( Helena Bertinelli feels like she's been drawing the short fucking straw for decades, now. Old news is old news: family slaughtered, raised by assassins, bullied by Batman, treated as a monstrosity by just about everyone. That was fine. She could live with it; it wasn't like she'd ever done everything else.
But then things happened the way they always happen, and she got spat out into some other reality. The relief at hearing the word Canary had ended rather rapidly, it must be said. Nothing like finding out one of the only friends you have (three, really, she has basically three friends) either doesn't remember or doesn't exist. She's not sure how all this crap works, that was Barbara's area.
The point is, she's been in a Bad Mood™ for the three weeks she's been stuck in this social hellscape in a flying death trap with a bunch of people whose hair probably belongs in a commercial for conditioner. The ones who shave it off probably did so out of sheer shame (and by the way Captain Cold? Heat Wave? What the fuck, alternate universe?) And now Helena is stuck with Not Dinah, her Not Buddy, in a place where they are Not Warm. Twelve hours to the schedule pick up, mission accomplished, but oh, God forbid that medieval Scotland have God damn heating.
TL;DR - behold, 5'11" of moodiness with a Sicilian accent and murderous-at-best inclinations, reporting for warmth. She's sticking it out from pure stubbornness, but it's concern for Dinah (""""""Sara"""""") that makes her relent from her place sitting with her back against the wall - did I mention she's sulking? )
We'll be warmer if we share it.
( The bed, she means. The one bed. The one bed that is very nice, fit for a Lord, if you are from the Dark Ages. )
( helena bertinelli, she'd said, when she'd boarded their time ship. huntress.
either one was enough to set off immediate warning bells in sara, a sort of you've got to be fucking kidding me. the helena bertinelli that she knows was so hellbent on killing her own father that she went to insane lengths to do so. huntress and the canary had gone toe to toe twice and sara probably would've strangled her to death if laurel hadn't intervened, told her that she didn't believe that the canary had to be a killer. needless to say, she's not on great terms with helena bertinelli.
there are other earths, the legends had learned from barry and team flash, other worlds that could look completely identical to their own but with the most minuscule of differences. sara wonders if that's the case for this helena. she's got the name and the alias, but not the same face. it's eerie. she's trying to look past it, grin and bear it for the sake of the team who don't know better.
of course, sara ends up stuck with this brand new helena in medieval scotland and things are decidedly Not Great. it's freezing, and the ever-so-stylish tartan floor-length gown the waverider had decided to grace her with to "blend in" isn't quite doing the job. she's been pacing around the room like a caged animal, trying to pretend like she's not cold, until helena speaks. she halts abruptly and her head snaps in her direction, eyebrows lifted, like she's trying to discern if helena is being serious.
there's no way in hell, her stubborn side wants to retort. but sara isn't an idiot — she knows how to brave the elements, what's required to do so sometimes. so instead, gaze flickering towards the bed even though she makes no discernible move towards it, she answers, ) You're not wrong.
( She bites it out, looking over at Sara - what a fucking joke - and easing herself up. As much as you as you can ease up when you move like an angry tiger, but still. )
I'm not happy about this either, and you can get off your damn high horse. You think I'm a not good enough for your rag tag team of dysfunctional do-gooders? Fine. I've always done what needs to be done and what other people aren't prepared to, though. If I have to strong arm you into a blanket to stop you from getting God damn pneumonia, then I'll do it.
( Her ire seems like the one thing that isn't out of place, unlike her, her kevlar armour and her Sicilian accent rolling harsh over the words and chopping them up. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unrecognizable) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
grouphugs2016-12-22 03:32 am
no subject
But then things happened the way they always happen, and she got spat out into some other reality. The relief at hearing the word Canary had ended rather rapidly, it must be said. Nothing like finding out one of the only friends you have (three, really, she has basically three friends) either doesn't remember or doesn't exist. She's not sure how all this crap works, that was Barbara's area.
The point is, she's been in a Bad Mood™ for the three weeks she's been stuck in this social hellscape in a flying death trap with a bunch of people whose hair probably belongs in a commercial for conditioner. The ones who shave it off probably did so out of sheer shame (and by the way Captain Cold? Heat Wave? What the fuck, alternate universe?) And now Helena is stuck with Not Dinah, her Not Buddy, in a place where they are Not Warm. Twelve hours to the schedule pick up, mission accomplished, but oh, God forbid that medieval Scotland have God damn heating.
TL;DR - behold, 5'11" of moodiness with a Sicilian accent and murderous-at-best inclinations, reporting for warmth. She's sticking it out from pure stubbornness, but it's concern for Dinah (""""""Sara"""""") that makes her relent from her place sitting with her back against the wall - did I mention she's sulking? )
We'll be warmer if we share it.
( The bed, she means. The one bed. The one bed that is very nice, fit for a Lord, if you are from the Dark Ages. )
no subject
either one was enough to set off immediate warning bells in sara, a sort of you've got to be fucking kidding me. the helena bertinelli that she knows was so hellbent on killing her own father that she went to insane lengths to do so. huntress and the canary had gone toe to toe twice and sara probably would've strangled her to death if laurel hadn't intervened, told her that she didn't believe that the canary had to be a killer. needless to say, she's not on great terms with helena bertinelli.
there are other earths, the legends had learned from barry and team flash, other worlds that could look completely identical to their own but with the most minuscule of differences. sara wonders if that's the case for this helena. she's got the name and the alias, but not the same face. it's eerie. she's trying to look past it, grin and bear it for the sake of the team who don't know better.
of course, sara ends up stuck with this brand new helena in medieval scotland and things are decidedly Not Great. it's freezing, and the ever-so-stylish tartan floor-length gown the waverider had decided to grace her with to "blend in" isn't quite doing the job. she's been pacing around the room like a caged animal, trying to pretend like she's not cold, until helena speaks. she halts abruptly and her head snaps in her direction, eyebrows lifted, like she's trying to discern if helena is being serious.
there's no way in hell, her stubborn side wants to retort. but sara isn't an idiot — she knows how to brave the elements, what's required to do so sometimes. so instead, gaze flickering towards the bed even though she makes no discernible move towards it, she answers, ) You're not wrong.
no subject
( She bites it out, looking over at Sara - what a fucking joke - and easing herself up. As much as you as you can ease up when you move like an angry tiger, but still. )
I'm not happy about this either, and you can get off your damn high horse. You think I'm a not good enough for your rag tag team of dysfunctional do-gooders? Fine. I've always done what needs to be done and what other people aren't prepared to, though. If I have to strong arm you into a blanket to stop you from getting God damn pneumonia, then I'll do it.
( Her ire seems like the one thing that isn't out of place, unlike her, her kevlar armour and her Sicilian accent rolling harsh over the words and chopping them up. )