In so many ways, for so many people, 2016 has been a rotten year.

But one thing I will always remember, looking back on it: 2016 was the year of CaptainCanary. It was the year I had a ship grab me so hard that I started writing fanfic again for the first time in a very long time, the year I dipped more than a casual toe back into fandom, and the year I made a bunch of new friends in that fandom. (You know who you are, and you're all awesome!)

And whatever 2017 may bring us-and, yes, I still retain hope-I won't, can't regret that.

Happy New Year to all of you!

...

A follow-up to "Twelve Days," as promised. Thanks to LarielRomeniel for the beta!

...

Six days after they leave Central City on Christmas night, Ray declares it to be New Year's Eve. Sort of.

"We're in the temporal zone, Raymond," Snart informs him with a roll of his eyes, slouched sort of sideways in his jump seat with his feet on the one next to him. "It's not any particular day. No matter how much you want to get into the champagne."

"I didn't see you complaining about the Christmas festivities all that much, and we were in the temporal zone then, too, right up until the day itself," the scientist retorts. "In fact, you and Sara really seemed to enjoy that mistletoe. Only let me take it down yesterday because it was falling apart."

Snart doesn't dignify that with a response, but Sara, standing from where she's been checking readings in the captain's chair, snorts.

"He's got you there," she tells her lover as she crosses to where he's sitting, lightly touching his shoulder. "The Grinch façade isn't working anymore, Len. Stop baiting the Whos."

"Hmph." But he allows a smile to touch his lips as he turns his head to survey her. "Bah, humbug."

"Now you're mixing your holiday classics." But she smiles as she knocks his feet off the seat and sits down, shaking her head as he promptly returns them to her lap.

Amaya, seated across from them, is smiling as she watches the pair. Sara, however, notes that Mick, seated much more sedately than his former partner, is watching Amaya.

Interesting. Sara nibbles her bottom lip, just a little. The former arsonist and the JSA member had returned from Christmas Day smiling—even Mick—and arm in arm, although she knows they just walked around the city and then had a few drinks. Since then...well, she's been just a little preoccupied. She lifts an eyebrow at Leonard, who's watching her with one of those secret smiles in his eyes. Just a little...

"Just going to have Gideon play the broadcast of the Star City star drop," Ray says, defending his idea. "The one we could have watched if we were home. And do a countdown. I picked up a few bottles of champagne and some other stuff in Central City. It'll be fun!"

"It's really good champagne, too," Nate points out from where he's inspecting the crate Ray had deposited near the study. "I mean, I sure as hell couldn't have afforded this stuff on my salary."

Ray gives them all a satisfied nod, as if to say "well, there." The response is not quite as he apparently hopes.

"Well, as fascinating as all this sounds," Stein shakes his head and rises, "I generally prefer not to stay up until midnight at home and I don't think I care to do it here, without Clarissa. Also, there are some things Mr. Jackson and I are working on. It's a long time to midnight per ship's time. Perhaps I will have a glass of bubbly with you later." He smiles a little. "But probably not."

Jax shrugs and spreads his hands as Ray looks at him. "Yeah, sorry, guys. Not really my thing either. But you have fun, OK?"

Ray, looking disappointed, casts about for further backup. "Snart! Mick! You guys were jewel thieves. You like the finer things, right?" He waves at Nate, who helpfully holds up a bottle of champagne. "It's the best..."

Mick grunts. "He's the one with the expensive taste," he says, motioning to Leonard, who gives his former partner a disappointed look before turning that gaze to Ray.

"Sorry, Raymond," he says, removing his feet from Sara's lap and standing with a stretch. "I have better things to be doing at so-called 'midnight' on this ship." Smirk. "And better people to be doing them with. And to." He extends a hand to Sara, who lifts an eyebrow at him, smirks back, and accepts the hand, letting him pull her to her feet.

Ray, deflated, sighs. "No one," he tells Leonard reproachfully, "needed to hear that."

"I don't know," Sara says thoughtfully, "I think I did. Care to let me in on these plans, crook?"

"Come with me, assassin..."

But as Sara looks back over her shoulder at the bridge, she sees Mick sitting alone in his jump seat, looking lost in thought. Amaya is nowhere to be seen.

Ray's plans notwithstanding, the "day" on the Waverider passes much like any other. They spar, they care for the ship, they argue about cooking dinner (Leonard finally rolls his eyes and makes a decent pot of spaghetti) and they check for any anomalies that might need looking after. The course is clear on their way back to pick up Rip, except for the time eddies that had so delayed them last time and are slightly delaying them again.

It's evening, or what passes for it, when Leonard, on his way from running from tests on his gun in the armory, decides to stop back in the galley for something to drink. Gideon keeps the air a tad too dry for his taste, some days, and he'll admit to acquiring a taste for the Earl Grey that Stein suggested one evening—although he drinks it far sweeter than the other man does. (He's not sure where Gideon gets fresh honey on the ship. Neither is he sure he wants to know.)

