Alternates - Rebecca [OPEN]

[dawson]

"So."

"So."

Rebecca stared across the room at...herself? Rebecca? What did she even call the other woman? Me? It was kind of disturbing, really, sitting down at taking a good, long look at yourself like this. On the other hand, perhaps she was a little less affected than she should have been, as the other woman...the other Rebecca actually looked identical to Hanna, minus the crooked nose. Or, at least, the Hanna she knew. Which was unsurprising, really, as Hanna was exactly what she would have looked like were she to lose fifty pounds. Identical twins were like that.

"Nice weather we're having."

"We're in a spaceship."

Honestly...what did one say in a situation like this? 'Hi, how are you?' or 'You're looking good.' seemed strangely self-serving at the moment, but this was one of those situations you had to take advantage of, because just how often did one get to talk to themselves in a non-crazy way like this? At least the other her had come up with something to say.

So, for awhile, both Rebeccas looked each other over, taking in what another universe had done to the other and seeing what they could have been in another life. Rebecca herself, now sitting on a stool, her elbows propped up on a table, had come to the medbay to try and find some form of medical professional and get her hands on something for her shoulder, as it had been bothering her lately and the over the counter stuff hadn't been cutting it, and was wearing simple, dark fatigues; cargos, her old combat boots, and a gray wifebeater that prominently displayed a portion of her ink, her sidearms of choice, a large revolver she'd carried for years, resting on her thigh, her hair pulled up in rows, and all of her visible piercings simple steel balls. Other Rebecca, sitting on the edge of the table itself, was about fifty or so pounds lighter, although still in very good shape, and wore less modest attire, a pair of blue jeans, blue and gray sneakers, and a tank-top that held some name brand she couldn't identify, but looked suspiciously like one she could with a few major differences, and had her hair, which reached past her shoulders, pulled back in a braid. She was armed as well, unsurprisingly, with a much smaller pistol tucked into a holster on her belt, right behind the shiny Bureau of Investigation badge.

"So, married huh?" Rebecca asked, motioning the ring on other Rebecca's finger as it caught her eye.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, going on nineteen years pretty soon. You ever get hitched?"

"Me? Hell no. No woman'd ever be able to keep up with all my bullshit."

Other Rebecca paused for a few seconds, as if something hadn't clicked, then raised a brow. "Woman?"

Rebecca grinned unabashedly. "Yup. Gave up on men, oh, twenty years ago or so...guessing you didn't then?" Well, that was an interesting thing to learn about yourself. Your...other self. And one hell of a way to spend your first few days at a new posting, hadn't even gotten to know the crew yet, and know she was sitting here talking to another her from another universe about her...their...sexuality.

"Two kids, almost a third. I'd say no."

"Oh, wow, no...I don't think kids would go well for me. I'd be a terrible mother. Oh, God, that's a horrible image..." Other Rebecca laughed and shook her head. She'd done alright so far, but the more the two spoke, the more they both realized how different they were. Amazing what one simple event happening could do for the direction a person's life went from there on out. Married, with kids, and seemingly quite happy with her life. When she'd first heard of the arrival of the alternate Venia's arrival, she had almost dreaded meeting a her from another universe. Part of her had believed that, no matter the universe, no matter the life, Rebecca Evelynn Dawson's life would always be of blood. She had been pleasantly surprised to discover she'd been wrong, though the more they discussed it, the more she was reminded of how much hers was in comparison. "Anyways, my point was, your not a Dawson anymore, right?"

"A Finley now, right, why? Oh..."

"So I just figured out what to call you."

"Thank God, I was spinning wheels on that one...'cause I hate being called Becca..."

"...and so do I. I wasn't looking forward to the argument of who gets to use the middle name until you go back, either."

"Oi vey...nobody gets to call me Evey 'cept dad."

"Yeah, he called me that, too..."

"I...oh, damnit, sorry."

