Disclaimer: I don't own Legends of Tommorrow or any of its characters.
A/N: I don't usually post works from my AO3 account, but, oh, well. This whole, time-fixing thing, is something I hope I did well to make it believable. I could go in more details, for this piece, Leonard wanted it to remain this air of mystery. Unless, I decided to write a longer, more fleshed out fic, this won't be explained. I actually wanted to try my hand at Rip/Sara (I've this weird thing that just likes to explore the weirdest pairings at time to see if they make sense) but I really liked Sara and Leonard from the start and I still do.
This was unsettling.
The air was too damn warm and he hated the heat. He much preferred the cold — feel the ice in his veins — there was something comforting about the cold. But it wasn't the warmth, it was the smell of the lingering defeat in the air.
"Well, well, isn't this surprising?" Leonard lifted himself on the ledge, tossing his head backwards. "I didn't take you as one to accept defeat easily, Sara," he emphasized on her name, almost in a mocking way, but also with visible hints of care and compassion laced in his cold, smooth voice.
Sara looked at him, really looked at him, in those warm but sleep ridden eyes of hers, and let it all wash over her. "Leonard?"
"I take it you have questions. Make them short. I like them sweet and short. Gives them something cold," he said, glancing at his fingernails before staring at Sara again, waiting to see what questions she will ask him. Seeing him alive when he was dead must be quite the sight, but Sara had seen things — they all had — that was unfathomable to the naked eyes.
She took a seat on the bed. "How did you manage to escape? You were dead. We all saw you die."
Leonard smiled, bringing out the smirk and coolness to his expression. Cheeks sinking in to release small dimples. Eyes twisting with a coldness that was friendly but distant at the same time.
"I died." He checked his fingernails again. "But not completely. I was in the darkness, cold to the touch, but I was pulled out of it. You can say time gave me a second chance."
Her face remaining unchanged: blank.
"Time pulled you? As in time? You must be joking."
"Yes, time, just time, no angels, no god. I was shattered; fragments here and there in the continuum. But each part — cold, crushing part found themselves back to my dead lifeless corpse. Death isn't inevitable, after all."
"Time fixing you up? That sounds like a load of crap." Sara folded her arms across her chest. "That isn't possible. We saw you dying. I saw you died. You were a hero, a legend."
He felt the emotions behind her words: broken, confused, yet proud.
"I'd said I don't have strings to pull, but someone, something, is out there pulling our strings. All of us. Breaking them. Fixing them. Crushing them. I've seen it. Experienced it."
"But if you were alive, why didn't you tell us? Why keep it from us?"
Sara looked at him, hurt and confused, but strong and determined at the same time. She got up from the bed and walked toward him. And placed her warm hand on his cold, icy ones. "Why'd you do that to us? To Rory?" she asked, her voice small and tired. "Why, Leonard? What reason do you have?"
"Rory needed time to grow. Without me in the picture, he had the chance to spread his wings, see where they will take him," he said, not flinching or attempting to move her hands from his. "You all did. And like I say, we are like puppets on a strings, being pushed forward, being pulled back, all for something's, someone's enjoyment."
"But you should have told us," she said quietly. "Give us a sign. Anything."
"Yes, maybe, but like I said, we're being watched. Something far greater than you or the Captain here can understand. And I need to find out what it is. Who it is."
Sara said nothing, but lifted a finger, and stroked his cheeks. They shared a common understanding in silence. But you could have told me, but I understand your reasons, your actions. She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes and smiled.
"You aren't going to stay?"
She saw it written in his eyes: his determination to leave, but his reluctance to just remain there, be with her.
"I can't," he simply stated, "I've already stayed too long. I've to go. Leave. Too much to do, too little time to do them."
She squeezed his hands in understanding. "I still think you should stay. Let Rory know you're alive. Let our friends in. Rip and the rest can help."
Leonard smirked and placed his thumb on her lips. "I can't." His touch lingered longer than it should, as if he was thinking about staying, or kissing her, but he did neither. And his hands returned to his side.
Then he was gone, because staying there wasn't right, and the air was too warm for his liking.
Sara stood there, for a moment, drinking in the surprisedly cold air, and wondered if he was really there, or was she dreaming of him. The man she shared her last kiss with him. The man who irritated her with his smugness but challenged her with the softness cushioned behind those uncaring eyes of his.
But she saw a trail of ice of the ledge of the counter and decided Leonard Snart was there, not part of her dreams, or her imagination, but in flesh and bone. Until he wasn't there anymore.