The basement is nothing like Nyssa expected. Fully finished, the style and decor are a marked departure from the polished, homey feel of the first floor, and clearly lacking Dinah's touch.
"Welcome to Jeff's man cave," Sara announces, voice tinged with playful sarcasm. "Or as my mom likes to call it, the 'family basement,' since she made Jeff put a bed down here for when we visit."
Sara strides further into the room, passing a dark leather couch on her way to the bed tucked against the far wall. Nyssa follows, her steps slower. She comes to a stop beside the room's centerpiece: a well-loved pool table, its worn felt a testament to years of use.
"And where is Jeff?" she asks, not out of any real desire to meet Dinah's partner, but as a means to divert attention away from the way her gaze lingers on the bed longer than necessary.
"Away at some work conference," Sara replies, dropping their bags beside the neatly made bed. "He's supposed to be back in time for Christmas."
When Sara turns to look at her, Nyssa has finally looked away from the bed, eyes falling inadvertently on the pool table.
"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting this," she remarks, a hint of amusement in her voice as she trails her fingers along the felt.
"I've gotta kick your ass at pool before we leave." Sara smirks, moving to lean against the pool table with her arms crossed casually. Her bravado wanes as she continues, "We'll have to go upstairs for the bathroom, but otherwise... it's not too bad down here, right?"
"It will suffice. We've certainly slept in worse places," she replies offhandedly, glancing at Sara with a faint smile.
"Like that shack in Maldives." Sara shudders dramatically.
"It had a certain charm to it," she counters lightly, easily slipping into the familiar rhythm of an old debate.
"It was held together by hopes and dreams," Sara deadpans, "and I woke up covered in bug bites."
"A fact you would not let me forget for the entire duration of our mission," Nyssa retorts, just as amused as every other time they've had this argument and making no effort to hide it. She can still recall the extent of Sara's grumpiness that day; it had taken the promise of a full afternoon of uninterrupted spa and beach time for Nyssa to get back into her good graces.
"I still don't get why we didn't just stay in a fancy resort," Sara grumbles.
"The reason escapes me now, but I'm sure it was a good one," she replies smoothly, her smile widening as Sara scoffs and shakes her head affectionately.
"You would say that."
The anxiousness Nyssa had been carrying throughout the day begins to slip away as she takes in Sara's easy smile. Her apprehension over seeing Sara's mother again, and now the medley of emotions dredged up by the prospect of sharing a bed with Sara—all of it fades into the background the longer she stares.
It's a reminder of how much has changed for the better. Sara smiles so much more often now, more easily, without the shadow of the League inevitably creeping in to snatch it away. In the past, this particular brand of Sara's smiles had been fleeting, something Nyssa had taken painstaking care in learning to coax out of her. Sara now offers that light freely, carrying the weight of her worries with a steady, quiet confidence.
This Sara is softer in ways that Nyssa is still learning to recognize and appreciate. Softer in ways that remind her what little has changed for her when it comes to Sara. That Sara can still make her feel like she's caught in the path of a sunbeam.
She holds Sara's gaze for a beat longer, until her thoughts begin to feel too loud—when Sara's eyes begin to soften into something tender and dangerous. So Nyssa glances away, grasping for a distraction.
"You were awfully confident earlier about beating me at this." She tilts her head at the pool table, a playful challenge behind her words.
"Yeah," Sara laughs. "Because you've never beaten me."
"I plan on correcting that," she replies with more confidence than she actually feels.
"Let me shower first, and then you're on." Amusement dances in Sara's eyes as she pushes off from the table, already moving toward her bag.
"Hey," she calls over her shoulder, smirking. "See if you can get Tommy to join us. He can't resist a good bet, so I might as well make some money off this."
—
By the time Dinah calls them for dinner, Sara is $20 richer thanks to Tommy's ill-fated confidence, and the smell of roasted chicken and herbs has permeated through the floor from the kitchen upstairs.
Despite Nyssa's best efforts, Sara maintains her perfect record against her in pool. The games were close but ultimately ended in Sara's favor, and then Sara had set her sights on Tommy and his wallet. Nyssa had been all too content to step back and watch the two bicker like siblings. It had been amusing enough to keep her spirits lifted, but standing in the dining room doorway now, Nyssa hesitates. She watches everyone file in, maneuvering and claiming seats with practiced ease.
Sara purposely brushes past her, snagging her hand along the way to tug her in the direction of the free chairs across from Laurel and Tommy. Once they're seated, Sara lets go, but not before encouragingly squeezing her hand.
Tommy has already begun to dig in, piling food onto Laurel's plate before doing the same with his.
"Well, this is nice," Laurel says warmly, glancing around the table.
"It's not often I have such a full table," Dinah agrees with a smile. She then cuts a pointed look toward Laurel, but without any bite says, "Certainly not as often as I'd like."