Rebecca waved Rebecca off idly and shook her head, her expression taking on just the slightest hint of bitterness. You had to learn to live with your memories, you had to learn to not crack whenever something came up to remind you of them. Didn't mean it didn't still hurt when something did, but she'd spent a lifetime learning to work past pain.

Rebecca flinched as something small hit her in the forehead. She stared at her other self for a few seconds, then at the floor to see what had hit her. Still looking at the floor, she cocked her head to the side as she found the object. "Did you just...throw a condom at me? Seriously?"

"Me? Naw...I would never..."

"Uh-huh."

[Sam O'Connor]

This whole doppelganger business was getting stranger by the day. Several members of the alternate crew had strayed into the mess hall looking for food, all commenting with surprise when they saw that Sam (or Samuel as they kept calling him) was the one cooking their fantastic food. It was like they thought their Sam had had an epiphany or something, seen the light and began to cook. That would be entirely random. But with every "Samuel! Well I never!" he began to wonder what this guy was really like, all he knew was that he could spin even the most ridiculous lie into what seemed like the truth, and that he didn't cook. Also, he obviously had something going on with Evy. Weird.

Apparently, fate decided that it was time that they met. Samuel's eyes practically popped out of his head upon seeing Sam, and admittedly, Sam's did the same. Is that a designer suit?
"Wow," Samuel approached the kitchen with a bemused look on his face, his American accent crisp and clear from the first word that had left his lips, "this is... not what I expected."
"Ditto," Sam said, looking himself over, his Northern Irish accent probably alien to the other man's ears. "You're... weird. No, no, not weird. I mean, this is weird. I never wear a suit."
"I always wear one, practically part of the job description, and it looks good."
Sam nodded, he couldn't dispute that fact. His alter self worked a suit pretty damn well.
Silence fell, and Sam found himself goggling at Samuel, who seemed a little perturbed by it. "Well, I came here to eat." He obviously wasn't interested in chit chat with his other self.
"Oh, oh, yes, right!" Sam quickly dished out some of the food into a plate, accidentally scolding himself in the process. He cursed, pushing the plate over before running to the sink, running his hand under the cold water.
"What a klutz." Samuel shook his head, took the plate and left, leaving Sam frowning after him.
"What an arse."

Leaving his post, he skittered down the hallway to the medical bay to get this burn sorted before it turned into another scar. He burst through the doors, looking around for someone to help him when his eyes fell on Rebecca... and Rebecca. He almost went cross-eyed. "Oh wow, sorry, I didn't meant to interrupt anything." He clutched his burned hand, "I just... well I... can't find my words. I burned myself. Not that you're interested. I'll go find a..." he looked around to see the place was empty apart from the two women, "doctor."

((Hope this is okay, let me know otherwise.))

[dawson]

"Oh, damn, and here we were about to have HLS. Does that...count as incest? Or...just happy time?"

"There's the question of the day."

Both Rebeccas stared at Sam for a few seconds as he rambled on. Finley cocked an eyebrow, obviously a little confused by the accent and the man's attire, while Dawson just shook her head a little before turning to the other woman. "You get taught much about burns in the force?"

"Not...really, no, just basic stuff."

Sighing, Rebecca pushed herself off her stool and looked the chef over. "Well, guess you're stuck with-"

"But I have kids."

Snerking slightly, Rebecca again shook her head and folded her arms. "Point taken. You can have him, then, because my nursing skills are functional, not favorable."

"Spoken like a soldier." Finley said as she also stood, motherly instincts kicking in as she moved over to Sam, hands on her hips in the 'what did you do?' look. "I'm guessing by the accent and the lack of attitude and suit that you aren't my Samuel, then, right? Well, let's have a look at you, then, let me see it. Dawson, would you try and find ointment or salve and some ibuprofen? And a bandage, too."

