Author's Note: That trailer for 1x12 "Last Refuge" generated a plot bunny ("Little Boy Lost") that did what bunnies do… it multiplied and created this story. This is not the sequel I expected to write (and still plan to write), but it's the one that insisted on being written before 1x12 goes on the air. Huntress69 kickstarted this idea, which turned out far darker than I'd expected.
As always, "D.C.'s Legends of Tomorrow" is the property of D.C. Entertainment.
Mick ended up being the one to take the Pilgrim out, dispatching his former lover ("You don't want to know," he'd growled at the team when he dropped that bomb on them. "And even if you did, I ain't telling.") in a battle that made his fistfight with Snart look like a ballroom dance.
Mick leaned against the shower wall, letting the water pour over him, as if it could wash away the memories.
Wash away the guilt.
Some of his wounds were still bleeding as he dried himself, staining the towel scarlet.
His confession.
Naked, he stared at himself in the full-length mirror, assessing the damage. His left eye was blackened, the vision blurry.
Her pale skin glowed like an angel in the darkness of the forest.
There were four gashes on his face where she had clawed him, barely missing his right eye.
Her hand was soft against his cheek. "I can help you. Teach you."
He couldn't see it, but he knew he had a hairline fracture of his right forearm. He refused to have Gideon repair it.
Those soft hands showed their strength as she guided his arm during target practice, her body aligned closely to his.
The corner of his mouth was torn where she had hit him with the force of a thousand women scorned.
Her mouth was insistent, demanding, as it pressed against his.
There were toothmarks on his left hand.
She nibbled at his ear, ran her teeth down along his neck and bit his shoulder playfully as they rolled together, naked but for a sheen of sweat.
There was a long gash running from his right shoulder to his left hip.
Those soft, strong hands scratched down his back as he pinned her down to drive her into the mattress.
His left thigh was bruised deeply, where he'd tried to shatter her spine against the armor on his leg.
His hands ran up the smooth skin of her back as she moved on top of him, pale skin glowing, his angel in the darkness.
There was still blood under his fingernails. Her blood, from when he'd finally slit her throat.
The pulse in her throat beat against his lips as they writhed together, finally reaching completion.
Mick sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, ignoring (accepting) the small jolts of pain the motion caused. He moved to the sink and turned the water on. The blood under his nails dissolved away, swirling down the drain.
The memories would remain.