He lifts an eyebrow at the sight of Mick, who's leaning on the counter and contemplating a bit of leftover spaghetti, but merely grabs a tea bag and the kettle, as Stein insists it's not the same with the preheated water the galley can dispense. He's settled it over a burner when Mick clears his throat.

"So when was it you started falling for Blondie?" the other man asks abruptly "Way back in the beginning? St. Roch?"

Leonard blinks at the question, then clearly sets the mug down and turns to face his former partner, bracing himself against the counter.

"Mick," he tells his friend mildly, "we don't talk about this shit. Never have. What the hell?"

"Yeah, well, never saw you go quite so head over heels for someone before either, guy or skirt." A slight smile. "What happened to not having hearts?"

So where does that leave us? He snorts in response and quotes back: "People change, Mick."

It gets a "heh" of appreciation, and Mick shrugs. "Just wondered," he says. "You love her?

Well, that's going a little above and beyond. He starts to retort, then pauses. "This," he says slowly, staring at Mick, "it's not about me and Sara. It's about what's 'er name, isn't it?"

The response is quick and as unexpected as the rest of the conversation. Mick straightens and glares at him. "It's Amaya," he snaps at Snart, who holds up his hands in mock defense. "Jiwe. Or Vixen."

"Down, boy!" The kettle is whistling. He retreats to grab it and pour the water over the tea bag. Stein insists it's not as good as loose leaf, but he doesn't pretend to be a connoisseur. (Not of tea, anyway.) It's steeping when he finally looks back at Mick.

"Her, huh?" He smirks as the bigger man shrugs uncomfortably. "Mick, you're the one who used to pick up women with every new job and city. And you're looking to me for advice?"

"It's not the same," comes the quiet retort. "You had a fling or two over the years. I know that, even if no one else does. Alexa, that guy who turned out to be a detective back in Nickel City. Is it the same with Sara?"

It's not. It's not the same at all. But he's acquired enough wisdom, apparently, that he pauses before sending a deflecting zinger back, pauses and takes a closer look at his oldest friend. Mick is staring into his leftovers again, and something about his expression reminds Leonard of the evening he stood in his own room, deck of cards in hand, and wondered how to mention the future to a weary and pissed off assassin.

The silence stretches out, though not uncomfortably, oddly enough, before Leonard speaks again.

"Suppose I can tell you anything, it's that it's stupid to waste time." His lips twitch. "You don't know how long you get before you go running off to do something dumb like saving the world. And then you have to go through shit like the past few weeks before you figure things out again."

"Not funny, Boss."

"A little funny. Now, anyway." He shrugs, drains his mug and sits it in the sink. "And now I have better things to be doing than palling around with Raymond and his new buddy. See you in the new year, I guess."

But he pauses right before leaving. "And Mick?"

The other man glances up again from his contemplation of pasta.

"You're right," Leonard says quietly, answering an earlier question. "I do." A one-shouldered shrug. "Good luck."

In the end, Mick's still sitting there, now inspecting the label on one of Haircut's pricey bottles of champagne, when Amaya walks into the galley not so long before the countdown is supposed to begin.

"Mick." She's smiling, strolling toward him, and he stands out of a sense of chivalry that is as unexpected as it is, probably, unnecessary. "Gideon said you were here. Not interested in the festivities on the bridge, such as they are?"

"Nah. They're OK, but…you didn't want to hang around with the geek squad, did you?" he says abruptly. " 'Cause you could, but if not, well, I figured Haircut wouldn't mind too much if I took this." He waves at the bottle. "Uh, if you want it."

He takes a deep breath as she leans over to look at the label. "Never been too fond of it, really. The Boss...Snart...stole a case of the really, really pricey stuff once. He's probably still got a few bottles squirreled away, back home. We popped one, once, to celebrate a big job." He shakes his head. "Bubbly nothin'. Give me a beer any day."

But Amaya straightens and grins at him. "A secret?" She smiles at him, a little impishly. "I'd prefer a beer too."

"Yeah? Really?" At her nod, he retrieves a pair of bottles from the fridge and returns, opening one and extending it to her, a gesture received with a murmur of thanks.

For a long few minutes, they sit in a companionable silence and drink. Watching her over his beer bottle, Mick can't help but sigh. Snart, he thinks, is full of shit, telling him not to waste time. That only works if you have a snowball's chance in hell to begin with.

"You know," he says finally, "you want to go to the bridge? Haircut and Pretty Boy are there, maybe the professor and Jax too. Hell, maybe Sara if Snart wasn't, uh, persuasive enough."

Amaya just lifts an eyebrow at him, taking another drink of her beer. "What?" she says. "I can't want to spend the time with you?"

It's too much. "But why?" he blurts out, standing. "You had a thing with that guy from the JSA. I saw him. Uptight…OK, shouldn't have said that…but lots more like Ray and Nate than me. Hell, even more like Snart: brilliant. I'm just some dumb crook who happened to get an upgrade…"

"Mick!" The anger in her tone, finally, ends the rush of words. Amaya hasn't risen from her seat, but glares at him from atop it, beautiful and annoyed and far, far out of his league.

