"Gideon says we got him here in time for a full repair." Hunter runs his hands back through his hair in his habitual gesture of distraction. "Miraculously, whoever did this didn't hit anything overly vital. Which is odd, almost, considering ..."

He's still out, though. Still and pale and hooked up to far too many machines in the medbay. She had to let go when they got there, although Hunter still keeps giving her odd little sideways looks. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing." The word is delivered in too clipped a fashion to not be hiding something. He's trying to be nonchalant and not quite managing it. The quick glance he throws over his shoulder doesn't fool her, either. "If he wakes up, he should be fine, just fine. Back to mayhem in no time."

One word. "If?"

"Yes, well ..." He hesitates, then sets his shoulders and looks her in the eye. He's not the greatest leader, Rip Hunter, but, ultimately, he's no fool. "There was a lot of blood loss. A lot." He hesitates again. "Gideon says his heart stopped. Twice. She's pretty sure there will be no lasting damage; she got him back nearly immediately, but ..."

"Right." Twice. And she hadn't been there. She's failed too many people in her life to be OK with that. "How long?"

"I don't know." Silence. "I'd guess we'll have an answer within a day. Is there ... anyone who should know ...?"

"A sister. Back in 2016." That was it, she realizes. At least she'd had people who'd missed her.

Both of them know there's no way to jump at the moment, not with a borderline critical passenger. There's no way to deliver news until after.

Hunter processes this, too, and she has some idea what he's thinking when he shudders, then runs a hand through this hair again. "I need to get back to the ship. Get some sleep and a shower, Miss Lance. There's really nothing you can do here."

He's right. She's exhausted, and all she's taken time for was a rapid change of clothing and to scrub her hands mostly clean of the blood.

"No."

This gives him pause. "No?"

She wraps her hands around herself, suddenly chilly. "I said I'd stay."

He opens his mouth, presumably to point out that the man in that medbay bed is in no condition to remember any such request or response made. But he's wise enough to shut it without comment, nods to her, and leaves.

At a loss, she stands still for a moment, then turns, studying the medbay, oddly unwilling to turn to her reason for being there at that moment. It's like something out of Star Trek, she thinks, amused at herself. Medbay.

And capable of saving a man who should be dead and cold, as dead as she'd been herself once, once upon a time.

Finally, she completes her turn and walks resolutely over to the bedside. She's never been good at bedsides.

And he looks like hell.

He's breathing, though. Feeling strangely shy about it, she studies him.

His skin is very, very pale under the usual line of stubble and there are fairly dramatic shadows under the closed eyes. An abrasion high on the right cheekbone, where he must have hit the ground, hard. Full repair or not, there's a full set of bandages from chest to, well, below the blankets. Not a sign of blood, now; Gideon's cleanliness protocols are impressive.

She looks down at her hands. She'd scrubbed them, but there's still blood in the corners of her nails, and an errant streak on the knuckles of her left. The one he'd grabbed.

He really shouldn't be alive.

She runs from the thought, turning away to scrub her hands again in the medbay sink, taking more time than she really needs to.

Then she takes a deep breath, returns to the bedside, and swings a chair around, resting her arms along the back and her chin on her arms and looking at this man who seems so capable of getting under her skin. For better or for worse.

"So ... who is Leonard Snart, anyway?"

No answer. Amused, she realizes she halfway expected one. Something snarky and disarming, reminding her that they don't do feelings, not really.

"I mean ... I know the resume. I'm the assassin, you're the crook, remember?" But the reminder of that not-so-long-ago conversation is a surprising blow and she has to stop for a moment, surprised at herself. They'd flung the words at each other like weapons, but they've come to mean something to her, anyway.

How very strange.

"Well, I couldn't not do some research on my new teammates, could I? I do have some resources, you know. I asked ..."

A cleared throat from the doorway. Stein. The impulse to rise, whirl, and attack wars briefly with the impulse to rise, whirl, and explain that this is nothing, really, it's not. As it is, she simply rises so the scientist can enter and pretend that he didn't interrupt her.

"How is he?"

There is studied nonchalance in her shrug. "Hunter says that he'll make it ... if he wakes up."

"Hmm." He crosses to stand beside her, studying the monitors and readings for a few minutes before nodding.

"I'd say he's right, from what I've learned of these devices. Funny thing ..." he muses, turning his attention to the man on the bed. "... such technology! To have it in 2016! Imagine what we could do. But I also imagine that could cause as many problems as it solves."

She has nothing to say to that, really.

Stein is studying the still face of their comrade now, much like she'd been doing herself. Sort of, anyway.

"Do you, know he did, back in 1950?" he says abruptly. "Saved my life. And saved Jax's life. He could have ... taken him out ... and it would have been understandable. I mean, he was trying to kill us both. But he didn't."

"He wouldn't," she whispers.

"Sara, don't do it ..."

"Yes, well ..." He pauses, then clasps his hands behind his back, the image of the scholarly professor tucked back into place. "Do you have any idea what happened?"

"No. A stab wound, Gideon said." She keeps the flicker to herself. For now.

They stand in silence for a moment, then Stein pats her on the arm ... and why did he think that was necessary? ... and leaves.

"Well ... I guess it's just us again."

xxxxxx

The boy is still alive.

He keeps slipping in and out, his head throbbing, his stomach a mass of pain. He can taste blood now, but he thinks he's bitten his tongue at some point.

He has to move.

He can't move.

It's hard to concentrate. Does that mean ...? His hands clench into fists. If he doesn't make it, who will watch out for his sister? How will he ever show people?

Show them ... he's better than his father ...