"'Samuel'?" Rebecca raised a brow slightly as she began digging through drawers and cabinets. She hadn't gotten to know a lot about the rest of the crew yet, hell, she hadn't even properly met everyone, but she knew enough to know that nobody called him Samuel. He was just Sam. Not that it really mattered much to her, mind you, as she rarely called anyone by their first name without being in a fairly close relationship with them, and that...didn't happen often.

"What, you don't call him Samuel? Mine gripes when you don't."

"Well, to me he's O'Connor, but you should probably consider asking him what you should call him."

"Oh yeah, huh...sorry. I'm Rebecca." She paused slightly, then added, "Finley. UGAP liaison for interrogation and investigation, I usually work for the Bureau of Investigation."

"Hence the big, shiny badge that I'm sure he wouldn't have noticed on his own." Rebecca called, head inside a cabinet, with an ever so slightly sarcastic tone. She hmm'd to herself as she continued digging around, scanning over various jars and bottles. There was some very interesting stuff in here that she'd have to remember for the future. When you had as many medical problems as a retired career soldier, you tended to have a close relationship with pharmaceuticals. Eventually, she pulled out a jar full of a thick, off-white substance and looked over the label. "'Burn Salve'. Wow, that's a surprisingly helpful name. Here, use this."

Deftly, she lobbed the jar across the room to her other self, who caught it two-handed, hefted it, and looked it over appraisingly. Unscrewing the top, she set it on a nearby bed and held out her hand, palm up, to Sam. "Hand." She said, in the stern mother tone, as if she were about to put a bandaid on her son's skinned knee after he fell off his bike.

Twirling a bottle of generic ibuprofen in one hand and carrying a bandage wrap and square patch in the other, the larger of the two Rebeccas made her way over to the two and held them out, the bandage items to her smaller clone, and the bottle to Sam. She even took off the lid and everything! "Here, take a couple of these."

"Water?" Finley asked expectantly, as if Dawson had pulled a blonde moment, the fact that she actually was notwithstanding.

"What? Oh, right..." Shaking her head, Rebecca turned and shook her head, heading across the room to the sink and the small, paper cups beside it. She returned shortly after and offered Sam a pair of small pills and the cup. "Keep forgetting I'm in the company of civilians again. Next you're gonna ask me to pray over a second degree burn."

"You pray?"

"Not over second degree burns."

"To who, the Greek god of war, whatever his name was-"

"Ares, his name was Ares, and no-" Narrowing her eyes slightly, Dawson gave Finley a look that openly said this wasn't a subject to be made light of. "-I don't pray to a Greek god."

[Sam O'Connor]

Sam laughed somewhat nervously at their beginning comment, absentmindedly rubbing his arm with his burnt hand - clever, Sam, clever. They were joking, obviously. It was a little strange looking at both of them there together, it was clear to see that it was the same woman, but the differences were definitely noticeable, like it had been with him and Samuel.

"I'll take whatever help I can get," he offered, "so long as I leave the room with all my body parts intact." He wasn't and would never be prepared to walk in with a burnt hand and leave without a hand at all. That'd make his job infinitely more difficult.

He saw the look he was given, and returned a sheepish one. His food might have been excellent, but he had a propensity to be clumsy in the kitchen... and everywhere else really. "No, no, just Sam. Cheery Sam the chef. No attitude, just... well, Irish. I think that's the best way to describe me."

The differences between the two women were becoming more apparent as time went on. He hadn't really interacted with the 'Dawson' Rebecca, but he had a sneaking suspicion she might be the one messing up his kitchen late at night after he'd gone to bed.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said to Finley, "I'd offer you a hand, but yeah." He placed his hand against hers as instructed, chewing his lip a little as she sorted out his hand for him. He took the tablets and stuffed them in his mouth before washing them down with the water. "Thanks."

Merely listening to the conversation about praying and Gods, not wanting to step on any toes, he marvelled at the sight going on before him. Having alternative versions of everyone around was certainly proving to be interesting; it had its ups and its downs, but they seemed to be getting on well.

