By the time the afternoon settles in, Nyssa welcomes the chance for solitude. The morning's conversations have left her restless, her thoughts too loud. When she suggests to Laurel that Sara might appreciate some sister time, it's as much for her own benefit as theirs.
The house feels different without Sara by her side—quieter, less familiar.
With no real destination in mind, Nyssa drifts toward the framed photographs lining the first-floor hallway. The first to catch her eyes is an image of Laurel and Sara as children, sporting matching grins. She has seen so very few childhood photos of the sisters—of Sara. The only reason she's seen any at all is because of Laurel.
But here, laid out before her, is an entire wall of memories. So she takes her time with each one, lingering on any involving the sisters, mesmerized by their carefree, youthful joy—frozen in time and untouched by the weight of what's to come.
The longer she stands there, the more she feels a familiar ache—she never had this. No record of her childhood, her innocence, before her father began forging her into a weapon—if such a girl had ever existed at all.
She's unsure how much time passes before she hears footsteps that aren't Sara's.
"She was a handful at that age." Dinah's voice is warm with nostalgia.
Nyssa knew she would eventually have to face Dinah alone, but she hadn't expected it to happen here, in the midst of Lance family memories, feeling a bit more exposed than she'd like.
Dinah smiles softly, focusing on a picture of a younger Sara, holding her father's hand, dressed for what appears to be a baseball game.
The corner of Nyssa's lips tug into a faint smile. "I can imagine."
"She was always full of energy. No fear," Dinah chuckles. "She liked to climb trees that were too tall for her, and always ran ahead of us. Headfirst into everything—it drove her father crazy."
She can picture it perfectly. A younger, lighter Sara. Vibrant and wild and free.
Nyssa has spent years wondering what Sara was like before they met, before the island and the darkness that touched her.
She knows she has caught glimpses of that girl before, during the stolen moments in between.
In moments where they could pretend, at least for a little while, they were nothing more than two lovers traveling the world together. When Sara would feel particularly playful, bold enough to steal a kiss in the halls of Nanda Parbat, just to see what she could get away with. Would challenge Nyssa to rooftop races, leap off cliffs into the waters below, drag her into whatever mischief she had planned.
"That sounds familiar," Nyssa murmurs, soft and distant.
When Dinah finally looks at her with careful consideration, Nyssa busies herself with studying the picture of Sara with her father.
"I'm told you had an... unconventional childhood."
When she meets Dinah's gaze, it's the softest expression Dinah has given her yet. Nyssa can only imagine what Sara and Laurel have told her.
"My father saw very little use for sentimentality." She speaks with a neutrality she's perfected over the years.
Dinah's brows furrow together in a way that reminds her too much of Laurel, that same blend of compassion and quiet anger on someone else's behalf.
Nyssa never knows what to say when her childhood is called into question. It wasn't until she met Sara, heard stories about her childhood—of birthday parties, family vacations, a mother's soothing touch over scraped knees—that Nyssa began to understand just how different her life had been.
"That must have been difficult," Dinah eventually says.
"It was what I knew."
The silence stretches between them, but for once, it isn't tense. And when Dinah studies her this time, there's less judgment behind her eyes.
"Sara never really talks about her time in the League," Dinah says carefully. "But Laurel tells me you trained Sara?"
"I did," she responds, just as carefully, unsure the direction this conversation is going.
Dinah says nothing for a moment, then laughs softly. "So you've trained both my daughters."
Nyssa allows herself a small smile in return, and for a moment, the air between them feels lighter. But then Dinah's smile fades, her face clouding over.
"What was she like?" Dinah asks, curious and searching.
Nyssa takes her time forming an answer. She's not sure how much to reveal—there are pieces of Sara that aren't hers to share.
"She was determined," she says at last. "Resilient, headstrong. A quick learner.
She pauses, the faintest smile on her face. "She was kind."
She doesn't tell Dinah that it was months before she learned anything real about Sara—before Sara would even let her. That the girl she rescued was so close to death, she had already welcomed it. That, for some inexplicable reason, Sara had trusted her from the very beginning.
So she mentions the parts of Sara she knew were there all along, that would eventually resurface. She doesn't mention the war between Sara's light and her reckless disregard for her own life, the one that made Nyssa train her twice as hard just to keep her alive.
There is a reason Sara hasn't spoken to her mother about the League, and Nyssa will honor that. But she can offer some reassurance, even if it is the sanitized version. Something that holds true regardless of any circumstances.
"She missed you. Even when she did not say it. It was always there."
Dinah swallows hard, looking away for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion. "Thank you."
There's a sincerity to Dinah's voice that Nyssa doesn't know what to do with. She only nods, dipping her chin in acknowledgment.
After a moment, there's a shift in Dinah's expression, something heavier, more serious. "I know both my daughters care for you deeply."
Nyssa straightens, her response immediate: "I care for them as well."
