"Arms dealers and terrorists aren't exactly our kind of people...but they're the next best thing."
Hunter shows them the "room that makes clothing" with no sign of hesitation, but while everyone else—Mick included-pours in, Leonard hangs back. He needs to do some research, he informs Hunter tersely. He's not going in to this weapons sale without more information, working up the plan Raymond had so blithely recommended, and that includes all the details. Right down to clothing, no matter what the others choose to do.
The captain rolls his eyes—Leonard, with remarkable restraint, he thinks, neglects to remind him that he'd supposedly recruited a thief for just this purpose—but directs him back to the bridge, giving the... Gideon... instructions to assist and provide the information requested.
"Within reason," he says, eyeing Leonard, distrust thick in his tone.
Leonard doesn't react beyond a smirk. He is a marvel of restraint, he is, he thinks later, as he strolls back toward the fabrication room, details rolling like dice in his mind and the beginnings of a plan coalescing. For someone who talks so much about being careful and maintaining the timeline, the Brit doesn't seem eager to let Leonard do his job, the job he's really pretty damned good at.
He has a plan, but he doesn't like the variables inherit in the others. Mick will do as he's told—not that he always does, but Leonard's pretty confident of him this time. Stein is mostly an unknown quantity, and that's never good, but how much damage can one gray-haired professor do?
(He'll regret thinking that, later.)
And then there's the assassin.
She makes him uneasy, but not in the same way the others do, and that's a feeling he's oddly hesitant to examine. He suspects that she could be an equal partner in this, if he can just manage to trust her enough, and vice versa. And oddly enough, he's inclined to.
She'd been the one, earlier, to drag the conversation back to what the hell Savage was doing in Norway-something he'd been about to do himself. Admiration, a odd fascination, had sparked again, and he'd been unable to resist leaning over the table toward her, needling her just a little, drawing that withering blue gaze to himself...
He's really not all that fond of arms dealers and terrorists, to be honest. They create chaos, and he hates chaos. But something about Sara Lance gets under his skin...
He's almost to the fabrication room, now. It should be empty by this point, he figures. The idea of an audience while he does whatever he has to do to let this uncanny ship get his measure had left him cold before, and he'd backpedaled from the room full of heroes (and Mick) with the fortunately true excuse of needing to plan. But now...
He crosses the threshold and stops dead in his tracks.
Sara Lance is standing there, facing away from him, clad in dark, tight denim that particularly showcases one of, err, her finest assets. He isn't surprised when she turns her head to look at him, even though he'd been fairly quiet.
"There were too many people crowded in here before," she tells him, a hint of amusement in her tone. "I noticed you vanished, too." He tenses, but she doesn't remark on it, reaching instead for the bandana that the ship has just finishing producing. "Give me just a moment and I'll be out of here."
Reaching for equilibrium, he reverts to the banter they've fallen into before.
"Well, don't hurry on my account," he drawls, learning against the doorframe, letting his eyes wander freely. "So, is this thing the wonder that it seems to be? I'm impressed so far."
Sara snorts, turning as she ties the bandana around her head, giving him a nice view of the fact that her shirt is unbuttoned a bit lower than it needs to be. "I'll admit, I'd have killed for this thing when I was a teenager," she tells him. "And I can see how it will come in handy on a time ship. But I think Ray is going to be spending all his free time in here playing dress-up, and I don't know how that'll work out."
Bandana in place, she checks her appearance in the room's mirror and then turns back to him, arms held out at her sides.
"So," she asks him, mischief in her tone, "will I do? Fit in? Since you're...what was it... 'the next best thing?' "
She's toying with him, but Leonard decides to give the question due diligence, and not just in that he really does enjoy looking at her. Sara has already given more thought to this operation than any of the others, and that's earned his respect.
Yes, she'll do, he decides. She looks like someone's fantasy version of a '70s female bodyguard, but that will fit right in with this scene, and at least he knows she can actually do the job well.
"Can you really fight in those things?" He can't help asking, eyeing her platform heels, unable to keep a note of admiration from his voice. Even Lisa, who likes her fancy heels, refuses to wear them when on a job. These seem more stable, and Sara's a far better fighter, but...
Sara just shakes her head at him, smiling a little, then takes a step back, then another. Without another warning, she leaps into a sort of martial arts pattern, sure-footed and graceful, leaping and whirling and striking out. Leonard knows better than to move a muscle, and he really doesn't want to, watching as he fights to keep the blasé expression on his face... even as her final move has one of her feet, in those ridiculous shoes, whizzing by only a few inches from his nose.
Sara ends her pattern in a rock-solid martial arts stance before dropping her hands to her sides and shaking her head at him.
"One of these days," she tells him, an edge of laughter in her tone, "we're going to manage to have a conversation that doesn't end with me nearly hitting you."
With that, she leaves, and Leonard lets out a long, slow breath.
"Somehow," he mutters to himself, noting his body's inevitable reaction to that display, "I rather doubt it."