For the Ficcing Captain Canary prompt: "What are we to each other?"
Sara Lance blinked groggily. She was cold, and it smelled funky in here, and what the hell was that hanging from the ceiling? 'Side of beef,' and 'meat locker,' her brain slowly processed, followed by 'Tibetan pit viper venom.'
Great. Just great.
Her eyes focused after a few moments, and her gaze settled on another dark form that resolved into Leonard Snart. Question was, was it her Leonard? The fact that his so-called partners had chucked him in here, with her, suggested…maybe. But a wrong assumption could result in more than just another blow to her already battered heart.
As if on cue, he groaned and rolled over, trying to sit up.
"Pretty sure they hit us with Tibetan pit viper venom. Give it a few minutes," she advised.
He stared at her, blinking rapidly, struggling to clear his head. There was something in those amazing blue eyes of his. He was remembering, or trying to. "I know you," he said slowly.
"You do…or did."
He cocked his head to one side, searching his memories. "How could I forget you?" he asked, softly, almost to himself. "I mean," he corrected hastily, "I saw the way you fight…out there…how could I ever forget someone like that?"
"I don't know," Sara replied frankly, "but I'm pretty sure it's not your fault."
He made a small, noncommittal sound, still processing. Finally, he stumbled to his feet and staggered ungracefully to the door. He began running his hands around the frame, then pushing tentatively on the door itself, finally slapping it in frustration.
"Don't hurt yourself," Sara drawled. "They don't put keypads on this side for the cows to let themselves out. We're stuck here, until someone comes for us."
Snart stared at her, thinking how very much like himself that had sounded. He noticed her shivering, just about the same time that he rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some warmth. Why did this woman, and this situation seem so damn familiar?
"Why does it feel like we've done this before?"
Sara shuddered, and he thought there was more to it than just cold. "Because we have."
He slid down the wall, still feeling the effects of whatever the hell they'd been shot with, and breathed on his hands, studying the woman before him. She was a tiny little thing - if he hadn't seen her fight firsthand, he'd never have believed her capable of such violence. She shuddered again, and swayed slightly on her feet. Decision made, he shifted his legs to make room for her, and held his jacket open, like a flasher.
"Come here."
She just stared at him.
"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, and you're not going to last too long in this cold. Come here."
Biting her lip, Sara turned and fitted herself into the space between his legs, and leaned back against his chest. Snart wrapped the jacket and his arms around her and nestled his chin on top of her head. Their position was outrageously intimate, and should have been setting off all of his internal alarms, but it felt…familiar. Right.
"What is it with us and hypothermia?" he muttered, not quite knowing why.
Sara twisted her head to look at him, wonder in her eyes. "You remember that?"
"I remember…you and me, in a very cold room. I gave you my jacket. This seemed like a better idea…" he stammered out, in a disjointed fashion.
"We nearly died that day," Sara whispered. The cold and the lingering effects of the venom were starting to catch up. The room was fading around the edges.
"Sara," she thought she heard him say. He shook her slightly. "That's your name, isn't it? Stay with me. What are we…to each other, I mean?"
"Don't know. We never quite got that far. You don't like to talk about this sort of thing. Neither do I, really."
"Talk to me now," he pleaded urgently. "It's too cold in here. You've got to stay awake. Stay with me, please."
A strange, whooshing noise, a bit like a flame thrower, dragged at the edges of Snart's consciousness. A booted foot kicking the door in roused him fully from his stupor.
Mick Rory stepped into the room, heat gun in hand. He looked down at the couple huddled on the floor with an indecipherable expression on his face.
"Boss, is that you?" he asked, enough caution in his tone to be noticeable.
"I…don't know," Snart replied, too tired and too cold for anything less than total honesty. He nudged the blonde in his arms, but her head just lolled against his shoulder. "Help her."
Mick nodded, and bent down to lift Sara's limp form carefully over his shoulder. "Haircut! Get in here! I can't carry both of 'em!"
Ray leaned in to the doorway. "Both of who?" A delighted grin lit his face. "Snart? Is that you?"
"Maybe," Mick told him. "Get him on his feet."
Snart rolled to his feet as the door outside his holding cell opened. "Assassin," he said quietly.
Sara crooked a little half smile, hearing the hint of affection underlying the apparent insult. "Crook."
"Are you all right?" he asked, still not entirely sure why he cared so much. She was on her feet, with a blue blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and some color in her cheeks.
"Yeah. You?"
"Your friends have taken good care of me," he said, indicating blankets, and the remains of a hot meal with a sweep of his hand.
"Do you remember who you are? Who we…are?"
"'We,' as in this crew of yours, or 'we' as in me and you?"
Sara's breath hitched in her throat at his choice of words. "Both. Either. Anything."
"It's all fragments…bits and pieces that don't seem to fit together. You never answered me - what are we to each other?"
Sara slid wearily down the clear partition, resting her cheek against the cool surface and pulling the blanket tight around herself. He mirrored her.
"We were…a possibility," Sara finally said, pressing her hand to the glass-like substance.
Snart saw a silver ring on her hand, one that grazed tantalizingly at the edges of his memory. He pressed his hand to the partition, against hers. "I like possibilities."