"I'm beginning to see that," Dinah admits. "Laurel's been especially vocal in your defense over the years."
That shouldn't surprise her. From the moment they became friends, Laurel has always been her greatest defender. She still isn't sure she'll ever get used to it.
"And Sara..." Dinah trails off, a small bittersweet smile forming. "Sara has a habit of following her heart, no matter what."
Nyssa doesn't react outwardly, but the words ring true—something she knows better than most.
"There's still plenty I don't understand about you, Nyssa." Dinah turns to face her fully now, all sense of pretense gone. There's an intensity to her gaze that makes Nyssa instinctively straighten.
"But I'm willing to learn what it is about you that has both my girls so enamored."
It's not quite acceptance—not yet.
But it's something. And it's more than she'd been expecting.
She knows what she wants to say. What she needs Dinah to understand.
She squares her shoulders, voice measured and unwavering. "I have spent my life trying to be someone worthy of Sara's love. Someone worthy of Laurel's respect and trust."
She holds Dinah's gaze. Then, with quiet conviction: "To ensure their faith in me is never misplaced. I would sooner die than see either of them disappointed in me again."
Neither of them speak. Dinah studies her carefully and Nyssa meets her head on. Slowly, the appraising look gives way to something that looks almost like understanding.
The creak of a floorboard breaks the moment. Nyssa immediately turns to find Sara leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and assessing the situation as she glances between her mother and Nyssa. Laurel isn't far behind, looking on with barely concealed interest.
"There you are. Everything good?" Sara asks, her voice light but her eyes darting between the two of them.
Dinah recovers first, smoothing her hands down her sides before offering her daughter a smile. "We were just talking."
Sara glances back at Nyssa expectantly, searching for any hint of that being untrue. And while Nyssa's touched by the unnecessary protectiveness, she's happy to leave the heaviness of her conversation with Dinah behind.
"Your mother finds it amusing that I've managed to train both her daughters."
Laurel grins immediately, stepping forward to declare, "I'm pretty sure I was the better student."
Sara scoffs. "I trained for years."
"And yet, I'm still willing to bet I was the better listener." Laurel playfully hip-checks Sara, who rolls her eyes in response.
Laurel winks at Nyssa, all mirth and mischief. "It also probably helped that I didn't have the hots for my teacher."
"You better not have!" Sara splutters, pushing off the doorway to level her sister a glare, even as she struggles to hold back a smile.
Nyssa smirks while Dinah shakes her head at their antics.
"Laurel was the less distractable student," Nyssa muses.
Sara's attention immediately shifts to her, an eyebrow raised for good measure. "I think maybe you ought to take some responsibility for being so distracting."
"I have no idea what you mean," Nyssa says primly, but the grin forming on her face says otherwise.
"You know," Laurel cuts in, before the challenge in Sara's eyes takes over. "We could probably get mom to bring out the photo albums. She's got enough material to fill ten hallways, at least."
"Oh," Dinah's eyes brighten, and she's already moving to the living room with purpose. "I know exactly which ones to get."
Sara groans in protest. "Or we could not?"
Laurel glances at Nyssa with a warm smile and knowing look on her face, and an unspoken understanding passes between them.
"Nyssa will want to see them," Laurel confirms, softly but firmly.
Sara looks between the two, her gaze softening when she lands on Nyssa. Whatever she sees there melts away her resistance.
"Alright," Sara relents, a smile at the corner of her lips. "Be prepared for so many bad fashion choices."
"Don't worry," Laurel interjects, grinning as she comes to stand on the other side of Nyssa. "I'll make sure Nyssa sees the bangs you were rocking in high school."
"I hope you appreciate just how much I'm sacrificing for this," Sara says to Nyssa in a mock-serious tone, her expression an exaggerated graveness.
Sara means the pictures—of course she does. But Nyssa hears something more behind those words, even if that hadn't been Sara's intention—something deeper, more vulnerable. That Sara is willingly sharing these parts of her.
A quiet laugh escapes her, a flurry of emotions welling up inside her.
"I do," she replies, voice laced with gratitude that has Sara melting into a smile.
When Sara leaves her sister and Tommy bickering in the kitchen, Nyssa's exactly where she left her: settled on the living room couch, slowly paging through a different photo album. Not the one Laurel had gleefully plopped into her lap, and for that, Sara's relieved. At least they've finally moved on from the bathtub photos.
Sara lingers in the doorway. There's a softness to Nyssa in this moment—intently studying pieces of Sara's childhood, handling them like they're something sacred and precious—that Sara can't look away from. She almost doesn't want to interrupt.
"You look happy," Nyssa says without looking up, her voice inviting.
Sara crosses the room to stand over the album spread open on the coffee table. The picture Nyssa has been tracing over captures a version of herself at six years old, hanging upside down from the playground monkey bars.
"I was." She smiles, a wistful note to her voice.
She sinks into the seat beside Nyssa, sitting shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching.