"They are good men. But I like you," she tells him fiercely. "I like the rough edges. I like the wildness. I like how dedicated you were to getting your friend back from the Legion when you found out he was alive, and then how you tried to get him to talk...or otherwise mend fences with Sara.

"I am not some polished princess, Michael Rory. I am a girl from a small village who fought and clawed my way to a place on the JSA. I understand fire of many kinds." She nods at him. "So, sit down and shut up and listen to me when I tell you that I'm here, now, because I want to see you."

And with that, she hooks his discarded stool with one foot and kicks it back to him, glaring at him until he obeys and sits down. And then she slides him his beer.

"Huh," is all he can manage before taking another drink. "OK."

It's a preoccupied Leonard Snart who finally makes it back to his room after walking the Waverider's halls, thinking, for far longer than he'd planned. Not so different from that day at the Vanishing Point, after all. Though at this point, he thinks, he can hope for a better outcome.

When the door opens, though, and he steps through, still thinking, planning to change and then going to see if Sara is in her own room, or…but instead Sara is perched on his bed, wearing something short and slinky and just this side of see-through, a glass of champagne in each hand.

He's seen her in tactical gear, battered and muddy and blood-stained, in her white leathers, in ordinary street clothes, in nothing at all but her blond hair. This...this is new.

She smirks a little at the stunned look on his face, but makes no move to rise. "Didn't think you'd want to partake of Ray's festivities, so I stole a bottle of his champagne." She holds up the glasses. "OK...two. Just in case."

He takes a slow step forward. Then another. At this point, she's noticed the uncharacteristic silence and the expression on his face, and sitting the champagne down, moves to rise—pausing only when he gives a quick shake of the head, crossing more quickly to stand before her and take a deep breath, wondering how the hell he'd ever gotten this woman to give him, the good-for-nothing criminal, the time of day.

But let it never be said that Leonard Snart doesn't practice what he preaches.

"I love you," he says quickly, glancing away, then back to her surprised eyes. "You...knew that, didn't you?"

"I..." She clears her throat, reaches out to touch his hand. "I think I had a pretty good idea, after everything. But I'm a little surprised to hear you say it so..."

"...soon." He shrugs. "Well. Just told Mick it's stupid to wait when you already know how you feel. Better to say it and see where the chips fall." A sidelong glance. "Too soon?"

There's a lot she could say right now. About how she has some idea how hard those words were for him. About how can it possibly be too soon after everything they've gone through to get here? About what she's been musing about, futures and how they spend all the time in each other's room anyway and...

But at that moment, Gideon's voice echoes through the corridors, pointing out oh-so-helpfully that there are only five minutes left as a long and very eventful year finally begins to come to a close. So she simply leans forward and, putting her hands on either side of his face, kisses him, hard.

His arms start to go around her, but she breaks the kiss, moving her hands lower and feeling for the snap of his pants.

"I love you too," she says, breathlessly. "Now, get these clothes off. I can think of things I'd rather be doing than just kissing at the stroke of midnight."

"As you wish, captain."

Gideon calls the time again at 11:59 p.m. Time's just about up. Mick clears his throat. "So. 'Nother New Year's Eve tradition. I figure it goes back probably least as long as you've been around..."

"I'm not ancient, Mick." Amaya takes a sip of her beer and smiles at him. "I just started out further back on the timeline than you did."

"Yeah, true. Um...well..." As the final countdown starts at "ten...," he turns toward her, clears his throat again, and tries to figure out how the sort of man a woman like Amaya Jiwe would be interested in would proceed.

Amaya shakes her head, smiling...and then, as Gideon wishes the crew a "Happy New Year," she reaches out and grabs his shirt in one hand, pulling him toward her for a kiss.

It's not an epic kiss. Not really. It's brief and sweet and just a little bit heated-utterly unlike anything from dozens of encounters he's had over the years.

But "wow" is all he manages as they part.

"Wow?" Smiling, she bites back a laugh. "That's a 'wow'? I'd think we have to work our way up to that. Shouldn't 'wow' take practice?"

"Yeah?" He blinks at her words, then gives her a smile that's almost shy. "Think maybe we could try that? Practice?"

"Think maybe we could," she whispers as she leans forward to kiss him again.

The countdown is done. The bridge is silent. And the two men on it aren't sure if there's anything to show for it, incipient hangovers aside.

"I don't know where all the champagne went." Ray, noise-maker in hand, turns around to survey the bridge. "Did we drink it all?"

"I don't think so." Nate is perched on the holotable, holding up a glass. "We opened the whiskey a while ago. There's probably some champagne around here somewhere, though. Unless it all got stolen."

"Might have." Ray frowns at the silenced broadcast from Star City and all the people still celebrating. "That was sort of anticlimactic," he says with a sigh. "You think it worked anyway?"

Nate shrugs. "Gideon?"

"I am not sure why you two are so dedicated to being the team matchmakers," the AI says with what might almost be a sigh in her tone. "But I believe you have achieved what you were hoping for. Now, may I persuade you to go to bed before I have to prepare an antidote for alcohol poisoning?"

But Ray ignores her, beaming, to clink glasses with Nate. "Victory! Bro hug?"

"Bro hug."