Hi all! Its Erugenel and back in writing after a very long break! Just to re-launch my writing career, this little piece is dedicated to a pairing that I've been obsessed with for weeks!
Huntress: I'm not even in the Justice League any more. You're lucky to have me along.The Question: Hardly. You're drawn to my eccentric charm.
Chapter 1: Kissing at the docks
He couldn't think, couldn't move, his mind, so neatly arranged and ordered, now shattered into pieces. The conspiracies that plagued him days on end seemed distant now, a disturbing hum in the distance as firm, strong hands grabbed his tie and warm, soft lips met his in a kiss, so full of meaning it took all of his not to breathe out, "Perfect."
The silencing ripples of water at the docks could only make the night more real. As she grabbed him by his tie, the fierce, playful side in her coming out, the only thing he could say was, "Where are we going?" and even then, his voice held none of that husky, mysterious allure of a faceless man, but instead, the trepidation of, for once, not being in control.
She had just pulled him out of sight from Black Canary and Green Arrow, round a corner into the lamplight when she turned around and faced him again.
"Sorry bout' that, Q." she smiled up at him, but this time, it faltered. Now, alone and by themselves, she could have chosen to let the fierce side of her come out, yet she was holding back.
His position in the League was hardly one that required brawn. Rather, they had recruited him more for his superb research and data collecting skills. Being a conspiracy theorist was an added bonus. Besides, there had to be someone keeping an eye out for rouge superheroes.
And going through everyone's trash, learning as much information as he could about each and every flashy human, metahuman or alien in tights that called themselves a Justice League member, he had stumbled upon the Huntress. Her quarters were right across his, and through the short-circuit cameras that were a necessity along the corridor outside his own room, he could see her every night. Soon, that wasn't enough. He dug deeper.
Her name was Helena Bertinelli, daughter to a once big-time mafia don who was murdered by one of his men. Driven by revenge and anger, she had taken up the mantle of the Huntress and walked Gotham's streets by night, her employment of brute force an echo of the pain of injustice and the throb of sorrow.
She was a schoolteacher in Gotham County High School; she repaired her motorbike every Wednesday night, and almost always came back with an ice-cream cone; chocolate was her favourite flavour; purple was her colour of choice; she was Catholic, and kneeled every night by her bed to pray before she slept; she tended to sing in the shower when she thought no one was around and always threw away trashy paperback romance novels after she was finished with them. he didn't know why he collected so much information about her, but he kept it to himself, for comfort, or torment. To hold her through these little things he knew about her, so that when his courage failed him, when he, the Question, could not ask her whether she had dinner plans, he could always rely on his knowledge of her, a poor substitute, but her nonetheless. Visions of purple and long, soft dark hair haunted his dreams every night. He was the Question, and questions he did ask, especially when they concerned him. What was it about her that he yearned for? What was happening to him? How could he, the indomitable Question, start the ascent down the steep, slippery slope of uncertainty that led all the way to her, the Huntress, Helena?
Why her, of all the women in tights in the Justice League?
She was dangerously close now, and hidden behind that faceless mask of his he cracked a smile. How could a woman kiss a man with no face? She had done it, and was on the verge of doing it again. That lovely face had haunted him in his dreams. He was hardly an innocent man, and his own nightly visions of her were far from innocuous. Yet he was a man of discipline, and so he kept his distance, nodding to her when they met in the corridor, she undoubtedly thinking him a madman.
Under the yellow light of the streetlamp, a glow only meant for the two of them, Gotham was unusually quiet for a city that called out every night for justice to be had. They made an odd couple, he in his blue overcoat and matching blue fedora, she in her black and purple costume. He looked down at her, into eyes that were now dazed, in a shock and wonderment at her own actions. She broke the silence with a short laugh.
"At least we're away from Canary now," she seemed to regain some of her composure, looking him in the eye, challenging him, looking for affirmation in eyes that weren't there.
"How about a date?" he was very glad for the mask.
"You can't be serious!" she replied. "In this?" she gestured to her purple-and-black suit, then looked pointedly at him.
"I'm always serious," he replied. "it won't matter where we're going." Then, offering her that enigmatic smile that she would soon learn to recognise under that featureless mask and his outstretched arm, she took it, and together they walked down the dimly lit streets of Gotham together.
"Oh, and by the way," he said to her as they passed by a closed bakery, "Did you know that aglets are sinister?"