"I think I was six here?" She taps a finger to the photo. "I fell flat on my face right after Mom took this. Lost a tooth and everything."
She grins as she remembers. "Mom freaked out. Laurel was weirdly calm for an eight-year-old."
When she meets Nyssa's eyes, there's a thoughtful look on her face. Something caught between fondness and melancholy.
"I wish I had known you then." The words slip out quietly, almost tentative. Nyssa ducks her head immediately, as if she hadn't meant to say that out loud.
Sara's thought the same thing about Nyssa more times than she can count—in the quiet of dawn, watching Nyssa sleep beside her, all traces of the Heir to the Demon gone. She'd wonder about the girl Nyssa had been before her father sunk his claws into her. If she had always been alone; if anyone had cherished her the way she deserved.
But those thoughts feel a little too heavy for now. And she's still figuring out how to tread these waters again.
So she smiles and gently nudges their shoulders together. "I would have gotten you into so much trouble."
Nyssa tilts her head, considering, a soft laugh escaping her as she offers a smile of her own. It's a lovely sight, an even lovelier sound.
"And I would have gotten you out of it."
Sara barks out a laugh because of course she would have—Sara can't imagine it any other way.
The silence that follows is comfortable. Nyssa's attention returns to the photo album, the page crackling softly as she turns it with care. But there's a stiffness to her posture now, one that Sara recognizes—she's trying not to think too hard about something.
Sara shifts on the couch, angling herself toward Nyssa, warmth radiating where their bodies almost touch. She can pinpoint the exact moment the thought crosses Nyssa's mind—the barely perceptible tightening of her jaw, the slight change in her breathing.
"I never had any photos of myself as a child," Nyssa admits quietly, then tilts her head with a rueful smile. "Though I suspect you already knew that."
"Ra's didn't seem like the type." Sara can't keep the bitterness out of her next words. Jaw clenching, she tries to keep the storm of fury she's always reserved for Nyssa's father at bay.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer, losing its earlier edge. "I've always wondered what you were like before..."
Nyssa had never been forthcoming with details about her childhood, especially unprompted. And Sara had never pushed, opting to fill in the missing context on her own through observation.
"I don't remember much of my childhood before I began my training." Nyssa leans back, fingers slipping from the edge of the photo album as she settles into the couch. Eyes distant as she stares straight ahead. "Only fragments. Most of the stories I know come from Talia."
"Not your father?" she grits out.
"No. Only when it served to teach me a lesson."
That white-hot spike of anger returns, flaring up before she even has a chance to tamper it down. She has to look away for a second, eyes landing on one her mother's wall paintings.
What pains her isn't just what Nyssa says, but the way she says it—composed as ever, detached and matter-of-fact.
It's a struggle, but Nyssa deserves more than her rage, even if it's directed at the shadow of her father. With a steadying exhale through her nose, she unfurls her fists. Forces her body to unwind as she redirects her focus.
"What has Talia told you?"
A slow smile makes its way to Nyssa's face. "That I was stubborn."
Sara smiles—that tracks.
"That I would often pick her fruit from the gardens," Nyssa continues, voice lighter now. "What little I remember is mostly my attempts to impress her."
There's a quiet fondness to Nyssa's voice that Sara isn't used to hearing in moments like this.
She tries to picture a little Nyssa, carefully gathering figs and apricots to proudly present to her sister, seeking approval and beaming whenever it was granted. There's something familiar in the image that tugs at her; something she knows all too well from years of trailing after her own sister.
"I've wondered why you never told me about her before."
Nyssa's gaze drops to her lap, her smile fading as she folds her hands neatly together.
"We were not on good terms when she left. And I knew, even then, that she would not return."
When she looks back at Sara, there's none of the careful detachment she usually maintains when talking about her father.
"I had mourned her long before you came into my life."
Nyssa's voice is honest and raw, offering Sara a glimpse of the girl she had been, the one abandoned by her sister.
And suddenly, she sees Nyssa's relationship with Laurel in a new light.
Even though they're the same age, sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes, it seems like Nyssa lets Laurel fill the role of older sister, guiding and steadying her in ways that Nyssa never allows most people. And Laurel has stepped into that role without hesitation, offering Nyssa something she never had before, making space for her in their family.
Sara's heart swells with gratitude for her sister. For the way she cared for Nyssa when no one else did. And then pride for Nyssa, for allowing herself to accept what Laurel's offered her.
Sara's phone buzzes in her pocket. She plans to ignore it, except Nyssa is close enough to feel the vibration, glancing down and then back up at Sara with a look of silent permission.
"It's Ray," Sara mutters once she's fished the device out of her pocket. "Confirming drinks with Jax tonight."
She sets the phone aside, her attention drawn back to Nyssa, who has already returned to the album. Sara follows her gaze, wondering which memory has captured her attention this time.
The page is full of snapshots of her past—some she can recall as though they happened yesterday, while others she had forgotten until now. Leaning forward, Sara gently pulls the album into her lap.