"I see you two are doing better than when I met Samuel," he said, referring to their rapor, "the man is a piece of work. I have no idea how he got like that." And how Sam hadn't. It must have been his Grandparents, they'd raised him better than he'd given them credit for.

[dawson]

"That'd be why I'm doin' this. I've been playin' nursemaid for eighteen years now, I'm actually pretty good at it." Rebecca said with a slight smirk, her own Kiwi accent contrasting Sam's Irish fairly well. Dawson just grunted and shook her head, going back to digging through cabinets to find something for herself. What was he trying to imply, that she wasn't a gentle person or something? The audacity. I mean, really, what could possibly give anyone such an idea about her?

"Oh yeah, that's right, I remember hearing you were a damn good chef from someone-"

"Me."

"-her. I'm not ever sure Samuel knows how to cook." Pausing slightly in thought as she dipped her fingers into the goopy, cold salve, Finley shrugged. She also doubted she'd ever find out. Still, he couldn't possibly be worse than she was, and that was apparently something that both Dawsons did share in common. Continuing, she gently smeared the salve over the burn, doing her best not to apply any pressure, and doing a fairly decent job. She had lots of practice, after all. "Well, Sam, the feeling's mutual. Glad to finally meet a semi-sane person on this crew."

"Hey! Okay, yeah, I'll give you that one."

It was about as she picked up the square bandage that she again stopped to look the man over. It finally hit her that this was...Samuel O'Connor. Just...not the one she knew, but it was him none the less. Man, this was...just weird. She honestly wondered why Dawson didn't seem particularly phased by any of this. Probably had something to do with already being a little wrong in the head anyways. Shaking her head, she pressed the bandage down gently. "Hold that, and I'll wrap it."

Emerging victoriously with a bottle of some generic brand painkiller, Dawson popped the lid off and poured a few into her hand as she took up her stool again. It was about as she got the pills to her mouth that Sam mentioned how well the two of them were getting along, which elicited a snicker from Finley. Dawson just paused for a few seconds, swallowed, and exchanged a glance at her smaller clone.

"You should have seen us when we first met. I thought she was gonna hurt me."

"I was going to."

"On the bright side, I know what not to bring up in conversation with her now, and I learned she doesn't really hold grudges, either."

"Yeah, you're lucky, you got the good sister, not the spiteful bitch."

"Point being...maybe you should just- on second thought, no, maybe not, nevermind. Samuel's kind of an ass in my experience. On that line of thought...can I trade you-" Cut short by something small and hard bouncing off her forehead, Finley stared blankly at nothing in particular for a few seconds, then at Dawson, then at the condom packet on the floor in front of her, then at Dawson again.

"My. Chef."

[Sam O'Connor]

((Dude, you're an awesome writer xD Loving your posts!))

"If I wasn't so protective of my kitchen, I'd have someone kidnap him and trap him in there, just to see what happened," Sam said, shaking his head slightly, "in comparison to a boardroom, he'd probably think it was some sort of alien space with weird, albeit pointless, equipment, and would spend the next few hours trying to talk the food into getting into the pan itself." Wow, that was judgemental considering he didn't actually know the guy. But the look he'd given Sam earlier, and the klutz comment (even if it was true) had irked him. He needed some manners. "Sorry," he said, "speaking my mind doesn't exactly make for light conversation."

Sam let out a snort when she said that she was glad to finally meet someone semi-sane, "yeah, emphasis on the semi," he said, referring to himself. Not many people understood his completely doolally sense of humour, so he tended to tone it down. Zoe was the only one who really appreciated it so far. "Yes ma'am," he said, not entirely seriously, but serious enough to show he understand, gingerly holding the bandage in place with two fingers. The painkillers would begin to work their magic soon enough and he wouldn't have to worry about the pain again till they wore off. He'd have to remember to take some more with him.

"Isn't hurting another person who is essentially yourself some sort of oxymoron? A paradox?" Science fiction had probably twisted it that way in the past, or maybe that was more to do with time-travel than parallel universes? Who knew.

