A/N: This DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS for episodes 15 and 16 of season 2 (Fellowship of the Spear and Doomworld, or just the two before the finale, for those of us who have no idea which number episode they're on).

I've shipped these two for over a year; it's about dang time I wrote a fic (which is exactly 1,100 hundred words, which I thought that was kinda cool because I'm a weirdo). This was pretty much triggered by his season 2 return, cause I've spent days really, really hoping
the writers give us back season 1 Leonard, not some hallucination or completely reverted season 1 of The Flash Leonard. Gosh dang it, it needs to be Tuesday already!

"Ow."

Sara, wandering around the Waverider while sipping water, paused.

"Ow, ow, ow."

Leonard? What the heck is he doing?

Quietly, making sure her feet made no sound, she snuck to the next intersection and poked her head around the corner.

"What the hell are you doing, Snart?" she demanded.

His head snapped upright, pure horror flooding his face; his teeth rapidly disappeared behind his lips, but his bottom lip already sported a telling spot of ruby blood. He leaned against one wall, his knuckles pale as snow as he clutched it for support.
His right leg supported the rest of his weight; his left leg, injured in the day's mission, hovered just above the floor.

"Um… walking?" he mumbled.

Sara crossed her arms. "You shouldn't be. You got shot, you idiot."

"I tried to tell him that, Miss Lance," Gideon chimed in.

Leonard shot a glare at the ceiling. "I've been hurt worse. I can handle a li-"

"A little bullet hole?" Sara cut him off. Setting her water on the floor for someone else to deal with later, she started to slip between him and the wall, wrapping a supportive arm around him.

Leonard flinched away.

Sara froze. She leaned back a little to search his expression, but he knew how to put on a steely mask better than most.

"What was that for?" she asked, trying to make her voice soft and cajoling.

"You- you brushed my leg, that's all," he tried to explain hurriedly, looking anywhere but at her.

Sara snorted. "You used to be a much better liar, Snart."

Rapidly, he turned his head away, but not before she caught the flicker of darkness in his eyes.

Clarity struck Sara like a lightning bolt.

So that's what this is about.

"Come on," she urged, carefully gripping her once-dead teammate. He stiffened for a moment before letting himself lean on her, and then she led him back the way she'd come.

"My room's that way," he told her, pointing the way he'd been heading.

"My room is closer," Sara replied, making sure he was close enough to the wall to grab it if he needed it.

It took about twice as long as it should have, but finally they limped into the little square she called home. "Sit," she ordered, turning him to the foot of the bed. A relieved sigh escaped him as he scooted back to the wall, his leg gingerly extended
in front of him.

Sara walked up to her dresser and opened the drawer, reaching for a deck of cards she hadn't touched in months.

"Wanna play?" she asked, holding up the cards as she returned to her bed and settled at the head of it.

His eyes light up a little. "Sure."

She dealt the cards, letting silence reign for a few minutes, except when they had to talk about the game. She let them enjoy the friendship they'd had before. Then she struck.

"You're scared of us."

Leonard fumbled his cards, nearly dropping them. "What? No," he said quickly. Too quickly.

Sara set her cards down. "You betrayed us in pretty much every way possible, including helping Thawne get the Spear and corrupt us, and killing Amaya. And yet, none of us have done anything but bring you back to the team."

"You're stating the obvious," Leonard told her gruffly, fiddling with the corners of his cards and avoiding her gaze.

Sara plowed on. "The last time I told you to deal with your feelings, you went and punched it out with Mick. But even he hasn't taken revenge on you, despite you killing the woman he loves right in front of him. You think you're living in the calm before
the storm, and you're waiting for the storm to break. Violently."

He set his own cards down, turning his attention to a loose thread on her blanket. "Maybe," he muttered reluctantly.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Well, newsflash, this isn't a gang of criminals. Not anymore, anyway. You did things you shouldn't have, but you also weren't you. Not the you we knew, anyway. And that is the fact we focus on. And the fact
that we love you and are so glad you're back, snark and pickpocketing and all."

Slowly, he looked at her. "Really?" he whispered, hope desperately trying to break through his mask.

For a moment, she remembered baby Leonard and his cute little cheeks. Looking at him now, she could see the kid he'd once been, sweet and vulnerable and innocent, at war with the man he'd become, a coarse shell through which nothing could hurt him.

It broke Sara's heart.

So she obeyed the bidding of her thudding heart and finally did what she'd wanted to do the moment he'd reappeared to her on that battlefield: She kissed him.

She cupped her hand around the back of his head and pulled him to her, stretching across the bed to meet his lips. Despite his alias, they were as warm and soft as she remembered, fitting perfectly with hers. She held him, drinking in the moment, and
when she broke away, opening her eyes to meet his gaze, she left a gap just big enough for her to whisper "Really."

Surprise and joy in equal measure glimmered in his beautiful irises, more like a sky of possibility than the deadly element he favored.

"I thought I hallucinated that," he murmured.

"Nope," Sara confirmed, smiling. "You're one hell of a thief, Leonard Snart."

He stared at her for a moment, a million emotions swarming across his expression.

Then he yawned.

Sara sat up, chuckling. "One hell of a tired thief," she joked.

"Hey, I got shot," he retorted, gesturing at his leg.

She pointed at the pillows. "Lay down."

He blinked, then obeyed, wincing as his leg shifted. Sara cleaned up the cards, standing up to put them away, change into PJs, and fetch a spare blanket to drape over them. By the time she got back in bed, he was almost asleep, but he wiggled over to
her warmth; she draped her arm over him, reveling in the ability to hold him close again.

"The infamous Captain Cold is a snuggler," she teased.

"It ain't easy, being Cold," he mumbled.

She patted his shoulder. "So, uh, that little speech I gave – you might wanna talk to Mick separately. But try not to come out of it with a face half-covered by bruises this time, ok?"

"No promises. Now shut up and let me sleep," he complained.

Sara smiled. "Fine. Good night, Len."

His only response was to snuggle closer and start snoring cutely.