There's a series of photos of her with Laurel. Her favorite among them is one of her at ten years old: a piggyback ride gone wrong, Laurel buckling under the failed attempt to carry her, both of them mid-laugh before they collapse into a heap.
Sara lets out a quiet laugh, gently nudging Nyssa's elbow as she points to the picture in question. "Laurel swore she could carry me."
"And you allowed her to?"
Sara shakes her head. "I told her she couldn't. But you know how Laurel gets when you tell her she can't do something."
"Much like another Lance I know." Nyssa's smile is affectionate.
Sara laughs, not even attempting to deny it. "Family trait. I'd say you fit right in."
She gives Nyssa a pointed look, barely fighting back her own grin.
"It is a quality that has served us both well," Nyssa replies, "In most instances."
Sara's attention shifts to a nearby picture of her father proudly hoisting a young Laurel onto his shoulders. Then the last one on the page, a full family photo of them at a fair—all smiles, carnival lights, and cotton candy in hand.
They're all evidence of what she ached for while she was on the Amazo, on the island, in the League. She had told Oliver once that the girl she was before boarding the Gambit—the girl in these photographs—died on that island.
She remembers how desperately he wanted to prove her wrong.
For a long time, she hadn't been able to think of that girl without mourning her.
Fingers brush against her hand—featherlight, but enough to send a shiver down her spine and pull her from her thoughts.
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at these?" Nyssa's voice is so soft, drawing Sara in.
"I see the same girl who laughed in the face of my father that first day in the League."
There's a familiar smile on Nyssa's face—the same one that always accompanies that particular story. The one Nyssa lingers on a beat too long, as if savoring the memory.
"She was never lost, Sara." There's a certainty to her voice, an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, willing Sara to believe her.
"The girl in these pictures—you held onto her with both hands, refusing to let go. I saw her every day."
Sara's breath catches. And for a moment, the room feels smaller, the world narrowing down to just the two of them.
She doesn't trust her voice in that moment, doesn't know what to even say.
What do you say to someone who sees straight through to your core? Who cracks you open to sift through every fractured piece of you just so they can hold each one up and say "this is beautiful."
And while Sara struggles against the tide of emotions, Nyssa patiently watches her. There's nothing pressing in her gaze. Only that silent, piercing clarity that has always stripped Sara bare. A gaze of bone-deep understanding—one she has tried to live without. Tried to forget. Tried to replace.
Tried to convince herself she had found in someone else until Nyssa walked back into her life and she was reminded of the difference—until she could no longer ignore its absence.
Her fingers tighten around the edge of the album. She almost aches with the urge to reach out to Nyssa.
Even then, Nyssa seems to understand. She covers Sara's hand with her own, the weight of it warm and gentle.
From the kitchen, a sudden clatter of dishes causes them both to flinch, Nyssa's hand leaving hers.
It's a sharp reminder they're not alone. The rest of the world filters back in, bringing with it the distant murmurs of her mother and sister discussing lunch preparations.
"Our childhoods were very different." Nyssa's voice is low, contemplative. There's a distant look in her eyes as she continues matter-of-factly, "My father was not a good man. I know you hate him. In many ways, so do I."
Nyssa exhales softly, the corner of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but something humorless and fleeting.
"But he was all I had. The only constant."
The words land like a blow to the gut. No trace of bitterness in them, only quiet acceptance.
Sara wants to tell her that her father designed it that way. That he made sure she would believe that.
But her words catch in her throat as her anger gives way to guilt. She's always known, on some level, what their relationship had meant to Nyssa. That it was a lifeline; the only real thing that was wholly hers.
And then Sara had left, too, adding herself to the list of people who abandoned her.
She had been so young, reckless with Nyssa's heart and aching for home. Nyssa had promised her forever, but she hadn't been able to do the same. For all her pride in being "Beloved," sometimes she couldn't shake the gnawing feeling of inadequacy and unworthiness.
Sometimes, Beloved had felt more like a shackle than a vow, and Sara would burn in shame at the thought. She'd felt like a shell of a person, unable to carry the weight of being someone's everything, before she had even figured out who she was on her own.
She hadn't been ready for any of it. Not then.
Not for a long time.
And it was why, when Nyssa finally let her go, she had stayed away. And now...
Now she realizes how easy it's been to forget Nyssa wasn't that much older than her when they met. That behind all that training, and poise, and composure was someone just as young. Just as lost. Learning to love and live outside her father's influence.
It had been so easy to let herself believe that Nyssa was unshakable. Sara had been drowning in grief and guilt, and Nyssa helped keep her head above water, offered her something sturdy to rely on. And Sara had needed that.
Until she didn't.
Until the weight of Nyssa's certainty became too much.
Because no matter how much she'd wanted to, she hadn't known how to return that kind of devotion. Hadn't known how to exist outside of survival mode.