"I know, I know." Laurel rolls her eyes fondly. "We should visit more."
As conversation picks up around her, Nyssa eats quietly while she observes. The dynamic between mother and daughters is new to her, having only ever witnessed the Lance sisters with their father. She's drawn to their interactions, and how Dinah's love and care differs from Quentin's, gentler but no less fierce.
Watching Laurel and Sara with their mother offers new insight to the women she respects and admires so deeply. Over time, it had become clear to her which traits they had inherited from their father—their sense of justice, their resilience, their stubbornness. Sitting at Dinah's table, she's piecing together the bits of Sara and Laurel that reflect their mother—their warmth, Laurel's poise, Sara's sharp wit.
For Nyssa, the concept of a mother's love is just that—a concept. She's never had a real frame of reference for what motherhood and maternal love are supposed to look like, has only recently gotten a vague sense of it from observing Felicity with her children.
She's fascinated by the ways Dinah embodies motherhood. The way Dinah looks at her daughters with open affection, teasing them one moment and sighing in fond exasperation the next. The way she listens with undivided attention and focus when either of them speaks, as though every word matters. There are even moments when that warmth is directed towards Tommy.
A brief pang tugs in her chest—something like a distant echo of a feeling she thought long buried. She vaguely recognizes it for what it is: longing. A quiet reminder of something missing. She thinks, not for the first time, how curious it is to miss someone she's never met.
Before her thoughts can fully run away from her, she feels the faintest nudge against her foot. The touch is light, but enough to break her out of her introspection. Instinctively, she looks over at Sara only to find she's already watching her, soft and searching.
Nyssa tilts her head slightly in question.
Sara's brow arches in unspoken concern.
Nyssa lets out a quiet exhale. She gives the tiniest nod that says I'm fine, and while it's not a lie, it's not entirely the truth either. She summons the calm, composed, stoic exterior she's mastered over the years—she knows it won't fool Sara, but her concern is more so in not drawing attention to herself from the others.
Sara holds her gaze for a moment, but appears to come to an understanding. She offers a small, reassuring smile, and for a moment, Nyssa is actually grateful for Sara's ability to read her so well.
"Nyssa," Dinah calls, pulling her attention away from Sara. "I'm told you've been traveling."
Nyssa straightens in her chair. The question has caught her off guard—she hadn't expected Dinah to directly address her at all. Dinah's tone is polite, perhaps even genuine in its interest, and Nyssa decides to accept it for the attempt at inclusion that it might be.
"Yes. Not that long ago, actually."
"Nyssa spent some time in Greece," Laurel interjects. "One of Mom's specialties is Greek history."
The last part is said to her, as though Laurel isn't already aware that Nyssa knows this detail. She shoots a small, grateful smile at Laurel's obvious attempt at creating common ground between Nyssa and her mother.
"What parts of Greece?" Dinah asks, leaning forward slightly in interest.
"The mainland, mostly, but a little bit of everywhere."
For several moments, the conversation flows with surprising ease. Dinah's interest feels genuine as she asks Nyssa about the sights, the culture, and occasionally tests her knowledge of Greek history. And this—engaging a professor in an academic exchange on the finer points of history and culture—this is something Nyssa has no trouble maneuvering. Far better than trying to navigate the intricacies of conversing with someone she's wronged—especially when that someone is the mother of her Beloved.
At one point, she steals a quick glance at Sara to find her watching the exchange with open fondness, smiling contently. It stirs something deep within her, but the moment passes just as quickly as it came, Dinah's question about Delphi directing her attention back to the conversation at hand.
Dinah eventually steers the conversation to more personal matters. "You decided to go back to Star City. Is that where you call home these days?"
It's a seemingly innocent question, but everyone at the table knows there's more to it than that.
Nyssa hesitates.
She feels all eyes on her, knows that Laurel and Sara are especially invested in whatever her response will be.
She knows that her time in Star City has become less and less something transient, and more of a slow acclimation to the truth—she's never felt more at home than when she's with Laurel and Sara.
What she's managed to build for herself in Star City has grown beyond just Sara. Sara will always feel like home, regardless of any time or distance between them. But her pull to Star City is no longer only about Sara.
It's about Laurel, who has continuously offered her support and friendship while making space for Nyssa in her life. Who, once she had caught a glimpse of the real Nyssa, has always believed in her, even when Nyssa barely believed in herself.
It's about Tommy, who continuously surprises her with his charm and easygoing nature. Who, once he'd finally accepted Nyssa into the fold, would go out of his way to make sure she felt normal, like she belonged.
It's even about Felicity and her children. What started as an uneasy alliance between herself and Oliver's widow, has evolved into something amiable, with potential to grow. In large part due to how much Mia and William have taken to her—a connection that came surprisingly naturally.
It's about family—built by choice, out of love, and not by duty or obligation.
