Distraction here with another Dead or Alive fic. This time, it's one of my all-time favourite couples. Here we go.

Disclaimer: Thanks, GrimGrave, for beta'ing this. I own nothing.

City Lights lll

Helena Douglas flinched as a hand was offered to her, the instinctive reaction borne from past experiences involving the woman whom the appendage belonged to.

And Christie only smiled coolly, the expression not quite reaching her eyes.

/ The rooftops had proved to be a rather unstable battlefield, so they had taken their fight to the streets. The area was deserted this late at night, but then Helena had seen to it that DOA's expansive grounds had been vacated just in case—

… Not that she welcomed the arrival of her nemesis in any way. /

Then, they were in motion again—a whirlwind of blows too swift for the eyes to trace.

/Fragments of glass rained down, the light that it had previously safeguarded shining through them, refracting rainbows onto the pavement.

Under the cover of darkness, they could do as they wished—be who they wanted. That was probably the reason the assassin only ever visited in the wee hours. /

The blonde ducked under a sweeping kick, grabbing the woman by the calf and using her own momentum against her to send her flying. She only got a split second to try and catch her breath before Christie was on her again, grinning savagely.

As some priceless bit of china met its demise against the far wall, swept from its place on the mantle by its owner as she and her opponent smashed into it, the head of DAOTEC silently thanked God that her employees had left the compound for the night.

She didn't want anyone to come running to her "rescue."

/ Christie smirked and the blonde returned the expression, both silently daring the other to make their move. When at last someone did something, they did so simultaneously, flying at each other with a wild battle cry.

'Crash!' /

There was glass on the floor too—from the window through which Christie had made her grand entry. The fighters skirted around the mess, feinting, attempting to gain the upper hand.

In the end, Helena knew the outcome of this clash of wills and, though she knew better than to succumb to her sadistic nemesis's womanly charms, her eyes dropped to the front of the white and black jumpsuit the assassin wore: the zipper, which was usually undone, had descended even further, revealing a toned abdomen and impossibly soft porcelain skin—she knew from experience.

Did Christie realize she was revealing that much skin? If she did, she was likely very aware of how the sight of pale peaks barely restrained by a black, lace bra affected the Frenchwoman.

As though reading her thoughts, the assassin chuckled. "Are you giving up already?"

She wanted nothing more than to nod—to surrender to the dark promise in that purred utterance—but the blonde put her dukes up and gestured for the white-haired beauty to approach her instead.

"Tch. Suit yourself."

At this point, their squabbling was more habit than anything—Helena had long since forgiven and forgotten.

But pride was such a silly, trifling thing and the British woman had it in spades. She felt the need to prove her dominance and Helena wasn't about to deny her that pleasure.

/ It only took one misstep and the blonde was forced on the defensive. The assassin pressed her advantage without missing a beat, raining powerful strikes down on her swiftly-retreating foe.

The assault didn't let up and the sadistic smile that curved full lips was both familiar and comforting. If Christie was smirking, that meant she was enjoying herself—and that was what mattered. /

One punch.

/ 'Fight!' her mind screamed.

´Submit!´ silver orbs snarled.

Which was louder? /

Two.

/ This destructive dance of theirs… How long could it go on before either woman gave up on their facades and gave into desire? /

The third sent her through the drywall, creating a cloud of dust that obscured the assassin from view, For a brief moment, everything was still and Helena feared that she hadn't entertained her guest well enough to merit a proper conclusion to her scheduled impromptu visit.

/ She knew that the white-haired warrior was holding back—knew that that final blow should have incapacitated her at the very least. Christie never really hurt her too badly… Not physically, anyway.

As she slid to the floor, her wounds throbbing agonizingly with the beat of her heart, the blonde released a weak groan. And a chilling laugh answered the pained sound. /

Her heart leaped into her throat as her fingers scrabbled over the rubble, searching for a way to lever herself into a seated position.

Christie couldn't leave yet. Her visits had been so few and far in between and, though that meant less damage to both her property and herself, the Frenchwoman had actually begun to anticipate the assassin's arrival—to the point that she sat alone in her office late at night, staring out over the lights of the city below and wondering where the Brit was.

She managed to sit up, cerulean orbs scanning frantically for her opponent.

/ A booted foot pressed against Helena's ribcage and she wheezed, the breath torn from her lungs both literally and figuratively. Christie wore nothing but those knee-high, lace-up boots.

Her mouth watered and a rush of liquid heat suffused her sex. /

A swift kick made her vision swim and she bounced, coming to a stop only when she struck a decorative marble pillar.

When had they fought their way into her study?

/ The familiar room was an unfamiliar blur as the blonde was made as naked as her foe.

Helena whimpered, her pleasure receptors ablaze as she arched into Christie's curvaceous form. Her core throbbed sweetly, begging for attention, and the white-haired woman was more than willing to give it to her. /

Helena was hoisted up by the front of what was left of her expensive, utterly destroyed cashmere sweater, and she jerked herself free, swinging her fist towards that pretty, smirking face—

Without batting an eyelash, Christie blocked the blow with her wrist. Something flashed across her face and, rather than retaliate as expected, the assassin turned and tossed her opponent onto the fainting couch positioned in one corner of the room.

