"No, no, Hunnigan's birthday is in September, she's a Virgo. She's like... the definition of what a Virgo personality is like," Hawke's voice came from Leon's office just as Hunnigan was about to knock on the door to announce her presence. She wasn't sure why she'd bothered coming over to the office after having dropped Seeley off at Major's. She was relatively certain Leon wouldn't know where Helena was either, but she'd held hope that maybe Helena would be here. Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of the younger woman. But now, having heard her own name mentioned, Hunnigan couldn't resist the temptation and paused by the door to Leon's office to listen in on his conversation with Hawke.
"She may not come across like it, but I bet that in private, she takes passion to a whole new level. But like, at the same time, she's the type who'd make a sex tape for educational purposes, like football players when they watch old games," Hawke continued and Hunnigan folded her arms over her abdomen and rolled her eyes. Didn't these two really have anything better to do or anything more interesting to talk about?
"And now I'm imagining her with a chalkboard, lecturing her husband about his technique while the sex tape plays in the background and she points out flaws," Leon giggle-snorted, and Hunnigan made a mental note to mildly torture him in the future for his remark.
Then again, it's not like he's completely wrong, Hunnigan admitted. She hadn't made a sex tape nor had she needed a chalkboard, but she had thoroughly educated Major on the subject until he'd gotten very good at it.
"I'd let her lecture me any time," Hawke purred.
"I'd die happy after seeing that," Leon chuckled.
"Alas, I'm a Sagittarius, it wouldn't work in the long run."
"You always base your relationships on astrology?" Leon snorted and Hawke scoffed at him.
"Yes, especially now because the last and the only time I went on a date with someone without finding out their star sign in advance, I made the mistake of trying to bed a Taurus, namely Helena."
"So that's why you wanted to know when Helena's birthday is," Leon realized.
"Ayep, and knowing what I know now, I can safely say I've got just the Bull for our Virgo to take her edge off, if I could figure out where He- heeeyyy, Hunnigan," Hawke corrected awkwardly when Hunnigan finally decided to put an end to their childish gossiping by making her presence known to the duo.
"Hey, have you guys seen Helena?" she asked.
"No, we were just trying to figure out where she is, even Shepard was asking about her. Apparently she's been AWOL for over a week now," Leon said.
"A week?" Hunnigan repeated numbly.
"Yeah... she's not answering her phone."
"I know, I've located the phone but she doesn't have it with her. All right. Okay, I'll... figure something else out," Hunnigan muttered.
"Is there anything we can do to help?" Hawke asked.
"I doubt it. I have some idea where she might be, I just didn't realize she'd been missing for this long," Hunnigan said, turned around and headed back outside and to her car without saying goodbye, and instead turned her attention to her phone. She dialed her father's number as she sat in her car, started the engine and began heading toward New York. He didn't pick up and she left him a message explaining what her situation was and what she needed help with.
Hunnigan felt terrible for not having even noticed that Helena'd been missing, and while she also knew she had no obligation to keep looking after Helena and that she had a life of her own, she couldn't help but think that maybe things would be better now if she'd kept in touch with Helena.
What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Hunnigan asked herself as she drove, mixture of snow and rain pelting the windshield and turning the roads into slushy mess. It was a familiar route she drove back and forth rather often, but she could've done without the rain.
Helena needs me, was her answer to the question. She knew it was ridiculous to drive all the way there when she didn't even know where exactly Helena was, but she couldn't just stay at home and do nothing either. If nothing else, she hoped her father would be able to help with the search, or give her more information regarding what was happening. Who had been murdered, was Helena the only suspect, had the police found her and questioned her yet? Understandably, detective De La Cruz hadn't given her any details regarding the whole mess, and Hunnigan knew she shouldn't ask her father for those either, she shouldn't put him in that position, he was a respected sergeant and she shouldn't give anyone any reason to question him or compromise his integrity, but she didn't have a choice.
Helena. Needs. Me.
What Hunnigan didn't understand was why she was so quick to rush to her rescue. When Leon had called her from jail and asked her to come pick him up after he'd been arrested for being drunk and disorderly, she'd let him sit there and think about what he'd done. She'd done the same to Hawke when she'd asked Hunnigan to help her get back into the country after she'd lost her passport in Canada.
But when it's Helena who needs me, I run to her. Why? Hunnigan mused as she drove.
She hadn't really given it much thought until now. She'd always felt protective of Helena, she'd considered the young woman her protégé, and recently she'd become a very good friend.
Same can be said about Leon, but I'm not willing to commit atrocities just to get him out of trouble, Hunnigan thought.