She can't imagine being anywhere else now that Laurel and Tommy are starting a family of their own. Can't imagine not watching their children grow and being part of their lives.
And, well, running doesn't suit Nyssa. It never has. Whatever is happening between her and Sara, whatever it leads to, she knows now that she will eventually have to face it head on.
"Is that where you call home?"
Quietly, as though voicing a desire she isn't sure she's allowed to have: "I would like it to be."
In the moment of silence that follows, Nyssa's heartbeat pounds loudly in her ears. She allows herself to take a steadying breath.
Her eyes find Laurel's first—she wears her emotions openly, bright eyes and a proud smile.
"Well, that's probably the best news I've heard all week," Laurel says, sincerity shining through her voice. Beside her, Tommy sports a matching grin.
"I wasn't worried," he claims, leaning back in his seat triumphantly. "I knew you'd come around."
From the corner of her eye, Dinah looks quietly contemplative, as though she's judging the sincerity of Nyssa's words.
She saves Sara for last, knowing whatever she sees there could undo her.
Sara is quiet, unusually so, her hands resting still on the table. Her expression is soft, calm, but it's her eyes that draw Nyssa in and hold her captive—alight with a flurry of emotions, more than she can fully parse in that moment. The relief and elation are unmistakable, but something deeper, more ardent simmers just below the surface. Something she's not ready to put a name to.
She knows this is the affirmation Sara had been hoping for when she'd first asked Nyssa about staying—back in Nyssa's apartment, trying to mask her disappointment at Nyssa's uncertainty.
Whatever thoughts are running through Sara's mind in this moment, it's clear she isn't ready to unpack them here at the table, not with so many eyes on them.
Sara's voice is soft when she finally speaks, "Guess you're stuck with us now."
There's a teasing lilt to her voice that draws a smile from Nyssa. "I suppose I am."
—
Sara volunteers them for cleanup duty after dinner. Nyssa presumes it's an excuse to allow them a private moment. Her assumption eventually proves correct.
The laughter and voices of the others fade as they retire to the living room, leaving just the two of them in the kitchen. Sara pauses halfway through rinsing the dishes they've gathered, shutting off the water abruptly.
She feels the weight of Sara's eyes on her, and glances up from her task of carefully arranging items into the dishwasher. She finds Sara watching her, expression unguarded.
"You're really going to stay?" Sara asks, voice low and vulnerable. "That isn't something you were just saying in the moment?"
Nyssa straightens slowly and takes a moment to study Sara—the careful hope in her eyes, the way she absently twists the dish towel in her hands.
"When have I ever been one to say something I don't mean?" she replies gently.
Sara's grip on the towel loosens slightly.
"Then can you say it again?" Sara asks, her tone almost shy. "I'd like to hear it."
Nyssa takes a step closer and rests a hand lightly on Sara's forearm, compelled to offer some form of comfort in the face of Sara's vulnerability.
"Yes," she says with quiet resolve. "I'm going to stay."
The smile that breaks across Sara's face is brilliant, radiant—whatever other words Nyssa can't recall in that moment because she's rendered completely awestruck.
Sara ducks her head, a soft laugh escaping her. There's a faint flush on her cheeks.
Nyssa is still frozen in awe. She didn't think she could still have this effect on Sara. That she could still make Sara smile like that, still make her look that happy.
The realization is exhilarating, but terrifying. Terrifying, because now she wonders how she went so long without seeing her like this. Terrifying, because she feels the distance she has so carefully crafted beginning to crumble.
When she refocuses on Sara, she can tell that Sara's trying to compose herself. To temper the flood of emotion, but the joy radiates off of her.
"Okay," Sara says at last, more so to herself. When she looks back at Nyssa, she nods.
"That's good. That's great, I'm–" Sara pauses, breath catching in her throat as she struggles to find her words. "I'm really glad."
Nyssa's hand is still on Sara's arm, thumb brushing absently against the fabric of her sleeve. It's rare to see Sara at a loss for words, and she's struck with the urge to ease the weight of the moment off Sara's shoulders.
"Someone must ensure you don't get yourself into too much trouble," Nyssa says softly, a hint of teasing in her voice.
"That's usually my job." Sara gestures toward herself, tone wry. "Captain and all."
Nyssa tilts her head slightly. "And who keeps the captain in line?"
It's meant as a jest, but Sara hesitates. It's brief, barely a pause, a flicker of something unreadable.
Then, just as quickly, she recovers: "Gideon."
Nyssa huffs a quiet laugh. "I believe I can do better than a disembodied voice trapped inside your ship."
"She's a sophisticated AI from the future." Sara laughs is warm and unrestrained, her head shaking in amusement. Nyssa can't help but smile in return.
With a sigh, Sara glances at the pile of remaining dishes.
"We should probably finish these," she says, "Before someone comes looking for us."