"I didn't know how to stay," Sara croaks, the words clawing out of her.
Nyssa freezes. Then nods, as if she's known this all along, as if she's already made peace with it. "I didn't know how to let you go."
Sara wants to say more, to find a way to voice her thoughts and realizations. But Nyssa's shoulders are still tense, like she has more to say.
"I didn't understand then." Nyssa's hand finds hers again. "Or perhaps I did, but did not want to accept it. But I do now."
Sara leans in slightly, watching as Nyssa takes her time trying to find the right words. Whatever she's about to say, Sara can tell it matters.
"What we had..." Nyssa trails off for a moment. Her head tilts as she catches Sara's eyes. "It wasn't sustainable. And the future I had imagined for us, it wasn't fair to you. I didn't understand what I was asking of you, what it would cost—not until much later."
The knot in Sara's chest tightens. She had often felt caught between loving Nyssa and the burden of what that love demanded—the blood on her hands and the aching pull of home. But then, she had been the one who was only ever half there, half searching for a way out, never fully able to give what Nyssa deserved.
None of it had been fair. For either of them.
"You deserved more than that, too," Sara says, quiet but sure. "We both did. We were so young."
She thinks of 22-year-old Sara, reckless and determined, convincing Nyssa to take a chance on her. Back then, Nyssa's hesitation was due to her inexperience and her father's influence. But this time, her fears are based on the very real memories of Sara leaving, again and again. And this time, Sara has to convince her that it will be different.
"This is almost like starting over," she muses out loud. "Except now you know exactly what you're risking."
Nyssa doesn't say anything for a moment. Her eyes search Sara's until a smile spreads across her face, like she's about to let Sara in on a secret.
"I knew," Nyssa says, soft but certain. "Even then."
Sara's breath catches, and she's hanging onto whatever Nyssa says next.
"From the moment I realized I loved you, I knew it would either save me or destroy me."
A beat passes between them, Nyssa's eyes never wavering from Sara's.
"I chose you anyway."
Sara's vision blurs at the edges as she blinks back tears. The words echo in her head: I chose you anyway.
There's so much she wants to say—too much, her heart pounding like it's trying to burst out of her chest.
Slowly, she threads their fingers together. Tries not to let her tears spill at how they still fit as perfectly as they always have. Nyssa doesn't pull away—she gently squeezes Sara's hand, and Sara squeezes back.
She bites back the main question that sits heavy on her tongue:
And now? Would you choose me again?
—
After lunch, Dinah announces she needs help wrapping gifts and running errands. Laurel eagerly volunteers herself and Tommy for shopping duties, and before Sara can so much as blink, she's dragging Nyssa along with them.
"You've hogged her enough," Laurel teases lightly.
Sara doesn't fight her on it. After everything she's come to realize about Laurel and Nyssa's friendship, she doesn't have the heart to push back.
She simply follows them to the entryway, hovering as Nyssa methodically layers up against the cold. The ritual is familiar, reminding her of winters in Nanda Parbat. Of Nyssa burrowing into whatever warmth she could find while stubbornly denying she was cold.
"You sure you wanna go with them?"
"I don't believe Laurel has given me a choice." Nyssa fastens the last button of her coat with practiced precision, then looks up, eyes softening. "You should spend time with your mother."
Sara can't really argue—she has been caught up in Nyssa's presence, in making sure she feels at home.
Then, without really thinking, she's moving instinctively to adjust Nyssa's scarf. Her fingers on autopilot as she tucks the ends more securely beneath the coat—something she's done a hundred times before.
Nyssa stands motionless, watching her curiously.
It isn't until Sara's smoothing over the front of Nyssa's coat that her actions catch up with her—how effortlessly she's slipped back into fussing over her, how natural this quiet intimacy still feels.
When she meets Nyssa's gaze, she's suddenly hyperaware of just how little space there is between them.
Once upon a time, this would have been the moment either of them closed that distance—a kiss to the cheek, the corner of the mouth, the forehead. A tender gesture before they parted ways.
Nyssa's breath hitches, and Sara thinks maybe she's remembering, too.
For a second, Nyssa's eyes drop to Sara's lips. Sara's struggles to remain still, her heart thundering in her ears.
But just as quickly, Nyssa shifts back, just the slightest bit. Her touch is gentle and deliberate as she guides Sara's hands from the scarf, thumbs brushing softly against her skin.
"Your sister is waiting." Nyssa's voice is soft, almost wistful.
The spell broken, Sara exhales. They both take a step away from each other as Nyssa tugs on her gloves.
Tommy passes them, keys jingling.
"Don't worry," he says with a knowing grin as he comes to a stop beside Laurel. "We'll make sure she stays warm."
Laurel rolls her eyes at him, but shoots Sara a small, encouraging smile. "We won't be long."
Cold air rushes in as the door swings open. Nyssa barely suppresses a shudder, and Sara has to resist the urge to reach for her again.