And that was true, when it came to Helena, Hunnigan wasn't above using and abusing what power she had to ensure Helena would stay out of trouble, and most disturbingly, she wasn't afraid of risking her own reputation and her career, her life's work, to protect Helena. When the incident at Tall Oaks had happened, Hunnigan had known Helena was lying to her about Leon having a lead. Had Hunnigan done the right thing, she would've told Leon to arrest Helena for treason then and there. But she had chosen to let Helena go, she'd chosen to trust her, she'd chosen to compromise her integrity and she'd paid for it, she'd gotten reprimanded, she'd been under investigation because of her actions back then, the committee had considered her an accomplice, and it wasn't like they were wrong.
Hunnigan had never mentioned this to Helena or Leon because she didn't want their gratitude or concern, but now when she thought about everything she'd willingly put herself through just to make sure Helena would be all right, she couldn't understand herself. Hell, right now she was driving to New York trying to find Helena and figure out a way to help her get away with murder (the most disturbing part about all that being the fact that she would do everything in her power to help Helena even if it turned out she had committed the murder). Why?
Because I love her.
Hunnigan blinked in surprise at the words.
I love her. Oh, good God, I love her, she repeated mentally, an odd and indescribable feeling taking over her chest. It was partly fear and anxiety brought on by the realization and that because of it, she'd need to re-evaluate a lot of things about herself and her recent actions, personally and professionally. But mostly, it was a warm feeling of her heart figuratively swelling when she thought about Helena.
I'm in love with Helena Harper. Jesus Christ, how did this happen? Hunnigan scoffed at herself, then scoffed again at the stupid question. She knew exactly how and when this had been set in motion, she'd just been intentionally ignoring the obvious signs until she couldn't anymore.
It had been back when they'd shared a sleeping bag at the cabin. Helena had been having a nightmare, she'd cried in her sleep and kept repeating the phrase "I'm helping" with the tiniest, weakest and most heartbreaking voice Hunnigan had ever heard. Hunnigan hadn't known if she should wake her or not, but before she'd had a chance to debate it further, Helena had whimpered something incoherent and pressed herself against Hunnigan, seeking comfort and safety, and she'd been more than happy to provide. Helena had been fragile and vulnerable in a way Hunnigan didn't think was possible for the tough young woman to be.
She'd held Helena, and as she had done so, she'd felt something warm spill within her when Helena had nuzzled into the hollow of her throat and held onto Hunnigan. She'd felt an overwhelming need to comfort her, to erase her pain and protect her. She'd felt a certain kind of sadness when she'd felt all the raised scar tissue on Helena's skin because it was so wrong and so unfair that someone as young as her would have had to suffer so much pain in such a short time.
What Hunnigan felt now was a frantic urge to find Helena and bring her home.
It's not just that Helena needs me, I need Helena, I need her home, safe and sound, she thought, and then the screen on her dashboard changed to display a notification which drew her attention.
Incoming call Garrett Del Rey.
Hunnigan thumbed the answer-button on the steering wheel. "Hi, dad."
"Hey, kitten. How's the drive?"
"Slushy," Hunnigan answered, appreciative of her father's concern but having no patience for pleasantries. "Do you have anything you can tell me?"
"Yeah, um, we found your friend, but..."
"But what?" Hunnigan demanded, and during the few seconds of silence a slew of unpleasant mental images and scenarios raced through her mind.
Maybe they'd found her in a dead in a ditch somewhere and Hunnigan would need to go to the morgue to ID her. Maybe they'd found her alive but she'd confessed to committing the murder. Maybe she'd killed herself. Hunnigan sighed deeply as she worked to dispel the all too vivid mental image of Helena sitting in her car with a gaping hole in her head.
Jesus Christ, stop it, just stop, she told herself internally.
"Is she okay?" Hunnigan asked her father.
"She's alive," Garrett avoided the crux of the question.
"Dad, please, just tell me what is happening!"
"It doesn't look good. You're gonna want to get her a really good lawyer."
Whenever people were asked to describe anger and fury, it was always associated with the color red. Red hot fury, boiling and burning, scalding those that came in contact with it. But for Helena, it went beyond red, it was white-hot. She'd heard people describe getting so angry they black out, but that too was different for her. Technically, she did black out when the fury overwhelmed her, she genuinely could not remember what she'd said or done, but it was never dark, never red. It was a little white moment, like something just swept over her and erased everything until there was nothing but a sterile blank canvas.