Nyssa squeezes Sara's arm before finally letting go. Neither of them is in any hurry to move, lingering in the moment for a bit longer. Eventually, they return to their earlier tasks, finishing the rest of cleanup in companionable silence.
—
"Do you still sleep on the right side?" Sara asks casually, gesturing to the bed.
Nyssa freezes, hands deep in the overnight bag she's been rummaging through for sleepwear.
Fresh from the bathroom, Sara's dressed in a simple shirt and pajama pants dotted with little penguins wearing Santa hats. The sight hits her with an unexpected force—not for the penguins themselves, but for how they remind her of another pair of pajamas from years ago.
For a moment, she's back in a safehouse in Madrid: Sara sprawled across the bed in the ridiculous shark pajamas she sometimes wore—a playful assertion of her individuality, a quiet rebellion against the scrutinizing eye of the League. It won't be until later that Nyssa realizes the pants were just as much Sara's way of coaxing her into indulging in a bit of her irreverent silliness.
As she wonders briefly whatever happened to those pajamas, more of that memory ekes out before she can stamp it down:
"Sharks are cool, Nyssa. Keep giving me grief and I'll get you a matching pair."
"I'm not quite sure the punishment fits the crime, Beloved."
"I think you could pull them off."
She pushes the memory away before it can unravel further—before she recalls exactly how Sara proved her point about "pulling things off," and before the blush it would undoubtedly bring to her cheeks.
Forcing herself back to the present, she realizes belatedly that she's been staring. Sara's question about the bed hangs in the air between them, still unanswered.
"You remember that?" She can't mask her surprise.
Sara looks up from fluffing her pillow.
"Of course I do." Sara shrugs, as if the answer is obvious, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Nyssa clears her throat. She gathers what she needs for the bathroom, eager for a reprieve from the sudden flood of memories.
"Yes," she replies, finally answering Sara's initial question. She keeps her tone carefully neutral. "I still prefer the right."
In the bathroom, she takes her time going through her nighttime routine, using it as a means to keep herself composed. It's one thing to have known ahead of time that they would be sharing a bed—it's another thing entirely in practice.
By the time she returns, Sara is perched on the left side of the bed, one leg tucked underneath her while the other dangles off the side. She would appear relaxed if not for the telltale fidgeting of her hands. She glances up at Nyssa's return, offering a hesitant smile.
"I guess I should have asked this before," Sara begins sheepishly. "Do you want me to take the couch? I don't mind."
Of course Sara would manage to pinpoint the source of her anxiety. Their years together have no doubt provided Sara a catalogue of her tells—Nyssa's stiff posture, her fleeting hesitations, all adding up to one obvious conclusion.
Her shoulders tense at the suggestion. There's something about the idea of making either of them sleep on the couch that feels even worse.
"It will be fine." The words come out steadier than she feels. They're just as much an assurance to herself as they are to Sara. She moves to the right side of the bed to pull back the covers. "Let's just get some sleep."
For a moment, Sara looks as though she's going to argue. Instead she simply nods before rising to turn off the lights.
As Nyssa slips under the covers, a faint click of the switch plunges the room into darkness. Facing away from Sara's side, she feels Sara ease into bed, the space beside her dipping slightly. The bed is big enough to fit them both comfortably, but the space feels all at once too small and too vast.
"Goodnight, Nyssa," Sara whispers.
She closes her eyes, willing herself to relax. "Goodnight, Sara."
—
Hours later, Nyssa has yet to find sleep, her thoughts refusing to settle.
She shifts restlessly onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. The house creaks around her, the furnace drones to life intermittently, but most deafening is Sara's breathing beside her.
Rhythmic inhales and exhales, punctuated by faint sighs. The sound had once been so familiar to her, so comforting. Something that once she'd grown accustomed to, had taken her ages to learn to sleep without. Now it serves as a reminder of everything she's lost, everything she's too afraid to hope for again. Sara lies close enough to touch but might as well be miles away, separated by uncertainty and unspoken words.
She's unsure how much time passes before Sara stirs beside her, the rustle of the sheets amplified in the stillness of the room.
"You're awake." Sara's voice is low, still hoarse with sleep.
Nyssa doesn't respond right away, letting the silence stretch. Her throat feels tight as she debates how much to disclose.
"Is it the bed?"
"The bed is fine," Nyssa replies, voice clipped.
Silence again. She feels Sara shift closer, and she tenses at the movement before finally glancing over. In the darkness, she can just make out Sara's furrowed brows, her lips pressed together in concern.
"I can still take the couch," Sara offers softly.
Nyssa exhales sharply, her frustration bubbling over before she can contain it. "I don't want you to take the couch."
"And I don't want you to be uncomfortable," Sara fires back, calm but firm.
"I'm not uncomfortable, Sara," she snaps, her whisper sharper than intended, and she immediately feels guilty for it. Her fingers clench around the blanket.
Sara remains quiet, watching her patiently, unfazed by her outburst. It only proves to make it more difficult for her to articulate her emotions.
