2012-12-25 Merry Christmas

Christmas day. Helena can't believe it's the 25th of December already. And of course, so much crap has gone on the past few months that she's lost contact with just about every last one of her friends through the school or otherwise... not that she was in any frame of mine of physcial condition to be gallavanting about and getting drunk on eggnog. No, she thinks she ultimately chose wisely.

Curled up on her sofa under a thick blanket and watching a Doctor Who marathon, she finds that she doesn't care that she's not moved for the past several hours, not even to refill her long-empty glass of water.

Robin has been sitting on the rooftop outside for quite some time, staring up at the window. His lip is curled, his arms clasp his knees to his chest and his eyes are narrowed. When he stands up it looks as though he is about to leave but instead he leaps across the gap between buildings, scaling up until he reaches Helena's window. Once there, he pries it open in silence and slips inside.

Huntress closes her eyes as the show goes to commercials, not even suspecting that someone's sneaking into her house. She's REALLY slipping. She SHOULD get up and do those stretches to help her shoulder. She SHOULD get something to eat. Hell, she should wash her hair. But for now, wallowing will suffice. It takes less effort.

"Your senses are dull," Robin announces, standing behind the couch with his cape drawn about him and his hood up, "You had best fix that if you intend to return to duty and not be killed immediately by the first fleet-footed dullard with a gun."

Huntress actually yelps aloud when someone abruptly speaks up and it's not the TV. She scrambles to her feet clumsily, but does so with a knife already in her left hand and THEN realizes who it is. She sighs, drops the knife on the small table by the sofa, and looks at Robin tiredly. "So sorry I'm not out there killing myself," she says with obvious sarcasm.

"It would be easier if you were," Robin answers in his usual snide manner, not so much as moving an inch when she leaps up and briefly brandishes the knife. He doesn't immediately say why he's there, instead glaring at the television as though it had done him some personal offense.

"Yeah, well, I decided I want a little time off. Deal." Helena settles back onto the sofa, pulling the blanket close again and all but telling Robin that in her mind the conversation is over. Under the concealment of the blanket, her left hand rubs lightly against her right collarbone, now regretting having neglected to take the most recent round of ibuprofen.

"I don't care if you want time off, Bertinelli," Robin scoffs, shrugging his shoulders, "Take the rest of your life. Sit here and grow fat and watch television. Perhaps you'll buy a cat or several?" A mean-spirited laugh escapes him as he strolls over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and looking through it.

"Don't like cats. They annoy me." Helena doesn't try to follow Robin, letting him snoop around if he wants. The fridge looks to be moderately well stocked, but in reality it's containers of items that are not food on their own, or a couple of containers whose contents are nearing sentience. The freezer is no better.

"Disgusting," Robin murmurs, shaking his head and closing the fridge. Moving away, he reaches into the satchel he wears at the small of his back and produces a simple, white cardboard box. He drops it on the counter, moving back towards the window, "There."

Helena Bertinelli looks over at that. "What?" She sits up again, looking at Robin, then the box, then back at the young man. "Wait a minute, you're leaving? Just like that?" She's somehow forgotten that this is the kid who takes mean-spirited sarcasm to an art form.

"I am making a promised delivery," Robin answers flatly, pausing by the window to check his belongings and make sure that nothing has been left behind that he did not mean to leave, "If you'll recall."

She must be brain-addled. Helena honestly can't remember having been promised anything, and that much is clear by her confused expression. "Oh, hey. Do you know if anyone mentioned anything about my motorcycle?" She hasn't seen it since she hid it in a stand of bushes outside of Arkham Asylum's perimeter fence and NOW it's occurring to her to start worrying about it.

"I don't know anything about your motorcycle," Robin says, shaking his head and sounding honestly annoyed as he climbs up onto the window's sill, "Perhaps you should take better care of your belongings?"

Helena Bertinelli frowns at that. "Oh, so it's /my/ fault that I went to that damned asylum to try and help and ended like this?" She thumps her shoulder in her annoyance then winces, both at the resulting twinge and her own stupidity. "You know what? Forget I said anything. Go away already. I'll figure it out by myself, like I always do."

"Very well," Robin answers, not sounding all that fussed by her annoyance. He does not bid her goodbye or any other good wishes, instead he simply disappears out of the window and off into the night. Should the box he left behind be opened later, she'll find inside it a perfectly-balanced and finely-honed crossbow.

Huffing in annoyance after Robin leaves (GOD, she misses the other Robin, the one that was /nice/), Helena gets up and goes to lock the window the teen used to sneak into her apartment. Then she goes to check the contents of the box and is awestruck the crossbow she finds. She looks it over for several minutes, then sets it gently back in its box and goes to shower. It's not too late, she might have a little time to get some target practice in.