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Sara still hadn’t “figured it out”, but Ray’s words had actually helped a lot.
It also helped that Rory (or anyone else, for that matter) hadn’t really brought it up again. She had felt Snart’s penetrating gaze on her a few times, but it had quickly faded. Based on many of his mannerisms, Sara believed it was a gaze of genuine curiosity and not harsh judgment or stark observation. If she hadn’t been so self-conscious and afraid back then, she might have talked to him about it and found her confidence a lot sooner. Regardless, one day, she’d realized that she’d stopped shooting people furtive, self-conscious glances. Somehow, she’d accidentally slipped into something akin to confidence in her own body.
Ray’s framing of “dressing up” also made her feel more confident on missions. As much as she absolutely hated to admit it, Rory was at least partially right. Ray had been right about the wild west-- most people had too many of their own problems to care about clothing and others were already pretty familiar with the cowboy and outlaw crowd to not look twice. Nearly every other time period was decidedly not like that. Sometimes, she had to be a woman in a way she wasn’t sure she actually was. Framing it as playing dress-up made it feel more like a game and less like inexplicable alienation.
Gideon took care of the period-appropriate attire, Sara dressed up to play her role, and then she came home and changed into whatever made her feel like herself. Sometimes that was full-sleeved shirts and looser pants and sometimes it was tight tank tops and jeans. If Mick noticed, he thankfully didn’t comment on it. Most of the time, she didn’t even think about it herself anymore.
Most of the time.
Unfortunately, today was not “most of the time.”
Her turtleneck, blazer, and loose slacks had felt... her. Normal. Just... right. She had gotten dressed without a second thought-- or really, any thought at all. Ray’s words, although simple, had given her a validation she hadn’t realized she’d needed. She’d easily, although gradually, stepped into her fluidity. Over time, she became more herself in a way she still couldn’t begin to explain, describe, or understand. But she wasn’t sure she really needed to understand it. All that she knew was that most days, she felt better. Good, even. Embracing it had made her feel much better when she hadn’t even fully realized that it was something that had been making her feel out of sorts to begin with.
She no longer spent ages in front of the closet or in the fabrication room, and changing into contrary outfits for a mission rarely gave her pause. She could be whoever she wanted to be. Sara could be whatever she needed to be-- a sentiment echoed from a much more traumatic time in her life that now had a much more positive meaning. Back then, she was fighting for survival, a desperate chameleon who lived by the knife in her hand. Now, she was embracing life in a way 26-year-old her never would have even been able to fathom.
Only, the skirts and bonnet made it kinda hard.
Something about flattering color schemes , etc. etc. etc. Sara didn’t care. Her stomach had dropped when Gideon had fabricated the crimson coat with bright pink ruffled ribboning. She replaced her pants reluctantly with the linen skirts. Her head bowed beneath the bonnet, her gaze refusing to meet the mirror. Today, it felt so much more like lead weights rather than a mask.
Unfortunately, she still experienced bad days and she hated that today was apparently going to be one of them. She wanted to focus on being a good friend to Nate and a competent leader to fix this problem as soon as possible, but she couldn’t just be normal.
Sara silently chided herself. Normal isn’t real. You are perfect the way you are. There is nothing wrong with you.
Like she’d said-- she still had bad days that frequently came with negative self-talk. Despite the comfortable knowledge that Ava loved her the way she was, that her team unquestioningly supported her, and that her family back home couldn’t care less, days like today still made a certain gloom settle over her. It was like a prickling across her skin, a deep feeling of wrongness that didn’t really have a resolution. At least, not in 1802. And it hovered over her, like a devil on her shoulder, whispering discontent into her ear, for the entire mission.
Teasing Zari gave her some small respite, but she was moreso constantly overwhelmed by the feeling of awkwardness and discomfort. She felt far too present in her own body. The puff of fabric on her shoulder, the lacy cuffs of the sleeves and across her chest, the press and shape of the bra, the ribbon lacing just below her breasts, the swirl of the fabric down her stomach, across her hips, and along her legs...
Sara ground her teeth, trying and repeatedly failing to focus on the task at hand. The thing was, somewhere deep in her rational mind she was fully aware that she appeared completely normal. Typical for the time period, and pretty typical for another human being. There was nothing wrong with her body. Unfortunately, this feeling rarely listened to logic or common sense. It was a feeling that nested inside, burrowing deep, writhing like a hungry snake. It demanded attention and commanded discomfort. She had yet to find a way to control it, to dominate it, to bend it to her will.
Her anxiety about letting Mona in the field at this juncture was just about the only thing actually keeping her grounded. She let the eager young woman take point, and thankfully, everything went smoothly. Mona kept her on task and Zari continued to prove herself as a clever and competent operative in the field, somehow coming to the conclusion about the servent before either of them and had captured him.
It gave her no small amount of comfort to know that even when Sara was having an off day, her team could handle itself and the mission. Sometimes-- but that was better than never. Nothing had gone off the rails (at least, nothing under their supervision. The wedding hadn’t been on them. Plus, it had been entertaining). Everyone was back on the ship in one piece, the magical creature was captured and contained, and getting rid of him was tomorrow’s simple task. Now she could go grouse in her own quarters, in peace and quiet, and hope that this feeling resolved itself tomorrow. It was rare to have more than one bad day in a row, and if she did, she usually had other problems to deal with on that front.
She sighed as she removed the layers, pink and red and white fabric slipping to the ground in a careless heap that would have made Ava balk. She gave the lump a little kick-- petty but rather cathartic. Relieved and free, she slipped into a loose black T-shirt and gray sweatpants. The nagging voice immediately silenced itself, all of the clothing-stimulated triggers finally removed. Sara slid into bed beneath her covers, rubbing at a tension point in her neck.
She felt unaccountably exhausted-- she had come to recognize a pattern of bad days and utter exhaustion and figured that consciousness simply had a price. The only thing that used to ward off her nightmares was the total exhaustion that resulted from her hypervigilance. She supposed that the heightened awareness of her body was just a different type of hypervigilance, and it really seemed to wear her out. But the soft scent of Ava on her pillow and the weight of the blanket comforted Sara into a gentle slumber.