Avoiding Sara's gaze, she looks back at the ceiling. Her frustration is mostly with herself and the circumstances, but part of it does lie with Sara. With how composed and unaffected she appears. Nyssa knows better than to believe that, but she can't help wondering if this weighs on Sara the way it does on her.
She swallows thickly, takes a steadying breath. Her voice loses its edge as she leans into honesty.
"I'm... overwhelmed. The last bed we shared was ours."
The admission cuts through the silence. The darkness of the room feels more stifling than ever; the memories and emotions an almost unbearable weight sitting on her chest.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
She wonders if Sara even heard her. Her gaze finally leaves the ceiling to check. Sara's eyes are still on her, full of quiet understanding. Nyssa can make out the way her throat works as she swallows, the slight tremor in her exhale.
"I get it," Sara says gently. "This is a lot. For me, too."
Sara reaches out slowly, as if she's afraid of spooking her. Nyssa allows Sara to take her hand, to carefully unwrap her fingers from their grip on the blanket.
There's a brief hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty, before Sara asks, "Is it too much?"
Nyssa closes her eyes for a moment at the vulnerability in Sara's voice, the slight edge of insecurity.
"I don't know," she answers honestly, opening her eyes to once again meet Sara's.
Sara nods slowly, a bittersweet smile on her face. Her thumb sweeps absently over Nyssa's knuckles, a gentle motion that she'd find soothing under different circumstances.
"You seem so calm about all of this." Nyssa keeps her words careful and precise, devoid of judgment.
Sara's hand slips from hers with a sigh. The mattress dips as she pushes herself upright against the headboard. After a beat of hesitation, Nyssa follows suit. The new position allows her to better read Sara's expression.
"I'm not calm," Sara admits, briefly looking down, her fingers picking at the comforter. "I've been trying to figure all of this out since you left."
When Sara looks back up, Nyssa finally sees the cracks in Sara's facade—the vulnerability behind her eyes, the way they search Nyssa's own, the tension in her shoulders and the careful way she holds herself.
"I've had six months to think about what it all means, what I want it to mean." Sara hesitates. "What I want to say to you when you're ready to hear it."
Nyssa inhales sharpy. Her jaw tightens. The irony of the role reversal is not lost on her. She was once the one who was so sure of them. Until death, and fate, and paths diverged. Until she looked Sara in the eyes and let her go, never imagining it would be the last time she saw her.
And now Sara is sitting beside her, dangling possibility in front of her. Trying to reignite a hope Nyssa had long extinguished.
"I spent those same months trying to learn how to let you go." Again.
There's no bitterness to her words, only quiet resignation. Sara looks away, lips pressing into a thin line, a single shallow nod to herself. She doesn't say anything. Nyssa doesn't expect her to.
Nyssa had spent that time learning how to be someone who could exist in Sara's world peacefully, without drowning. She hadn't anticipated returning to Star City to find Sara unattached—to learn that Sara had missed her. For Sara to look at her in a way that is familiar yet new.
She hasn't had a chance to recalibrate to this new status quo. The emotional whiplash proves too much, too soon.
"Sara..." she begins, but her voice falters.
She knows there are a million things that have been left unsaid between them. She doesn't even know where to begin without unraveling everything. She thought she had made her peace with it, had let those wounds scar over. She's wholly unprepared for Sara to now pick at those scabs.
She breathes deeply, shoulders sagging. The day's journey and events all finally catching up with her. She knows that this conversation deserves more than she can give in that moment.
Sara starts to reach for her. Her hand hovers for a second before ultimately dropping to the space between them, fingers curling into the sheets instead. The hesitation in the aborted gesture tightens the knot in Nyssa's chest. She suppresses her own instinct to offer Sara comfort.
"Not tonight," Sara states softly. There's something apologetic about her expression.
"We don't have to figure this all out right now. But when we get back to Star City, we should talk. About this. About us."
Something in Sara's cautiously hopeful expression, the delicate way she's handled her all night, breaks through the last of Nyssa's defenses. She's been here before, countless nights in their past. Back when she was still learning how to share pieces of herself—to trust that Sara would catch her each time she took that leap.
"Okay." The word comes easier than expected, and with it, some of the tension releases from her shoulders.
She's rewarded with a smile, warm and reassuring. It makes Nyssa want to reach for her, to bridge the divide between them, so she does. She covers Sara's hand that rests between them, and Sara visibly relaxes at the touch.
"Okay," Sara echoes, curling her hand around Nyssa's.
Once they've settled back down on the bed, their hands drifting apart, the carefully measured space between them feels less daunting. There's a faint glimmer of relief—like the knot in her chest has loosened, even if only slightly. And when sleep finally claims her, the last thing she sees is Sara watching her, gaze soft and steady.
—
"Nyssa."
The whisper comes from somewhere above her.