Having the condom packet soar across his field of vision was an experience he'd never had before. It hit Finley practically between the eyes, which almost prompted Sam to blurt out, 'nice aim', but he held it back, sucking in him bottom lip instead.

"Well, other than the risk of a further condom attack," that was such a weird thing to say, "I'm pretty sure Samuel would have something to say about that. And me. As grateful as I am that you've bandaged me up like a pro, there's people here that would miss me and vice versa. Besides, I'm sure you're a dab hand in the kitchen yourself." The sentence seemed innocent enough, but he was curious to know if his suspicions were true. Not that they'd fall for it. He didn't have quite the way with words that his counterpart seemed to have, or so he thought.

[dawson]

"Ooo..." Rebecca perked up noticeably at Sam's musings. She turned to look at him and gave him a mischievous grin and laughed. Oh, that would be something to watch. For the sake of science, of course, she certainly had no thoughts of personal amusement, how could you think such a thing? "That...would need to be filmed, I think. 'Course, now that you've given me the idea, you realize what I'm gonna have to do once we go back to my own Venia, right?"

Unrolling the wrapping a little, Finley shook her head slightly at Sam's apology, then pointed to Dawson. "Don't worry about it, you should try having a conversation with her for an hour."

"Sitting...right here."

"Seriously, it's depressing."

"Still right here. I was trained how to kill people, march, eat, and be respectful, not how to talk to people."

"Yeah, well, you should take pride in at least the semi part,, Sam, first person I met on this tub was Dawson over there," Pausing slightly as she held the end of the wrap just above Sam's hand, she leaned in close to whisper in his ear. "And, hate to say it, but she's bloody crazy."

"You try four years in a gulag, see how well you come out."

Finley leaned forward and stared at Dawson with a nonplussed look, more than a little surprised she'd not only heard that, but understood it. She squinted at the bigger woman, then leaned back in closer and whispered even softer than before. "She's kinda scary, too."

"I also possess remarkable hearing for someone who spends as much time around firearms as I do."

Shaking her head, Finley, softly as she could, began wrapping the roll around Sam's arm. It was quite obvious she'd done this a few times before, and usually to people who complained when they thought you were hurting them. "Oh, bugger, didn't get any doodackies."

"Scissors?"

"Right, them. Wow, she actually understood that, too. Kinda scary, innit?"

"I still speak some Kiwi."

Rising from her stool, Dawson produced an ornate butterfly knife from a pocket and flicked it open casually in one smooth motion. Stepping over to the two, she reversed the knife in her hand, extending the handle out to Finley as the woman stopped wrapping. "Ta." Taking the knife, she cut the material, tugged the end snug, and added a pair of hooks to secure it before returning the knife. Pulling gently to make sure her work was secure, she nodded satisfactorily. "Piss easy. Now, give it a few days, she'll be right."

"You can't actually speak English, can you?"

"Oh, you're a dag, you are."

"Take that as a no." Dawson said as she took her knife back, flicked it closed, and returned it to her pocket. Setting a hand on her hip, and another against her chin as she walked back to her stool, she hmm'd faintly as Sam brought science into the equation. That was a good question. Maybe testing was in order? Turning on her heel, she walked back and stopped right in front of Finley, folding her arms and squinting at the woman in seeming contemplation.

"Crikey dick!" Throwing her arms up in front of her face in mock defense, Finley peered around her wrist at the larger Rebecca suspiciously. "She's gonna cark me. I've got kids, y'know!"

"No? I'm too pretty to pack a sad?"

Shaking her head with a laugh, Dawson returned to her stool again. They were two very different personalities, that was easy to see, but...they did have their similarities here and there. Well, it could have been worse, she could just as easily start replying in kind and engage the woman in full-blown Kiwi. She'd done that to people with Izzy more than once.

