Chapter Text
He was asleep. She was awake. The hours since the rescue had felt long and painful. Being slow-roasted over a fire described it best. Helena was pacing back and forth and the foot of his hospital bed, her high heels letting out a familiar clack on the floor. She hadn’t been to the watchtower in a while, J’onn had begrudgingly allowed her to sit by Question’s side as the medics rushed around him. She had made the window opaque long ago. Giving her space to let salty tears down her face without watchful eyes—- the medics had left hours ago.
Question had passed out shortly after they were transported to the watchtower, his mind simply exhausted. Helena suspected he hadn’t slept for days before confronting Luthor, and he likely hadn’t slept since. The simmering rage spiked at the mental image of him strapped to that table, that doctor hovering near him.
She sat on the chair next to his bed and pressed two cool fingers against the abrasion on his wrists. His hand twitched at the movement, subconsciously moving towards them. Even in unconsciousness this stupid man seemed to realise she was safe.
You shouldn't have come for me.
He didn’t seem to understand, Helena had to. She hadn’t loved someone in a long time; she couldn’t lose him. She had never planned on plotting revenge for a man still alive. She wished she had let the arrow fly. But she didn’t have time to let it, Q needed her. And for whatever stupid reason he walked into that building for, she didn’t want it to be the reason he didn’t walk out.
Even if that’s what he planned.
Huntress has never wished to be wrong at something as much as she wanted to now. But she knew him; she knew the way he thought.
He calculated every conceivable outcome to the information he had gotten. He knew he couldn’t kill Luthor on his own, that reason didn’t make sense. Q was logical, too logical sometimes. He’d walked into that building to die. Because that was the best output. His death in CADMUS’s custody would alert the Justice League to everything he had found, the evidence would be broadcasted. Millions of lives would be saved.
That was the output he had wanted, he had to have thought Helena would come after him and he must’ve thought she either wouldn’t notice in time or that she wouldn’t be reckless enough to come after him. She was the variable his mind didn’t add to the equation. And as painful of the thought of him not considering her in the outcome was, it was relieving.
Didn’t do anything to cool her anger.
She moved her hand to encompass his, giving it a light squeeze. His pulse was steadier than it had been in hours. Behind the psychological trauma his torture could produce, the secondary worry was his heart. No one’s heart was built to withstand hours and hours of electric shocks.
His hand tightened on hers.
She looked up to meet his blank face, obviously staring at her.
“You’re mad.” The first words he’d spoken since the muttering about fluoride were about her. Selfless asshole.
“Yes, Q, I’m mad. Because you practically handed yourself to Luthor.”
His voice didn’t hold the awkwardness it normally did, it was surprisingly soft, “I had to, the logic—”
She snapped back, “I don’t give a fuck about the logic, you can’t commint suicide via torture. And you just can’t not tell anyone, Superman, J’onn, hell Batman would’ve believed you. I saw the video, you had proof.”
“I’m the League’s crackpot.”
“That doesn’t mean you walk into a building to die to get them to see the evidence.” She gripped his hand tighter as a cough wracked his body, “You almost died I can’t just pretend that’s okay.”
Question moved to stand, Helena almost instantly shoved him back down. “Nope, not happening. If you need something tell me, don’t be stubborn. I didn’t volunteer to watch Batman.”
He removed the oxygen mask and pointed to his blank face, “Aerosol. Right coat pocket.”
She handed him the silver bottle, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking at the small movement. He sprayed it on his face and becan pulling off his mask. Huntress didn’t know what to expect. Red hair and green eyes was not on the plate. One of those emerald eyes sporting a black eye. He let out a shaky inhale, his insecurity painfully obvious, “You were right, I am the ugliest guy in the world.”
She smiled softly, it was just so like him, “Not to me, you aren’t.”
She kissed him before replacing the oxygen mask on his face. Her hand trailing his face as he slightly leaned into it, trying not to make the movement obvious. “We’re going to talk about this you know.”
He sighed, the blush climbing up his face becoming brighter, “I know, you have… opinions on my methods.”
“I know why you wear a mask all the time, you have a terrible poker face.”
“So I’ve been told.”
—------
That face belonged to Charles Victor Szasz, otherwise known as Victor Sage, a journalist from Hub City. A tad bit more digging brought her to his upbringing: orphaned, he didn’t know his parents, and grew up in an orphanage later shut down for accusations of physical abuse. Coworkers described him as odd, “probably autistic”, blunt, and “seemingly depressed”. In other words, he acted similar in his civilian and vigilante identity, which was not something the Huntress could say about herself.
A nice teacher and a bad-mouthed vigilante were almost exact opposites on the job scale. Vic’s hand tightened on hers, the shaking of the watchtower had woken him. She closed her laptop and drew her crossbow. Vic put his mask back on with a shaky movement. “Helena.”
“What, babydoll?”
“I’m not in a position to defend myself.”
“I can see that.”
“Don’t die.”
She knew what he meant: don’t die protecting me. “I’m working on that, just use that giant brain of yours to figure out a way to get out of this.”
None of the Original Seven were here; they had turned themselves in a handful of hours ago, and Zetas weren’t working. Transports were down. They were truly stuck.