"Nyssa." The whisper is more insistent this time, accompanied by a gentle nudge against her shoulder.
Finally pulled from the edges of sleep, she cracks open an eye to find Sara's face hovering over her.
"It snowed," Sara says, smiling widely and still whispering.
"You act as if you've never seen snow before," Nyssa grumbles, voice still rough with sleep but lacking any real annoyance.
Before she can press her face back into her pillow, Sara has the audacity to poke her in the forehead. A sound of indignation escapes her, but Sara is undeterred.
"No grumbles," Sara scolds lightly. "It doesn't snow like this in Star City. So wake up and humor me, please."
Resigning herself to her fate, Nyssa releases a long-suffering sigh. She sits up and drags a hand through her hair. The room is still dim, faint light filtering in through the small basement window, but Sara is already dressed for the cold, bundled up in layers.
"Good morning," Sara greets, a lopsided grin in place. "Now brush your teeth and get dressed."
For a moment, Nyssa simply watches her. As the morning haze of sleep begins to clear, she notices Sara's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, is almost tentative in nature.
Banter seems easiest to fall back on, something to steer them away from the remnants of last night and ease whatever reservations Sara may have at the moment.
"Have you considered that it is far too early for you to be this bossy?"
Something clicks for Sara, as if she's been given express permission to drag Nyssa into whatever she has planned. Sara's expression turns bright-eyed, leaning fully into her enthusiasm and practically vibrating with barely contained energy. Any traces of last night's heaviness replaced with unguarded joy.
"Nope." Sara's grin is unwavering. "And don't act like you don't already get up this early anyway."
"To meditate and go through my forms."
"We can do all that after." Sara waves a hand dismissively, then puts on her best Captain voice, "Consider this an exercise in spontaneity. Now up and at 'em. Adventure awaits."
Twenty minutes later, she's following Sara into the backyard, boots sinking into the fresh snow. The backyard has transformed overnight, blanketed in pristine white, untouched and glittering under the morning light. Sara immediately moves toward the center of the yard, all the while informing Nyssa of the differences between Central City's snow and the occasionally dustings Star City receives.
She barely registers the words, her focus instead drifting to Sara herself—the sight of her wrapped in a scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, and snowflakes clinging to her hair.
She considers apologizing for last night—for her sharp words, for letting her emotions get the better of her. In the light of day, she can see how she'd allowed herself to fall back on old habits.
But as she watches Sara speak, she hesitates. Animatedly gesturing with her gloved hands, there's a lightness in her that leaves Nyssa reluctant to break whatever spell the morning has cast over them.
The more she reflects, the more deliberate this venture feels, like Sara's way of providing them a gentle reset from last night's heaviness. Over time, she had come to recognize a pattern in Sara's "exercises in spontaneity"—they were rarely ever just for herself. Sara had long since learned that Nyssa coped better when put to action, with no time to dwell on her own thoughts for too long. And sure enough, she had coaxed Nyssa out of bed this morning with an infectious excitement that left no room for brooding. Sara had once again disarmed her, rather effortlessly.
If this is Sara's way of nudging them forward, Nyssa intends to meet her halfway.
Her first snowball lands squarely between Sara's shoulders.
Sara whirls around, mouth agape. "You did not just do that."
"I'm humoring you," Nyssa replies, aiming for an air of innocence, but unable to hide the mischievous glint in her eye. "As you requested."
It's an echo of Sara's earlier words, but also an olive branch—her own deliberate moment of levity; her acknowledgment of what Sara's doing; her own offer of an apology.
Something in Sara's expression shifts. There's a flash of recognition behind her eyes, like she can hear everything Nyssa isn't saying. A slow grin spreads across her face before she crouches to scoop up her own snowball.
"I hope you understand what you've gotten yourself into," Sara warns, voice grave but eyes gleaming with amusement.
Their combat training turns the ensuing fight into more of a dance than an all-out assault. They fall into familiar patterns that echo their sparring sessions, trading their weapons for snow. Snow flies between them, but the hits land few and far between as they dodge and weave. Laughter rings throughout the yard.
It's ridiculous and childish in a way she only ever allows herself to be with Sara. But perhaps that's exactly what they both need this morning.
As their battle begins to wind down, one of Sara's throws catches Nyssa off balance. She loses her footing on a patch of ice, and lands in the snow with about as much dignity as she can muster. She can't help but laugh breathlessly from her spot on the ground.
Sara's own laugh grows louder as she approaches, until she's peering over Nyssa with a triumphant smirk.
"Getting rusty there?"
Before Nyssa can even respond, Sara extends a hand to help her up. As she does, her sleeve slides back just enough for Nyssa to catch a glimpse of familiar blue beads on her wrist. For the briefest moment, her breath catches and a warmth fills her chest despite the cold seeping into her clothes. This is her first time seeing Sara wear the bracelet since she had gifted it to her.