It was what had happened in Afghanistan when she'd defended herself and what was left of her team. It was what had happened when she'd shot Deborah's abusive boyfriend. It was what had happened when she'd killed Simmons. And of all those things, she couldn't remember the details, not completely, just pieces after she'd been prodded about the incidents later. Deborah's boyfriend had done her the favor of being very detailed in his testimony in court, Leon's report regarding the Tall Oaks-incident had helped put together what had gone down with Simmons exactly, and as for Afghanistan... well, Jane did like to exaggerate, but the base of the story helped somewhat, even if Helena still didn't remember all of it. Frankly, those memories she was glad to see gone.
Helena "came to" at a diner, having no idea how she'd gotten there. She remembered she'd gone to New York to see how the trial would go, and she'd followed Good, confronted her, and then... blank.
"Listen, you've been sitting here for hours with that same cup, you're gonna have to order something or the cook's gonna throw you out," a waitress informed Helena.
"Sure, okay, uhm..." she muttered, and as she went to unwrap her hand from around the mug, she realized her knuckles were bruised and hurting. "I'll have the double-dog and a cola... and a refill, thanks," she muttered.
"All right then," the waitress said and headed back behind the counter after refilling Helena's coffee from the pot she'd held in her hand.
"Ow," Helena mumbled to herself after leaning her chin to her palm and realizing her face hurt. She turned to look at her warped reflection from the metallic napkin dispenser at the end of her table. The underside of her left eye was dark purple but there didn't seem to be any noticeable swelling. She also had a small cut on the side of her nose, a large bruise on her jaw, and a stinging split on her lower lip.
Don't bother taking your rings off, Good. It won't make a difference.
Helena felt herself recoil when the memory of saying that came to her.
"You okay? You look like you've been in some fights," the waitress commented as she returned with Helena's meal.
"Yeah, but you should see that truck's face," Helena jested, hoping it would be enough to avoid any follow-up questions. The waitress leaned down and put her hand over Helena's forearm.
"Listen, if there's a reason you don't want to go home, just say the word. I know someone who can help," she said in a quiet voice, and Helena frowned, not understanding what she meant. The waitress dug into her apron and produced a card which she then pressed into Helena's hand.
"I know it's scary, but you're not alone," she said, patted Helena's forearm and returned to work.
"Oh," Helena exhaled slowly when she looked at the card. It contained the name and contact information of a battered women's shelter.
Look at that, once again someone hurries to help you because you're so pathetic they feel sorry for you. Aren't you even ashamed? her grandmother's voice asked, and Helena sighed.
She didn't debate with it but stood up instead and headed toward the bathroom, thinking she'd need to assess the extent of the damage done to her face from an actual mirror. As she was nearing a booth, she heard a wolf whistle which she ignored.
Only whores and dogs turn to look when someone whistles at them. That was the only piece of actual advice Helena remembered getting from her grandmother. She couldn't remember what had inspired the lesson, just the advice itself.
"Yo, babe, what's your hurry?" the man who Helena assumed was also the one who'd whistled at her called out as she was about to pass the booth.
"Leave me alone," she sighed.
"Come on, now, I'd rather we were friends, I can be really friendly," he said and took it upon himself to slap her ass as she walked by. He laughed, the kind of a filthy laugh a person who thinks their boring double entendres and lewd remarks are funny would laugh. The kind of a laugh Helena had heard often from Kassandra Good as she'd worked her name into suggestive comments, none of them clever or even remotely funny, especially to Helena who had never wanted to be "a Good girl".
His laugh was cut short by Helena who in an instant turned around, grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him forward until his head hit the table, utensils clattering loudly as they fell onto the tile floor from the force of the impact. She then yanked him up only to slam him back down again and again, the porcelain plate cracking under the force of the hits, the hot mess of gravy and mashed potatoes clinging to his skin, the stream of blood running from his split lips and broken nose giving the remnants of food on his face and on the table a pink shade.
"I can be really friendly too," Helena grunted through clenched teeth, slamming his head down once more before reaching to grab one of the forks still left on the table. She felt herself getting lost in the white fury, the pleas of her victim becoming nothing but static, the commands to stop from outside drowned in the loud ringing in her ears which also muted the voice of sense within her, no one and nothing capable of reasoning with her and getting her to stop anymore, she was past the point of no return, lost in the little white moment.
Helena was about to drive the fork down with all the strength she had, aiming toward the man's eye, the force of the impact if successful undoubtedly lethal. Before she could, she felt something hit her back and a fraction of a second later, the muscles in her body spasmed, the cramp making her feel like her entire body was on fire and locked into pain, keeping her from moving, the force of it dropping her onto the floor where she lay rigidly until the current being led to her body stopped and she lost consciousness.