"I'm not looking to talk." His words are needless, she already knows that. Sara's watched as he kicked a stream of other well meaning team members out of his room one by one. She's the only one left who hasn't tried. But there's a reason she's been holding back.
It's not that she doesn't like Leonard, she does. In fact, they get on a little too well sometimes, enough that there are moments when she finds herself wondering just how much she has in common with the inscrutable crook. But she's lost people too, and she's betrayed people too, and the fact that there has been more than one night when she woke up with her hands around the throat of someone she loves only means she knows exactly how deep in self-loathing Leonard is buried right now. She remembers. And there was never anything anyone else could do or say to make it better for her, so she's just been giving him space.
But now it's been three weeks, and the team needs him. More than that, Sara might not be able to help Snart, but she's tired of watching him suffer, day after day, and feeling helpless to stop it. It can't hurt to try at this point.
"I know," she says, and they both know her words mean something more than that she's noticed he refuses to talk to anyone. "I'm not here to talk."
He glances up from fiddling with his cold gun, eyes wary.
"So why are you here?"
There are dark circles under his eyes, but she finds they only emphasize the blue. Something broken lurks behind them, something she recognizes.
"You've already tried beating up Rip and Jax. I figured you might want a punching bag that won't complain so much." She just wants him to let go of some of the guilt and the pain. Usually, after a kill, fighting helps. The exertion burns off some of the jittery energy, and if she can find a good enough partner, getting her ass kicked ends up feeling almost like penance. There have been days where she thinks she'll never climb out of the pit, the new one she's in, the one built of despair. But it's not too late for Leonard.
He didn't kill Mick. They all expected him to, the others half-relieved, half-terrified when he'd volunteered to do it. And then he'd come back to the ship, and sure he'd looked wrecked, eyes red and shoulders slumped, but Sara knows what it looks like after you kill. And she'd known the moment she'd seen him, he hadn't. But he'd half frozen a man he considered his brother, and then abandoned him. That kind of betrayal leaves a mark almost as black. She thinks, due to the depth of his depression, that maybe he almost went through with it. That maybe he got close enough to blossom the sick feeling that lives permanently in the pit of her stomach. She's always hated executions. She does most of her killing in the heat of battle, when the monster inside her is rattling its cage.
"I'll pass," he finally murmurs, dragging her out of her thoughts. His gaze is back on his gun, fingers tracing the barrel absently.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowns at him.
"It wasn't really a suggestion. It's been three weeks, and you need to do something other than sit in this room, wondering what it's like."
He looks up at her quickly, suspiciously.
"What what's like?" He asks, as if she couldn't possibly know. But of course she does.
"What it would be like to give up." She sits down on the bed, facing him. "It would be worse, Len. It's worse. And right now, all you have is this misery. You're lonely, and angry, and you hate yourself. And you hate Mick for starting this. And then you hate yourself a little bit more for hating Mick."
Leonard stares at her.
"You have to keep moving," she continues softly. "Because if you stay in here it will never get better. And then the choice you made won't mean anything."
Also, she misses him. They'd been halfway into being something akin to comrades before all of this had happened, and being with Leonard gives her a peace she can't seem to get anywhere else. If she can do that for him, maybe they'll both make it out of this relatively sane. Slowly, her hand drifts toward his lap, curling around the cold gun. For a second, he holds fast, then his own fingers loosen their grip. She tugs it out of his hand, setting it down beside her.
"I don't want to fight," he says quietly, and his eyes are so far away that she wonders if she's really the one that he's say that too. Her heart breaks a little.
"Okay," she murmurs softly, taking his hand in hers. "Let's just get you some breakfast." Standing, she tugs him out of the chair, and pulls him slowly out of his room for the first time in weeks. As they make their way to the kitchen, his fingers tighten around hers.
"Thanks." He sounds raw, but more present than she's seen him since the Akaron. Rounding the corner, she stops, turning to him.
"I know I can never be Mick," she says quietly, "but I'm here."
His grip on her hand becomes almost painful, but she recognizes it for what it is. A lifeline. One he's finally holding on to. She can see the gratitude in his eyes, almost eclipsed by the guilt, but it's there. She presses a quick, hard kiss to his forehead.
They never talk about it, but they'll both remember that as the moment they become something unbreakable, together.