She stays silent, choosing to tuck that information away for another time. For now, she takes Sara's hand. As she glances up, a dangerous smile tugs at her lips. Sara's eyes narrow in suspicion, but before she can react, Nyssa gives a sharp tug.
With a startled yelp, Sara topples forward, landing beside her in the snow.
"Really?" Sara groans, but she's already laughing as she sits up, brushing snow from her jacket.
"You've pulled that move before," Sara accuses, trying and failing to look stern.
"Many times," Nyssa agrees, grinning wide. "And yet, you fell for it every time."
Sara hums thoughtfully. She stares for a moment, before her expression slightly softens.
"Or maybe I just let you."
Nyssa props herself up on her elbows, arching a brow. "You 'let' me?"
Sara shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You'd always look so pleased with yourself afterward. It was worth falling on my face just to see it."
It's a lighthearted response, but Nyssa can hear the sincerity behind it. Sara seems ready to move past it, as she pushes herself to her feet and offers her hand again.
Before Nyssa can accept, the kitchen doors slide open, reminding them that a world still exists beyond this moment.
Laurel steps onto the snow-covered patio, tugging her thick shawl tighter around her as she approaches, a steaming mug in her hands.
"Tommy's gonna be sad he missed this," Laurel says, clearly amused. "You two are actually out here acting like kids. I've been watching from the kitchen for the past ten minutes."
Sara catches Nyssa's eye, grinning. "Busted."
"Everyone else is still asleep, but if you two are done, I made coffee." Laurel glances at Nyssa with a knowing look. "You're too particular about your tea for me to even attempt making it."
Laurel tries to sound exasperated, but is unable to hide the fondness in her voice.
Sara helps Nyssa to her feet, both of them brushing snow from their clothes.
"I simply prefer it to be made properly," Nyssa replies.
"There's a whole method, Laurel." Sara nods sagely, then begins to list off each point on her fingers. "Timing. Temperature. Discipline–"
"Right," Laurel interrupts with a snort. "I didn't know tea brewing was part of League training."
Sara tilts her head as if in thought. "More like part of Nyssa training."
"If you're both quite finished," Nyssa interrupts, arms crossed for warmth. "I would very much like to relocate somewhere warm."
Laurel rolls her eyes but gestures toward the house. "Come on, before you freeze out here. I'm not dealing with either of you getting sick."
Before following Laurel, Nyssa shares one last look with Sara. They linger, reluctant to leave the simplicity they found in the snow and return to reality.
Sara steps ahead first. When she turns to hold out a hand, Nyssa hesitates for a beat. But then she takes it, wondering if this is a way forward for them.
—
When Nyssa enters the kitchen, shower-warm and hair still damp, Sara and Laurel look up from their conversation.
The sisters exchange one last knowing glance, before Sara steps forward and wordlessly presses a steaming mug into Nyssa's hands. It's a simple gesture, but the thoughtfulness behind it leaves her momentarily speechless. She manages only a soft "thank you" before Sara slips past her, disappearing down the hall for her turn in the shower.
Ignoring Laurel's pointed stare, she takes a slow sip of the tea. It's not quite how she would make it—Dinah's kitchen lacks the proper equipment and ingredients. But it's surprisingly good.
It's clear that Sara put thought into making it, that she knew what to substitute in order to create something she knew Nyssa would drink. That despite all her teasing during Nyssa's lectures about tea brewing, Sara had been listening and observing.
"Did she get it right?" Laurel's voice cuts through her thoughts—Nyssa had almost forgotten she's there.
"Yes." She sets the drink down with care before sliding into the chair across from Laurel. In the distance, the shower turns on, the sound filling the amiable silence between them.
"So," Laurel drawls, smirking as she leans back in her seat, "a snowball fight? I never thought I'd see the day."
"Your sister is persistent," Nyssa replies nonchalantly. Laurel doesn't need to know that, while it had been Sara's idea to go outside, Nyssa was the one who instigated the fight.
"Oh, I'm sure it was torture for you." Laurel's eyes gleam with amusement. "You didn't look like you were having fun at all."
Nyssa levels her with a flat look, but Laurel continues on, grinning.
"Aren't you supposed to be a League-trained negotiator? What did Sara do, say 'please' and you folded?"
Nyssa huffs and glares. That is, more or less, how Sara got her outside, but she refuses to give Laurel the satisfaction of admitting it. Her silence, however, is all the confirmation Laurel needs.
"You really don't know how to say no to her," Laurel chuckles, shaking her head.
It's a teasing, light remark—one that normally wouldn't affect her. But after last night – after hesitating in a way she rarely ever used to with Sara – the words land differently, pressing heavy against her chest. A sharp contrast from the lightness she'd felt not that long ago in the snow.
Her hands curl around the mug and she focuses on the warmth beneath her fingertips. She's quiet long enough that Laurel's smirk fades, as if sensing the shift in Nyssa's demeanor.