Nodding a few times as Sam spoke of himself and his crew, Finley was about to formulate a response when he mentioned cooking. Both Rebeccas immediately turned to stare at each other, and if one looked close enough they'd be able to tell that both were trying very, very hard not to crack a smile. Finley broke first, a smile slipping through, which prompted both to burst into full-blown laughter. Dawson nearly fell off the back of her stool. Taking a deep breath and collecting herself, Finley fixed Sam with a vastly amused look. "Let me be as blunt as I can here, I've been a mum and a wife for eighteen years, and the only reason my husband'll even let me in the kitchen is to help him clean up. Oh no, if it weren't for fast food and takeout-"

"-we'd have both starved to death a long time ago."

"I mean, Dawson came in her for a reason, y'know, but she stopped to help me put you back together, because in our books-"

"-always make the chef happy. Besides, it's not that bad, really."

"She's also not a very good liar, you'll notice."

[Sam O'Connor]

Sam let a snort slip, briefly covering his mouth before the chuckling began. "Well, that solidifies my title of 'bad influence'," he said, grinning across at Finley as she decided that she would have to carry out his plan for him now that the idea was in her head. "Of course it would have to be filmed, and you have to send a copy to me. It might be something akin to self-flagellation, but amusing nontheless." He rubbed away the moisture that was building in the corners of his eyes. "Torturing my alter-self by locking him in a kitchen, it sounded like a house-wife's guide to torture. Something that she would do to her husband to teach him a lesson for not putting the toilet seat down."

Glancing between the two of them, he said, "well, if anyone can get someone talking, it's me. Especially if it's about eating. And usually things go over well if it's accompanied by food as well," he grinned, "whetting a person's appetite usually makes them more amenable." Or, in the case of Zoe or Eva, made them dissolve into a pile of goo that was only really capable of going 'mmmmmmmm!', which made conversation difficult, obviously.

The whisper thing made him snorfle - yep, that's what he was calling the laugh covered by a clearing of the throat - almost jerking his hand away by accident. "Well, I suppose you haven't had the joys of screaming children for over a decade," Sam said in reference to Dawson, "so that might account for any difference in hearing." He was a young boy not too long ago, he remembered how noisy he could be sometimes, especially when a group of them got together. Not even the most advanced ear plugs could grant his Grandmother peace on those occasions.

Sam sat in silence as the Kiwi speak went whooshing over his head. He just about managed to catch the jist of it, but the explanation of 'doodackies' had been welcomed. "Try going to Belfast one day, see if you can understand any of the speech which sounds like a punch drunk Irish man being smothered by a pillow." It could be like a whole other language if the person had a strong enough accent, the fact that his Grandpa was English and maintained an English accent around the house was a blessing; it meant that the accent Sam had wasn't completely overwhelming.

"Thank you," Sam smiled at Finley finished with his hand, wiggling his fingers a little. This was going to make his job interesting for the next day or so.

Careering back in his seat as Dawson approached, his eyes flickered over both of them in the close vacinity to one another. Dawson was quite a lot bigger, who knew all that training did that to a person? If he went to the gym every day and packed in the protein, would he become like a heavy weight wrestler? Probably not, not with his metabolism, and the amount he ran around the kitchen each day.

The gales of laughter at his comment made Sam's eyebrows spring board up his forehead. The following comment confirmed his suspicions, but far from being angry - like he had been when he found the mess - he found himself laughing too, if a little more warily than he had intended. "I'd say that's a good philosophy to have," he agreed, "I know keeping my Uncle happy meant bone-crushing hugs and bonuses, no complaints there." It also meant the kitchen ran smoothly, and no customers complained about their food. "Well, whenever I'm in the kitchen, both of you ladies are welcome to some food. I'm sure you'll find some way to catch my attention."