The blonde's heart fluttered—a panicked, bird-like stirring—as the white-haired fighter strode over to the bay windows that overlooked the network of lights that made up the city below. With her back to the Frenchwoman, the Brit seemed even less approachable than usual.

Would she stay?

/ "It's a beautiful night," the assassin remarked conversationally—as if she wasn't knuckle deep inside the woman who lo—hated her more than anything in the world.

Christie's casual demeanor hurt because, well, she wanted this to be more than just a power trip to the British woman. Perhaps she was foolish for thinking that that was even remotely possible. /

She bit her lip. "Christie—" Don't go.

Christie turned her head; silver orbs went to the other fighter. "Stuff it." Damn you.

The assassin crossed the room at a slow saunter, her expression brooding. Once she stood over the head of DAOTEC, she crossed her arms over her prodigious chest, the motion causing pale peaks to become even more pronounced and Helena's body grew hot despite herself.

Damn her wandering mind. It just couldn't remain here in the not-so-sexy present.

/ She was close. So close.

The fact that she couldn't return even a fraction of the pleasure that razed her sentence made her feel incredibly guilty—or it would have, had she the presence of mind to even consider such an emotion at that very moment.

She wasn't to touch the assassin; Christie had made that quite clear.

Helena clutched futilely at the plush carpet below her, her hips pumping. She could feel where the friction between her back and the material had rubbed her skin raw, but the sting was nothing compared to the all-consuming ecstasy those long, talented fingers brought.

When a pale, lovely face moved closer to hers, her mind snapped back to reality. Full lips hung tantalizingly close, parted slightly as the fighter breathed a little more quickly than was normal.

Would she…? /

It seemed the Brit couldn't quite muster up the disgust that should have been present in bright metallic orbs.

Full lips crashed against hers and, for a moment, the blonde was too shocked to reciprocate. This was the first time Christie had ever done such a thing and, really, she had no reason to want to.

Because this was just a game to her… Right?

Their kiss was by no means gentle, but then Helena didn't want it to be. If every bit of her body hurt… perhaps she would forget the way each heartbeat sent disappointment washing through her voluptuous form.

She wanted—no, needed the other woman to feel the same way.

With a low, soft sound—a breath, really—Christie retreated. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, scrubbing from her lips the bright shade of red that Helena had been wearing, and grunted, "I'm leaving town for a while."

Ba-bump.

Where was she going? And, more importantly, how long was a 'while'?

Rather than voice the questions running laps around her troubled brain, the blonde averted blue orbs, waiting silently, hopefully, for more information.

Was there reason to panic? No. She should have been glad that her nemesis was leaving and incredulous that the white-haired fighter had bothered to inform her of that decision.

Why should she care? For some reason, she did—and that gave the British woman even more power.

Curse her soft, aching heart.

"Nothing to say?" There it was: the disgust that had been curiously absent.

"… Non." Because giving Christie any more power than she already had would be incredibly naïve and foolish—two things the Frenchwoman prided herself for not being.

"Tch…"

It was only then that she looked up: eyes the same liquid silver of mercury dared her to say what was on her mind, but Helena merely crossed her legs primly, wincing slightly when the simple action sent a spike of agony lancing through her. "Bon nuit; good night, Christie."

That look—devoid of any emotion…

/ "Whatever it is you've done to me…" The white-haired woman stopped the sentence abruptly and crossed the room, taking the silk robe that Helena had hung from a hook on the back of the door and draping it around her voluptuous form. "Goodbye."

Whatever she had done, she would never know.

Time passed. It had been too long, in the blonde's honest opinion.

'You're back…' She hadn't dared to hope.

The British woman's expression suggested that she was none too pleased about where she was, but she was here nonetheless. "Why the hell are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason."

She scoffed, but then her expression became troubled. "For fuck's sake…"

"Christie?"/

Time passed. A heartbeat? An eternity?

Helena wasn't sure.

But Christie didn't leave. Instead, she shifted from one foot to another—a rare, inconspicuous display of anxiety—and turned to the heavy wood work desk just behind her, retrieving something from the top drawer as though it was hers rather than the blonde's. Without looking at the other woman, she held it out, her tone grudging, vexed as she commented, "You've got quite a view here. The city lights are lovely."

Her heartbeat calmed as she snapped back to the present. The answers to her questions were evident in the tenseness of the assassin's shoulders and the furrow between perfectly arched eyebrows: she would return sooner than later. Christie wasn't one for goodbye's, so she supposed she should feel honored to receive one…

Helena smiled beatifically as she accepted the elegantly monogrammed handkerchief and wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. "Not as lovely as you."

By the time the final syllable had left her lips, the assassin was gone.

And as the British woman folded her arms and relaxed against the hard seat of the helicopter that had been waiting outside for her, the deafening sound of its propellers drowning out whatever her pilot had asked, a smile curved full lips.

-End-