Sara had never been a particularly big fan of weddings. There was too much emotion, too much feeling.

Sara had never been a fan of feelings either.

No, Sara didn't like weddings, yet, here she was.

As if to add salt to the wound, this wedding was on December twenty-second.

Who has a wedding three days before Christmas?

Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak, apparently. If anyone could get away with it, it would probably be them.

Coming home for the wedding had been a last minute decision. She'd been in Tibet when, somehow, Laurel had contacted her and said how everyone wanted her to be there.

She almost didn't go.

She sort of regretted it, because not only was she at a wedding, but she had also inadvertently signed up to spend the holidays with her family. She most definitely didn't want to do that.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be with her family, it was that, with her bloodlust, they weren't safe around her. That was why she was here, sitting at the bar and the edge of the ballroom instead of around everyone else on the dance floor. She didn't want to accidentally hurt anyone.

Sara wasn't really paying too much attention to her surroundings, too lost in her own thoughts to worry about anyone else around her. It didn't keep her from noticing the tall man sauntering up to the bar she was sitting at.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him order a drink — a scotch on the rocks. Instead of turning back towards the dance floor, he turned to face her.

Sara was no stranger to being hit on, especially at events such as this, where romance was running high and men were going to take advantage of it. She was surprised, however, to see not the carnal hunger that was usually in prowlers' eyes, but something else, perhaps concern? Intrigue?

"Yes?" she said expectantly, knowing that the man would speak to her eventually, and she might as well get it over with.

"Some nerve these people have for throwing a wedding this close to Christmas," he said. The words weren't exactly polite, but the lilting drawl to his voice suggested that they were even less so.

"It's the day they got engaged last year," Sara said cooly, "or so I've been told."

"You don't know?"

"I've only been in town a few days. It's been a while since I saw most of these people."

"Aren't you the maid of honor?"

"My sister and the bride thought it would be a pleasant surprise."

"I take it you were not?"

Sara became aware that she was coming dangerously close to talking about personal matters with a stranger, a stranger whose intentions were probably questionable at best. As a matter of fact, she'd never seen this person before.

"How do you know the groom?" she asked suspiciously.

"I don't. My sister and her boyfriend know the bride. My sister dragged me along. It was sort of last minute, so I guess we're in the same boat."

Sara was about to respond when someone loudly called her name. She turned and saw Thea waving her towards the dance floor.

"Sorry," she said, not exactly thrilled to be leaving, but not looking for a reason to stay.

"I'll see you later," he said.

"Maybe."

They did, in fact, run into each other a few hours later.

Thea had pulled Sara onto the dance floor and it took five or six songs for her to make her escape, but by then, the man had been pulled onto the dance floor by his younger sister.

They missed each other by mere minutes, but the minutes turned into hours before they saw each other.

Why they did run into a each other a second time, it was yet again at the bar.

Sara didn't noticed him until she heard the sound of glass sliding against wood.

Her quick reflexes enabled her to reach out and grab a crystal tumbler before it slid off the bar. She glanced down and saw a gin and tonic, the same drink she'd had earlier.

"I suppose I should thank you," she said to the man approaching her, the same man she'd spoken to earlier that day.

"No need," he replied, "I realize you're at a disadvantage."

"And why is that?" she smirked.

"I know your name, and you don't know mine."

"So, who are you then?" Sara asked, "or are you going to say that and not follow it with an introduction."

"Leonard," he said, "Leonard Snart. Now that we're on a first name basis, I wonder if you could help me out with a problem of mine."

"You think I can help you?" Sara asked, cocking one eyebrow.

"Depends," he said, leaning against the bar, "How would you ask out the maid of honor without stealing the show?"

Sara eyed him for a moment. Normally she would have shot the man down, but this time, something was different. While his stance and manner of speech and words themselves suggested that he saw her as nothing more than a conquest, his eyes said something else. They were icy blue, and you'd think that'd only exacerbate his cold exterior, but it didn't. His. eyes added a bit of something like hope, as if he actually wanted her response and would be disappointed if it was negative.

She took a second to figure out how to answer him, ideally in a way that gave them both an out if they needed it.

"Send her a piece of cake and a message. Then just hope she gets it."

"I'll keep that in mind," he drawled. He nodded once, a smirk etched into his lips, and turned back towards the dance floor.

She didn't see him for a while after that — and she'd be lying if she said she didn't keep an eye out for him. Every once and a while, she would catch a glimpse of him, once she even tried approach him, but she made the mistake of trying to cross the dance floor where she was caught by her father and forced into a dance with him. When she finally got away, Leonard was already gone.

Disgruntled, she went back to her table, hoping to sit down for a moment and give her feet a break from the impossibly high heels they were encased in.

Upon arriving at her table, she saw something at her seat that pushed her sore feet to the bottom of things on her mind.

On a china plate from a set she knew Felicity had taken nearly two months to select, was a piece of cake. On the side of the plate was a napkin. Remembering the message portion of her advice, she picked it up and turned it over. Just as she thought, a sentence written in small, looping script was in the center of the cloth.

I hope I stole your heart instead of the show

— Leonard

She glanced around, looking for Leonard. She finally found him across the dance floor, staring stoically at the partygoers.

She crossed the room, making sure to take the long way around the floor. When she reached him, he looked over to her, a smirk on his face.

"You smooth fucker," she said, holding up the napkin.

"If that's what you want me to be," he said, without missing a beat.

Sara tried — and failed — to hide a laugh behind a scowl.

"Does this mean you got the message?" Leonard asked, repeated Sara's sentiment from earlier, "I hope this isn't your way of shooting me down."

"What do you think?" Sara smirked.

"Ooh, cryptic. I like it."

A few years from that night, at their own wedding, Felicity spoke about how Leonard and Sara met (taking all the credit of course).

Later, when Sara went back to her seat at the front of the room after a dance with her father, she saw a piece of cake at her place at the table. On the side was a napkin. In Leonard's familiar messy scrawl were the words:

At first I was trying to steal your heart. It turns out you stole mine.