The truth is, Laurel's right on some level. She's not accustomed to denying Sara what she wants, even when it hurts her.
"I want her to be happy," Nyssa says quietly, staring down at the tea.
When she looks up, Laurel's expression is pensive, head tilted in contemplation. All traces of teasing gone.
"She looks happy to me," Laurel says, and then, after a beat, "And so do you."
Nyssa exhales softly. She wants to believe that. But history tells a different story.
Laurel's expression shifts, as if she's weighing her next words carefully. Nyssa recognizes that look—it's the one Laurel gives right before she cuts to the heart of the matter.
"Sara's happiness doesn't have to come at the expense of your own, you know."
Nyssa stills. She fixes her gaze somewhere over Laurel's shoulder, away from the weight of her stare.
Over the years, Laurel's learned when to tread carefully with her and when to strike with precision befitting a prosecutor. The words are said without judgment, but they hit their mark nonetheless.
Laurel has said this to her before—not so directly, but in the way Laurel's questioned her over the years, the way they've discussed her unwavering devotion.
And wasn't that the point of leaving Star City in the first place? To find a way to untangle her sense of happiness from Sara? To find a version of herself who wasn't bound to her devotion?
"It's not that simple," Nyssa murmurs, grip tightening imperceptibly on her mug.
"It rarely ever is with you two."
Laurel lets the words settle between them. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, Laurel leans forward slightly, eyes searching Nyssa's.
"Nyssa, what do you want?" she asks, voice steady but gentle. "Not what you think is best, or right. What do you want?"
Nyssa shoots her a mildly annoyed look—they both already know the answer to that.
"I know." She holds up a hand placatingly. "But just say it anyway."
Nyssa sighs, voice quiet: "It has always been Sara. That has never changed."
"Then what's stopping you?"
Fear. Doubt. The unshakable weight of them.
Nyssa looks away, jaw tightening. "It is not simply a matter of happiness, Laurel. I've never doubted your sister's ability to make me happy. I spent years chasing her light."
She hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. She struggles with her next words, with how much of her soul to bare. Laurel waits patiently.
"What I doubt is her ability to stay," she admits, voice small. And then, even softer, "And my ability to hold her attention."
She lets out a slow breath, her gaze fixed on the tea as if the words might sting less if she doesn't meet Laurel's eyes. "I have walked this path with Sara before, and each time, it has ended in heartbreak."
She's come to accept that there will always be a part of her that longs for Sara. But being faced with the possibility of trying again feels very much like standing on a precipice and being asked to leap into the unknown below.
And for all her training, for all her strength and resolve, Nyssa al Ghul has never been very good at falling—she goes down in a blaze, a falling comet careening toward the ground.
"I'm not sure I can survive losing her again," she confesses, so quietly, as if she's saying it to herself.
When she finally meets Laurel's gaze, Laurel's watching her carefully, free of judgment. She doesn't rush to fill the silence, or offer empty assurances.
"You're scared," Laurel states, not unkindly. "I get that. But I don't think you're the only who is."
Laurel leans forward, "I'm willing to bet Sara's terrified of screwing this up, of losing you all over again."
The words sink in slowly. Sara's behavior the night before, the careful way she handled Nyssa this morning, all point to truth in Laurel's observation.
Nyssa studies Laurel for a long moment. She's always valued Laurel's insight as her friend. It's not until recently that she's needed Laurel's insight as Sara's sister as well. And now that Laurel has reminded her of Sara's part in all this, Nyssa finds herself needing to hear from her friend rather than Sara's sister.
"What would you say to me if she were not your sister?"
"I would say that you should go after what you want," Laurel responds without hesitation, voice steady and full of conviction. "That you deserve to be happy—whether that's with my sister or not."
Laurel reaches across the table, palm up, and Nyssa trades the grounding effects of her mug for Laurel's hand. Laurel's grip is warm and gentle, the kind of reassurance she's come to expect from her friend.
"And the only thing standing in your way now is fear," Laurel says softly, a hint of a challenge in her eyes. As if daring Nyssa to be brave.
Before either of them can say anything more, the sound of the shower shuts off in the distance. They both know they have only a few moments before Sara returns.
"Give it some thought. But don't think too hard," Laurel smiles knowingly, voice lighter but no less sincere. And then, softly, "Whatever happens, I'm here."
Laurel has given her plenty to consider. The words "thank you" don't escape her lips, but when Laurel squeezes her hand once more, Nyssa squeezes back, and she knows Laurel understands.
The conversation sits with her for the rest of the morning, filling the silent moments she shares with Sara. Sara's quiet words in the dark, the morning in the snow, Sara's silent acts of thoughtfulness—Nyssa sees them now for what they are. Small moments of bravery in between the fear.
What she had failed to mention to Laurel—between the two of them, Sara was always the braver one.
