Maybe it's been a few months, maybe it's been a few years. Maybe it's all just started, or maybe you've been gone a while, or maybe you've never even though of going away at all. Maybe the week was bad, or maybe the week was good. But all of that is to the side for this one day, or at least it's to the side enough to get you into the room for the day.

There's cooking to do, and more food to eat than any rowdy bunch of children could plow through in one night. It looks like someone got in the decorating mood, and someone else found music, and there's never been a lack of drinks to be found in a pinch around The Waverider. Those might even be poppers someone left on the table. And there might even be the threat of movies while you wait, or later on into the night.

Saddle up, Arrowverse. It's time for a Legends Thanksgiving.








[ This is your free for all space, Legends players. Whatever time frames you want, whatever events, whatever threads, whatever character interactions. Toss your self about. All characters from all times, all versions of all characters, play by however many people want to be here, and any sort of magic or chaos you'd like to drag in. Everything is welcome here. This is my favorite dysfunctional-functional family, and every single one of them is welcome. Anyone and everyone from the show, at any point, anywhere. Threads do not have to match or mingle. It's all whatever will make your heart the happiest on this day. Wave your hands and make it work. If you need/to throw yourself at some planning or want to request certain characters, or plot or whatnot, there's a plurk over here, as well.

Come one, come all, for a Legends Thanksgiving this fall. ]

Sara closed down everything early tonight, never returning to her office after dinner, with a single nod toward Mick, before returning to her room. Turning over and over the small, strangely shaped thing John had brought to her. That he'd said should work as long as she was holding it. That it should only work for her, but that it wasn't a perfect conduit. If it worked.

If she didn't upset all of hell and time doing it.

Which could be half arrogant bullshit, but gave her a little pause to stare at.







But it didn't stop her sitting on her bed, turning it over and over in her fingers. Then, scooting back until her back found the wall on the far edge of her bed. Taking a deep breath and trying to calm her mind. Her jangling want for it to work. The low grade current of deeply tangled emotions from the moment she got to Star, too late to do more than see her father dead and Oliver walked off to jail.

The jail he was still in, even when her father was well under the ground now.



Sara breathed in. Then, breathed out again.
Focused on the idea. The hope. The thread of concern.
Focused on Oliver's face. So many different flickers of it.

In that hospital hallway. In the Star news. Eyes edged in green leather. Smiling at her.
The last time he hugged her, when the worlds were all blurred and they had that last quiet second.
The last time she was in Star, before the last time, fighting at his side, when The Legends were done.




Here went nothing.

Oliver?

"It's nothing. Really."

Maybe a little inconveniencing. Maybe she doesn't share her personal space. Not so much well, as ever. As at all. Even with her people. Maybe she didn't miss the chance to smack Mick Rory on the back of his head for another one of those punchy comments about who and what she's doing with her bed. This one isn't even like the last one. Even if she's totally seen Alex around here.

Even if Alex's real world, heartbroken over her ex, fall apart overreaction about a random roll in the sheets was a reminder both of what she's been missing in the last few years, running from, avoiding -- just as much as why she doesn't do these things in her own sandbox. At least not one she has to live in for more than three or four days.

Still. This? This is nothing.

She can throw a pillow at Oliver's head and roll her eyes.
It's nothing. It's just business. Helping out a friend.