"I'll see you soon." Nyssa's smile is soft. She lingers a beat longer, giving Sara one last unreadable look before falling into step behind Laurel and Tommy.
Sara watches them go, lingering in the entryway as the door clicks shut behind them.
After the morning they've shared, it feels strange to watch Nyssa go.
She misses her already.
"Sara, sweetie, these gifts aren't going to wrap themselves."
Her mother's voice rings from the living room, pulling her out of her thoughts.
Shaking her head, Sara laughs quietly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
—
Holiday music plays softly as Sara sits on the floor, abandoned gift-wrapping replaced by hot chocolate that's still too hot to drink. Across from her, surrounded by neatly wrapped presents, her mother alternates between wrapping gifts and stealing quiet glances at Sara—pensive in a way Sara recognizes from being a teen, bracing herself for a Serious Talk.
Dinah sighs, smoothing a hand over her finished product before setting it aside.
"You know," her mother finally says, eyes on the next box, "when you told me you were bringing her, I wasn't sure what to expect."
Sara doesn't need to ask to know who she's referring to. She responds carefully, "I figured."
Dinah presses her lips into a thin line, as if turning something over in her mind. With a final snip of her scissors, she sighs and looks up at Sara.
"Did you know she came to see me, years ago?"
"She told me before we came here." Sara wants to stay neutral, to keep her defensiveness over Nyssa out of it. But– "She said it didn't go well."
Her mother sees through her. "You've always been defensive of her."
Sara says nothing. Just waits, slightly swirling her mug to watch the marshmallows drift and scatter. There's an uneasiness that settles in her stomach, a familiar sense of dread not unlike the feeling she gets before a mission goes sideways.
Dinah resumes her task of meticulously folding the wrapping paper, taking more care than necessary when creasing each edge. Sara knows this habit well—she's stalling.
"I used to think it was because you felt like you owed her. Like maybe it was some kind of Stockholm Syndrome."
The words hit like a slap to the face. Of all the things Sara had braced herself for, this had never even crossed her mind.
She sets her mug down with deliberate care, heat rising in her chest as her temper flares. There's something profoundly unfair about Nyssa—the woman who taught her Arabic with infinite patience, who held her through nightmares, who touched her with a reverence no one before or after has ever matched—being reduced to her darkest moment.
And whose fault is that?
It's not the first time she's wondered if things would be different had she shared more about Nyssa. But sharing more about Nyssa meant sharing more about the League—about things Sara once thought she'd never be ready to speak out loud to either of her parents.
Tension coils in Sara's chest as she meets her mother head on. "Do you still think that?"
Dinah hesitates, hands pausing over the gift she's wrapping. "Now that I've seen the way she is with you? The way you are with her? No, I don't think that anymore."
A reluctant concession—it's something, but Sara doesn't miss the hesitation. The way her mother sounds like she's piecing together a puzzle that still doesn't quite fit.
Sara has to look away for a moment, debating her next words. Her mother seems genuinely curious, like she's trying to understand.
After everything she's been through—death, resurrection, captaining a timeship—Sara's tired of keeping parts of herself hidden. Those carefully constructed barriers once protected her, but now they just feel exhausting.
"You don't know what it was like in the League, for either of us. And that's on me. I never gave you the chance to understand."
That gets her mother's attention. Dinah stops what she's doing and sits perfectly still, as though any movement might scare Sara away from whatever she's about to share.
Sara's not sure where to even begin, or how to properly convey the years' worth of history she and Nyssa have together. What Nyssa meant to her then, what she means to her now.
"Sometimes–" Sara's voice wobbles, and she snaps her mouth shut.
She's never admitted this to anyone. And even though it was a lifetime ago, even though she's made her peace with that broken girl and knows it's time to share these pieces of herself—it doesn't make the words any easier to say.
"Sometimes, the only bit of humanity I thought I had left was when I was loving her."
The second of silence that follows is deafening.
Something shifts in her mother's expression—not pity, but a mother's recognition of her child's pain. She takes Sara's hand, the warm weight of it welcome.
"Oh, honey," Dinah whispers, the heartbreak evident in her voice and enough to have Sara blinking against the burning sensation behind her eyes. With a sharp breath, she lets go of her mother's hand to swipe away tears.
"When Nyssa rescued me…" Her fingers find the evil eye bracelet on her wrist, rotating it absently, the bead smooth under her touch. "I was already broken. I couldn't face you and Dad after everything I'd done."
Her mother's gaze drops briefly to Sara's wrist. Dinah's eyes narrow slightly in curiosity, but she says nothing.
"I chose to join the League, Mom," Sara says firmly. "No one forced me, least of all Nyssa."
Her mother shifts back, taking in Sara's words. She looks away from Sara for a moment, a myriad of emotions flickering across her face as she processes these revelations.
Dinah considers her next words carefully before saying, "She did try to force you to stay."
