with her wife.
She wants to do it so fucking bad, and she knows she shouldn’t do it. She’s trying so hard to resist. But in this moment, she just wants to fucking get it over with already. These last few weeks have been nothing but a desperate attempt to keep a lid on her spiraling emotions, and in the moments where she falls prey to her own mind, just existing is agony. It’s not a sustainable way to live, and she wonders briefly if she’s even living. It doesn’t really feel like it.
A wave of grief assaults her when she picks up the knife, blade shaking in her grasp. She realizes that she no longer has even the small comfort of her scars, the evidence of everything she’s been through. No longer has the reminders that she’s been in much lower places and made it out the other side, that she can make it through this too. She stares at the smooth, unmarked skin that directly contradicts the memories in her own head. It makes her angry and she freezes. The urge to carve out her scars on her new body just to reclaim it as her own, drawing blood until she feels like she’s floating and her brain is finally quiet at the temptation.
But she knows in the back of her head that she’s slipping. She hasn’t used this blade in ages, hasn’t even been drinking as much lately. She hasn’t gotten shitfaced on her own in months, and it’s not perfect but she’s damn proud of it.
She knows she has a choice to make here, but the fear assaulting her mind tells her to just do it already. She doesn’t have the strength to make the right decision, she’s not even in control of herself anymore, and it’s because of what they did to her. She knows she’s made her decision when the hand holding the khanjar dagger stills, even as she fights against a new wave of despair.
She just wants her brain to shut the fuck up already, and she’s so consumed by her urges that she fails to notice her wife enter the room until there’s movement next to her. She startles, panic rising, and she can’t do it anymore. She hates that Ava is seeing her like this, her wife’s concern more painful than everything else plaguing her mind. Still, she relaxes marginally at the sight of Ava standing there.
She flushes, chest hot with shame. The fact that she can’t deal with this on her own right now, that she needs someone, even if it's her wife, is humiliating. But Ava simply looks at her with soft and searching eyes. When she looks down and sees the knife, Sara bites down on her other hand and clenches her eyes tight, shoving the swell of anxiety that tears through her when Ava adopts a careful, deliberately neutral expression at the sight. It’s embarrassing.
Ava approaches slowly and kneels in front of her, reaching for the blade held in her shaking hands, knuckles white from the force of her grip. She softly and slowly worms the blade into her own grasp and when she finally has it, Sara can’t control the swell of agony any longer.
She lurches forwards into Ava’s arms, sobbing and holding on tightly even as her body screams at her to get away. Ava squeezes her back, both embracing each other hard enough that neither can breathe properly. The deep pressure cuts through the haze of her anxiety, and she gradually melts into Ava’s arms.
She didn’t even realize how fundamentally lonely she felt until this moment, and her chest shakes violently as she sobs, tears flowing freely for the first time since the ordeal. She’s just tired now, and she really doesn’t know how many times she can heal from the same wounds - new triggers, new trauma, old wounds ripping open over and over again.
“Baby…,” Ava whispers into her hair, voice filled with concern, and she’s unable to continue for the fear that her voice won’t remain stable. She wants to stay strong for Sara, not distress her any further, so she stays quiet, gathering herself before she continues.
Sara grasps harder onto the back of Ava’s shirt, choking on a heavy sob. Having Ava here doesn’t fix the problem, but it does feel fucking good to be held by her right now.
Hot tears start rolling down her face, soaking into Ava’s night shirt, but Ava just holds her tighter.
“Let it out, baby. I’m right here,” she whispers into Sara’s hair.
At the words, Sara’s guard lowers and she allows herself to finally let go for the first time since she was abducted. She cries until her face hurts, letting out loud sobs into her wife’s chest. Ava whispers sweet nothings and comfort into the top of her head, the words unbeknownst to Sara, but it doesn’t matter, just hearing the sound of her voice makes the emotional release slightly easier.
Once she starts to calm down, she pulls back slightly to meet Ava’s eyes. Her stomach flips and her face flushes briefly when she realizes her own eyes are probably puffy, red, and glossy. Ava shouldn’t have to wake up to this.
“Mmm, baby,” Ava lets out an empathetic chuckle at the sight of her wife’s wrecked appearance as she runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ears.
She leans in and presses a firm kiss to Sara’s forehead causing Sara to close her eyes and melt a little into the warmth of Ava’s lips.
“Let’s get off the floor, hm? Go back to bed and cuddle?” Ava suggests quietly.
Sara stays silent, too exhausted to speak, and just nods her head in agreement. Going back to bed with Ava sounds like bliss after all the emotional turmoil of the night, and she sighs.
Her head is pounding and her face feels dried out from all the tears. She desperately wants to just lay down and get cozy with her wife.
Ava stands up, pulling Sara to her feet and she sways as the world spins around her. She stumbles slightly, Ava putting her hands on each shoulder to steady her.
