Dinah wasn't sure if there was a single specimen in the world like Barbara Gordon. No specimen so beautiful.
There was something in the way that Barbara Gordon walked that seemed to command everyone around her. Something in the way that she held her chin up high told everyone that she was one to follow.
The commissioner's daughter. The paralyzed girl. The perfect student. The girl with her White Knight father who strode with her head held high. The girl who should never have walked again's heels clicking against the pavement. The genius striding towards her future, with such keen confidence and such dutiful grace.
Dinah envied that. Maybe, wanted that, in a way she couldn't describe.
The way that Barbara's perfect features sat so perfectly in the frame of a mirror was also a sight to behold. Barbara's eyes weren't so different from her own, a jadeitic turquoise to her diamond blue. It was her hair that truly set her apart.
Her fiery red hair was always pulled into the most perfect braids or was simply let to run wild. And wild for Barbara Gordon was still so very controlled—so very prim and precise.
She loved when her hair would run mock with the night air, as they were perched upon a rooftop or in a dark alleyway. Her red hair was a flare in the grim Gotham night sky—a ray of hope, just like Barbara. It was warm and bold and striking in a way that made Dinah want a lock of it just for herself.
And her skin. Her skin was pale, of course, after being crammed into that horrible dark room in The Batcave for so long—Oracle at her fingertips and lips—, but it was gorgeous. Her hands were soft, regardless of how many people she punched—Barbara had clearly put effort into keeping them that way. Dinah liked that—and the sharp jawline and cheekbones she longed to cup in her hands. All so beautiful. And just out of her reach.
Barbara's redolence of floral arrangements and citrus was almost too much for her. Whenever they embraced, Dinah could catch the faint scent of honeysuckle and lemons would greet her.
Barbara was not only gorgeous, but she was the picture of grace and femininity and strength. Her hair was elegant and her eyes were always donned with some type of mascara. She always picked herself up. Dinah loved the way she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears as they sparred. She loved the way that Barbara gave everything her all—as if every opportunity was worth grasping. Dinah loved the way she smiled in a way that rivalled the sun—it was adorable and so blindingly bright for someone who had lost so much. Barbara Gordon was not a bat.
She was more of a swan.
A white swan. And Dinah was surely a black swan—her darker reflection, never to be as pure as the woman she loved. Never to dance graceful ballet, or sway someone with words, or to be the commissioner's daughter—to woo and impress and enamour everyone she met with her charm.
Barbara Gordon was an aspiration.
But she wasn't perfect.
Dinah loved that about her. She loved the way that Barbara chewed at her fingernails when she was nervous, and the way that she shrunk in on herself whenever Grayson would appear—then, she got to loop her arm through Barbara's and drag her away. She craved the contact. Any excuse for it.
Barbara remembered everything she saw like it was a picture on the wall of her mind. Dinah wished she could remember everything like that. Every laugh, every cry, every scream and every loss and victory that she had experienced with Barbara Gordon by her side.
Barbara was a dork, really. She didn't fit in. Far too driven. The girl with perfect grades. The kid with striking red hair and braces. The teachers pet. The freak.
Dinah had learned the stories over the years. She'd even found some photos of younger Barbara, which had been pried from her hands as Barbara had laughed—that sweet, intoxicating laugh that was as thick and guttural as honey, but as light as a feather.
Dinah felt like she was choking on honey and feathers.
Barbara Gordon was so blindingly bright and so shockingly sweet. So charmingly precise and deceptively small.
Barbara Gordon was so lovely and cruel to be in love with.
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ii
There was something about Dinah Lance that made her so irresistible. Something so enrapturing and dream-like. No one was alluring like Dinah Lance. No one was as beautiful and mysterious as she was.
Her shaggy blonde hair and her crystal ball eyes were pressed into Barbara's mind like stamps. Her hair had run wild at every stage performance she did. Barbara remembered it getting in her eyes and mouth and blowing in the wind as she belted the lyrics to her songs. Barbara thought it was beautiful. Her platinum-dyed hair, the way that it swayed with all of her movements and set alight in the sun. The way it had looked under the blue lights of a stage—almost the same as it looked bathed in Gotham's moonlight upon a roof, which only served to remind Barbara of all the years she had spent with Dinah. And her laugh. Her laugh was so much more than Barbara deserved. The way it rung through her ears had Barbara revelling in it's mellifluous sound.
Dinah—the girl who had been thrown to the streets now patrolled them. With a mother of memory—and a father killed long ago, Dinah Lance was a soldier at the least. A masterpiece at her best.
Dinah Lance had a rough outer shell. But inside, she was caring and protective. A matriarch, a sister, and a strong hero to all who had extended a weak hand.
Barbara couldn't help but admire her strong shoulders and her muscular thighs. The protective warmth that followed her everywhere she went. The strong hand she would extend to guide any child through the dark alleys of Gotham. The arm that would sling any groceries over her shoulder to help someone cross the street. Or the siren scream that could shatter skulls. Barbara couldn't help but long for those arms around her, and every excuse for contact, and every time Dinah would touch her the world seemed impossibly small and naively perfect.
Her skin was slightly more tanned than her own, given all the time she spent patrolling during daytime. Dinah always seemed to be drenched in sunlight, and Barbara thought it suited her. The way her eyes and hair would glisten and the way her confident smile rivalled that brightness that she was drowned in.
Dinah walked with such confidence, that every stride made a resonant sound on the pavement. Every step was filled with courageous energy and hope and soul that she could never dream of rivalling.
Dinah was so brave and loud. Everything she did challenged someone to even attempt to succeed in what Dinah found so easy.
Dinah Lance was a rain of symphonies and a storm of screams. She was pain and regret and remorse but she was also care and intelligence and protection.
She had strong hands whose fingernails were messily painted in deep blacks until Barbara would fix them for her. Hands that Barbara longed to hold in her own. They were rough from the punching and fighting—unlike her own, which had grown soft again the moment they'd been forced to splay themselves upon a keyboard instead of someone's face. She put a bit of effort into keeping them that way—for her father, so he wouldn't notice anything suspicious. Maybe for anyone who might want to hold her hand.
Her scent was also notable. She smelled of spearmint and someone else's cigarettes. The smell made Barbara feel safe. It reminded her of the spearmint smell of her father.
She wanted Dinah Lance for the rest of her days. She wanted her perfections and imperfections for the rest of her life.
The imperfect way she would go into every fight assuming she would win. The way her hair settled on her shoulders so messily—nothing like Barbara's. The way her voice cracked sometimes from all the screaming. The way Dinah loved so ferociously that sometimes she lost herself, and Barbara would have to grab her hands and simply make her breathe.
Barbara wanted to cradle the small, scared little girl in her arms. The girl who had lost her mother and ran away from her abusive foster home, learned martial arts, fought in a government military operation, became Black Canary and saved lives, and screamed songs from the top of her lungs.
Dinah was the picture of strength and individuality. The distinction between the two of them was almost humorous. The Commissioner's daughter and the Foster kid. The so-called 'genius' and the punk singer.
Dinah Lance was a dark horse to Barbara's white. She paved her own path no matter what anyone said, and did things her own way. She didn't listen to others' opinions, and if she get mad at you, she'd knock you out.