The reminder stings. She knows better than anyone how deeply those actions haunt Nyssa—how she's never forgiven herself. Sara leans forward, undeterred and willing her mother to really hear her.
"She made a mistake—a terrible one. Because her sick fuck of a father put her in an impossible situation." She shakes her head, nails digging briefly into her knees. "She shouldn't be defined by it when she's spent years trying to make up for it. Especially when I've already forgiven her."
Sara's voice drops, quiet but firm. "Even Dad respects her now. Do you really think Dad would give her the time of day if she hadn't earned it?"
Her mother's sigh is heavy, tone placating as she rubs her temple. "I'm just trying to understand, honey."
The familiar phrase makes Sara want to laugh and cry at the same time. How many times has she heard those exact words, in that exact tone? Her mother's go-to response whenever Sara veered off the expected path. Only this time, there's no guidance counselor's report to discuss, no teenage rebellion to weather.
Maybe that's why her next words spill out in a rush before she can stop them.
"If Nyssa isn't worthy of forgiveness, then how can I be?"
Dinah flinches, caught off guard by the outburst.
"I'm no better than her, Mom." She tries and fails to keep her voice from breaking. Because that's part of it, isn't it? The way her own crimes are mirrored in Nyssa's. "The choices I've made, the blood on my hands. But the people I love have forgiven me for them."
She takes a breath, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to collect herself, to keep her emotions from welling up behind her eyes.
"I'm asking you to extend that same grace to the person who stood by me and loved me through the darkest years of my life."
For a long moment, Dinah says nothing. The surprise on her face eventually giving way to something unreadable. When she finally looks away, her eyes land on Sara's abandoned mug.
"Your cocoa's gone cold," Dinah mutters, reaching for the mug.
Sara lets her go—she could also use a breather.
She watches her disappear into the kitchen, suddenly feeling lighter. She runs a hand through her hair, almost disbelieving she just said those things out loud—the Sara from years ago certainly wouldn't have.
She can't remember the last time she was this honest with her mother—not since before the Gambit, maybe.
As Sara waits, "Jingle Bell Rock" plays in the background for the nth time that day. The bright melody clashes with the sound of the microwave, grating on her already frayed nerves. She tries to focus instead on the steady snowfall outside, and wonders how much longer the others will be.
The microwave's shrill beep cuts through the music. Her mother returns, setting the mug on the table within Sara's reach. She hesitates before sitting beside Sara—close, but not crowding.
Dinah exhales, long and slow, and Sara can hear the parental weariness behind it.
"What you said," Dinah begins, soft and apologetic. "About forgiveness... I never thought of it that way. That by judging her, I might be..."
Dinah's unable to finish the thought. For a long moment, she just looks at Sara—really looks at her, like she's seeing her daughter in a whole new light.
"This has been difficult for me," Dinah admits. "All I've ever wanted was to protect you and your sister. And I feel like I've failed you enough already."
Her mother's vulnerability tugs at Sara's heart. She can only imagine how much both her parents blamed themselves for every awful thing that's happened to their children.
"I'm trying to see past my first impression of her," Dinah continues. "I can see that she's important to you."
The words on their own should be a comfort, but the phrasing has Sara bracing herself for the "but" she knows is coming.
"But that doesn't mean I stop worrying about you. About how intense your connection is, or whether that's healthy for either of you."
"It's different now," Sara says quietly, fidgeting with her bracelet once more. "We both have more than just each other."
"Nyssa rebuilt her entire life after the League." Sara can't hide the pride and admiration that color her voice. "She's forged her own identity outside her father and his legacy."
Sara smiles—not only for how far Nyssa's come, but herself, too.
"And I did the same with the Legends. I became someone people could rely on, who could make hard choices without losing myself."
With that same smile, she holds her mother's gaze, voice steady and sure. "This isn't about holding onto the past or trying to recreate what we had before. It's about discovering who we are to each other now, as the people we've become."
Dinah studies Sara's face, the quiet confidence she's projecting. Something shifts in her mother's expression—acceptance or resignation, Sara can't quite tell.
"You sound different when you talk about her," Dinah says thoughtfully. "You never spoke about Ava this way."
The mention doesn't sting the way it once did. Sara isn't surprised by it, either—she's been anticipating this comparison from the moment their conversation began.
"You seemed happy," Dinah adds, more curious than accusatory. "You were building a life with her."
They fall into the familiar rhythm of folding and taping, Sara welcoming the distraction as she gathers her thoughts.
"I was happy," Sara agrees. "Ava was important to me, too. Loving her helped me get here, and I wanted it to work, but..."
"But?" Dinah prompts gently.
Sara searches for the right words, focusing on the gift in her hands. She's only ever tried explaining this to Laurel, but even then, the words felt inadequate.
"I had to make a choice."
It's a simple way to put it, but that's what it boiled down to. Ava had helped her heal in ways she'll always be grateful for. But the distance between them had started before Nyssa re-entered her life—a gap that kept widening despite her best efforts.