“You okay, my love? Can you make it to bed?” Ava can only guess how drained Sara must feel at the moment, but she doesn’t want her to fall over on the way to the bedroom.
“Yeah,” Sara says so weakly that Ava doesn’t think she would have heard it if she wasn’t already listening so intently.
She’s not sure if Sara can actually make it back to bed, but she doesn’t want to wake Mick unless absolutely necessary so she just agrees, subtly placing the knife back on the desk and grabbing Sara’s hand to guide her back to their quarters.
Once they make it back, Sara plops down face first into her pillow as Ava climbs onto her side of the bed, pulling the comforter over both of them as she moves as close to Sara as possible. Sara turns slowly, burying her face into the crook of Ava’s neck as Ava wraps her arms completely around her, pressing light kisses against her temple.
“Do you want to talk?” Ava says quietly into the room and Sara simply shakes her head no, much too exhausted to form proper sentences right now.
Ava mumbles an acknowledgment into Sara’s hair before bringing her hand up to softly run her fingers over her scalp and through her hair repeatedly. Sara closes her eyes, trying to ignore the images of darkness that rush through her brain. It’s like a movie in her head, images of herself dying over and over again, or already dead, and the people she loves having to mourn her. Images of powerful men standing over her as she bleeds, cries falling on deaf ears, and warm blood spilling on her hands. It’s happened too many fucking times and she’s tired of it. Tired of maniacal, egotistical men who think they can fix the world by destroying her.
She’s seething with rage at the injustice of it all and she resists the desperate temptation to change her past. It’s ironic, even the so-called Paragon of Destiny is subject to fate. Changing her own past would mean being unburdened by the horrors that hiss and claw in the back of her mind, but how many times has she saved the world now? She would be sacrificing her family, her home, her team… Ava.
She would never get to know her wife or her family on the Waverider. She’d still be that naïve, selfish, and weak girl she once was.
She shudders, briefly brushing the thoughts aside. She doesn’t know how to stop thinking and she feels like she’s going insane. Only ten minutes ago she was sitting with a blade clenched in her hand, covered in sweat and filled with self loathing. She was beating herself up, pissed off at herself for letting this happen again. Now she’s pissed at them for being such hideous people, for violating her power and dignity so thoroughly. She just wants her brain to stop living in the past.
She thinks about what Ava would say if she was brave enough to put a voice to her thoughts, and suddenly she remembers how far she’s come. How much she’s grown since her days before the Gambit.
No, she’s proud of who she is now, how far she’s come and everything she’s had to go through to get here, to this moment, wrapped up in her wife’s arms. A ridiculous sentiment honestly, considering how low she’s been in her past. It’s overwhelming to think about sometimes, so instead, she just melts a little more into Ava’s embrace, letting the tears keep rolling down her face as she tries to focus all her attention on the soft fingers running over her scalp and the steady rhythm of the familiar and comforting breathing beneath her.
After a few moments of silence, Sara says barely above a whisper, “I’m sorry,” sadness heavy in her voice.
“For what, my love?”
“Being a burden to you,” Sara feels hot tears well up in her eyes again before falling to the pillow below her.
“You’re not a burden, baby, you’re my wife. I love you, and I’m here for you no matter what. Of course I don’t like where it could have gone, but you didn’t do anything tonight, and that’s all that matters, okay? You can only take this one day at a time, my love,” Ava’s voice is soft and calm as the words move past her lips.
Sara knows that what she and Ava have is healthy, and whenever Sara gets in these self-destructive modes, Ava just offers her support. It’s such a relief compared to her previous relationships, her past partners wanting her to either compromise with them or to fix her.
But she can’t help the empty feeling inside her chest, so she just lets the tears fall freely, quietly sobbing every now and then as Ava presses light kisses on her face.
Eventually, Sara’s breathing evens out, her mind significantly calmer now having let out all the tears she didn’t even think was possible for her to produce. She tightens her grip around Ava’s waist, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest, and realizes that Ava has fallen fast asleep next to her.
Sara leans up slightly and presses a soft kiss to her wife’s lips, before whispering, “I love you, Ava, always and forever.”
She lays her head back down into the crook of Ava’s neck, closing her eyes as she breathes in the familiar scent. It’s hard, but she tries to remind herself where she is now - safe at home, cozy in her bed with the love of her life wrapped soundly around her.
It’s not perfect, and her demons of the past certainly haven’t stopped haunting her, but she’s made it this far. If she allows it, the bond she has with her family and wife will always be stronger than her darkness. She doesn’t have to fight alone anymore, and the realization nearly breaks her. Ava’s words ring her in head to take it one day at a time, and she looks at her wife’s sleeping form. She doesn’t have to live in the past anymore, and she shouldn’t let herself no matter how tempting it is. The present is far more beautiful, she thinks as she closes her eyes.