[dawson]

"Heh, Sam, it doesn't take much to be a bad influence on me, so you'll probably be getting a copy slipped under your door sooner than you'd think." Hopping onto the side of the bed, Finley crossed her arms and smirked. Unlike her counterpart in this universe, she still had a soul left intact, but she was unquestioningly a troublemaker at heart nonetheless. She just limited herself to playing pranks on people every so often. She'd gotten fairly good at it, too, just ask the people in her office. Or her family. "Now...I'm not actually a housewife, but yeah, I torture Seamus plenty. It's fun. Especially since, when all else fails, I can just get 'em in a triangle an' be done with it. He calls it cheatin', I say there's the guy who plays fair, an' the guy who wins."

"That much I'll agree to." Dawson said with a nod as she slipped off her stool and returned to scavenging through cabinets. "Like the last guy who pulled a knife on me awhile back."

"Let me guess, you shot him in the kneecap?"

Pulling her head from a cabinet, Dawson gave her other self a sobering look, then returned to her search, her tone very briefly draining all the humor from the room. "I'm threatened when I'm armed, I draw. I draw a loaded weapon, I use it. I haven't shot to wound in twenty years."

"...right, so, way to kill the mood. Anyways, back to our previously scheduled programming."

"'S-K-eduled', not 'sheduled'. C H is hard."

"That's what I said. Scheduled."

"...nevermind."

Turning back to Sam as Dawson muttered something under her breath about how the room was stocked, Finley shrugged. It was weird, everywhere she went, people always kept telling her she was saying stuff wrong, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out why. No, Seamus talked funny, in his semi-discernible highlander's...whatever you wanted to call it. "Yeah, you wouldn't think it, but I have a great love for food myself."

"Something we share in common, it seems. You wouldn't believe how much running is involved in keeping myself in shape, what with the things I eat. But that's kind of what happens when you believe the greatest invention ever conceived was Alfredo sauce."

"Ooo..." Finley stared off into the distance for a few seconds longingly. Ah, the Italians.

"On the contrary, small children haven't got anything on being part of a machinegun crew. You ever had a short-barrel squad-automatic let loose a foot from your head? I've had to have surgery four times on the left ear."

"Yeah, no thanks. I'll stick to my very well-behaved children."

"Wait, your kids were well-behaved?" Dawson raised her head again and squinted at Finley for a few seconds in semi-disbelief. Either the woman's husband was a saint, or her kids were genetic aberrations, because they sure as hell didn't get those genes from a Dawson woman. Rowdy was an understatement.

"Yeah, I know right? I have no explanation for my kids. Although, I will say this; when Carmen hit puberty, that was an interestin' coupla years. Guess some things just run in the family."

Dawson snorted as she appropriated a towel and an icepack. Yeah, wasn't that the truth? Some things were just pre-ordained, no matter the universe you came from. "Belfast...Belfast...I think I've been to Bel- uh, you know what, forget I said anything, that's...probably still classified, actually."

"Y'know, I think you've said that at least a dozen times since I've met you. Anyways, can't possibly be any worse than dealing with a bunch of drunk Irish gypsies. I think I only made out one word any of those guys said."

Hooking her thumb inside her belt buckle to take a little weight off her shoulder, Dawson cringed ever so slightly and sat back down. Irreparable joint injuries were fun, weren't they? Well, it made getting out of a straight jacket easy at least. Yeah, that was a great trade-off, because she had to do that so very often.

"You're more than welcome, puttin' on a little stickin' plaster's no problem, not like I was doing anything vastly important with my time anyways. Just learnin' about how really messed up my life has been in this universe."

"I warned you."

"That you di- 'ang on a minute, he just call us 'ladies'? No no, my sister's a lady, but us?"

"Ha, no- wait, which sister?"

"Izzy."

"Okay, yeah, Isabel you could call a lady. I think I'm more of a..."

"Hulking brute?"

"Not what I was going to say, but yeah, that too. Still, I'll very likely take you up on that offer. So long as if any talk of uncles come up again we steer away from mine. I don't talk too Thomas, I don't talk about him, just makes me feel the need to murder a kitten."

"You're a very wobbly person, you know that?"

"What my therapist kept telling me. Well, I don't think he ever said it quite like that, but you get the idea."