"I probably could have lived a good life with Ava, been happy enough. But I realized she was never going to know me the way Nyssa does." Her voice is low as she takes the wrapped package and adds it to their "done" pile. "And the longer Nyssa was around, the harder it became to ignore."
When Sara looks directly at her mother, she's met with unwavering love that's always made her feel safe.
"I realized I need to be known, not just loved." That understanding—what it meant for her and Ava—still aches even now.
"And I tried, Mom." Her voice cracks on the word. "But I don't know how to have Nyssa in my life and not want her. I'd always wonder if I settled."
Her mother softens immediately. The judgment Sara feared never materializes. Instead, she's met with understanding.
"You're still in love with her," Dinah says softly. Not a question, but a gentle recognition of truth.
She knew it, of course. She's known it for a long time—since Laurel told her Nyssa was leaving. But hearing it spoken so plainly does something to her.
Sara doesn't deny it—she can't.
Because yes, she never stopped loving Nyssa—that ember survived buried beneath layers of time and distance.
But this is different, too. She's fallen in love all over again—not with a memory, or the girl she once knew, but with the woman Nyssa has become.
"Oh, Sara," Dinah whispers, and for a moment, neither of them moves, Sara's truth hanging between them.
And then, Dinah wraps an arm around Sara, tucking her daughter against her side like she used to when Sara was little—back when so many of Sara's problems could be solved with a mother's hug.
Sara leans into the warmth, the comfort almost instant. Her mother rests her chin lightly on Sara's head, voice softer now.
"You've always been brave, sweetheart. You and your sister, you never fail to amaze me."
Sara closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the pride in her mother's voice.
"You've always been my wild one." Sara can practically hear the bittersweet smile. It's a sentiment she's heard all her life, to varying degrees of affection, from exasperation to fondness to pride. One that used to make her bristle; another label that set her apart from Laurel.
"The one who'd forge her own path no matter what," Dinah continues softly, "It used to worry me so much. I thought that meant you were reckless, that you didn't think things through."
Another sentiment Sara's familiar with—one she knows she's proven right countless times before.
"Now I wonder if maybe, on some level, you always knew. That what I wrote off as recklessness was actually courage. And the woman you've become now, she knows what she's doing, what she's risking, and does it anyway."
The words touch a part of Sara that she thought she'd outgrown, that still craves her mother's approval.
"You've been through so much, more than I can ever imagine." Dinah's voice wavers slightly, but she presses on, "And the most remarkable thing of all? You've kept your heart intact."
Sara doesn't even realize she's crying until she feels the warmth of tears on her cheeks. She swipes at them, but it's useless. Her mother pulls her tighter, pressing a kiss to her hair.
"If Nyssa had a part in that, then I'm starting to understand why she means so much to you. I can't pretend I don't still have questions or concerns. But I promise, I'll give her a real chance."
Sara doesn't trust herself to speak. Her gratitude feels too big for words, so she simply reaches for her mother's hand, clasping it tightly in her own. Dinah squeezes back, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes.
"And Sara?" Dinah gently brushes away a strand of hair where it clings to Sara's damp cheek. The gesture is so comfortingly maternal that, for a moment, Sara feels like a child again. "I'm so proud of you."
There's something about a mother's love, a mother's acceptance, that hits differently. That fills cracks she didn't even know were there in the first place.
"Thank you," she finally manages, barely above a whisper.
They stay like that for a while, Sara allowing herself to be held. Finally, she pulls away, using the ends of her sleeves to dab at her face.
Her mother's attention drifts to Sara's wrist, fingers lightly brushing against her bracelet. Sara suddenly feels self-conscious.
"This is new." A seemingly innocent observation, but there's a hint of recognition in her mother's voice. "For protection, isn't it?"
Sara's fingers instinctively curl around the bracelet, a small smile forming at the corners of her mouth.
"Yeah," Sara confirms, warmth spreading through her chest at the memory of Nyssa presenting the bracelets to her. "Nyssa gave it to me."
She doesn't mention the second bracelet, the one Sara knew, from the moment Nyssa explained it to her, that she wants to give Nyssa.
When Sara looks up, Dinah looks thoughtful, as if a realization is slowly taking shape in her mind.
"She told me a little about what you were like in the League," her mother says after a while. "That's what we were talking about in the hallway. I could tell there was a lot she wasn't saying. A lot she was sparing me from hearing. She was trying to be kind."
The thought of Nyssa trying to shield Sara's mother from the harsher truths of her time in the League touches her deeply.
"That sounds like her." Sara smiles, fingers absently tracing the bracelet's blue bead.
Headlights sweep across the living room as a car pulls into the driveway. Sara glances toward the window, something in her chest lightening at the thought of seeing Nyssa again after everything she's just shared with her mother.
"Perfect timing." Her mother smiles knowingly, giving her one last squeeze before releasing her. "Go on. I think we could all use some hot chocolate now."